It’s winter now in Paris. It’s quite dark when you get up in the mornings, and very cold till the day takes the edge off it — a cold that fills me with poetic feelings because it recalls Brumath and our little lunches at the Rose. For my part, I’m leading a model life of Tennyson. I’ve finished the last chapter of the novel, and am working back over it. There are just 3 linking chapters left, then it’ll all be finished — and perhaps I’ll have your advice when it comes to working over the whole thing. I’m teaching Kant to my pupils, and am accordingly studying him in some depth, thanks to an excellent book full of texts taken from his posthumous work. It’s very interesting, I’ll instruct you in that as well as Hegel. 9 hours of teaching is nothing at all. I sleep my fill, see my friends more than my fill, go to heaps of concerts, and have leisure coming out of my ears! On Sunday I met Wanda instead of her sister at the concert, and she was quite angelically amiable to me, even taking my arm on the way out. She looked dreadful when she arrived in Paris, but has become pretty again. She doesn’t do a thing, but has lots of plans, seeing that Delarue has taken her in hand with the idea of making her do history of art and decoration — she seems more or less blooming. I’ve already told you that Bianca’s weeping all over the shop, because she’s getting married and leaving Paris. She’s willing, but upset — which I can understand, especially as she was starting to be seriously keen on Ramblin, who gave her every satisfaction to be wished for. Olga and Bost are together all right, but in a mild, dismal sort of way, since both are in a morose state of mind and reproaching one another. They all follow their little daily routines and all find each other somewhat damaged and wretched — which they all are, moreover. I feel incredibly alive compared with them. Apparently, That Lady’s arriving this evening and Zuorro’s putting her up in his studio. I’m glad to be seeing her again and delighted to be able to give her news of you. You know, it’s agreeable the number of people for whom you’re by no means a little dead man, to be contemplated with an old ossified heart. You’ll see what a fuss will be made of you, my little one.
Have I told you that the last time I saw Toulouse and Dullin we had a real shouting match, for the same reasons as ever — though at the same time they’re quite besotted with friendly feelings for you! Flutus is on its last legs — and deserves to be. Try to let me know which were the last letters you had from me at Baccarat — and my lovely parcel, did you receive that? Do you feel me as close as I feel you, o you my other self?
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
9 November [1940]
My love
I haven’t written for a while, because I’m really afraid you’re not receiving my letters — which is discouraging. But I’ve had news of you. Your mother showed me the note she has received from you and it quite overwhelmed me, my little one — I remained dazed by emotion for two days. I’m picking myself up, but how I do miss you! The main thing I’ve done during all these past days is to work a lot. I’ve seen Bost in the evenings, a bit of Kos., a bit of That Lady and a bit of Sorokine, whose idyll with a dark-haired Nietzschean student is advancing apace — though she loves me none the less for it. I took her yesterday evening to the Atelier, to see Le Bal des Voleurs,289 which we both found disappointing. I haven’t seen anything of Bianca, who wrote me a long, pathetic letter. I’m feeling the effects of a possible reconciliation — but don’t really think, all the same, that there’ll be one. My work’s taking giant steps forward. I’ve also started reading again — about music and about the Middle Ages. There’s a real autumn cold snap in Paris just now, but for the moment the cafès and hotels are still very well heated. My life seems so devoid of importance that if I don’t make it my duty to tell you all about everything, nothing seems interesting to me any longer. Dullin’s company have suggested to Wanda that she do some theatrical scenery — as a job — but she’s so lazy she’s going to let the chance slip. Kos. is finishing on Sunday and in despair. Everybody’s pretty dismal. In general, I feel cheerful by comparison — but I’m fretting a bit: your absence is very hard, my little one. I know we’re together in the world for ever, but all that specific happiness your smiles used to give me — oh! it’s no use looking at photos of you or rereading your books and your letters, when I try to revive it I feel like a table-turner calling up a spirit. How I love you! How I miss you!
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
NO LONG LETTERS
VERY LEGIBLE HANDWRITING
14 November [1940]
My love
More and more, I’ve no heart to write to you — I’ve a feeling you haven’t been getting my letters. What’s more, nothing in my life seems to count for me, except this need I have for you. Everything’s fine with me — I have time, I eat, I sleep, I read, the work’s going well, I enjoy my teaching, Kos. isn’t a burden to me, there are good concerts, Bost isn’t getting on too well with Kos. but he’s charming with me. I’ve got rid of Bianca and still find Sorokine amusing (she has slept with her young man, who actually seems as intelligent and nice as can be). I’m still listening to a lot of music, I see a bit of Zuorro and quite a lot of That Lady: I dined alone with her yesterday, off a delicious chicken from La Pouèze. But all of this is against a background of emptiness, and every so often I take my head in my hands and wonder how I manage to get through my days so well. It’s dead time, nothing counts. And with streaming eyes I recall a miraculous age when my heart was always full, my hours too short, my thoughts at once alive yet always too poor — since there was you to lay hold of them and return them to me all enriched. It’s not that I feel diminished within myself — but all my resources seem useless to me, it’s sterile, it’s not worth anything, if you’re not there to give a meaning to the world. Then too I recall your love: it was there all the time around me — so warm, so present, so full! On this bench at the Dome you’ve sat beside me, in flesh and blood. You won’t have changed, nor will your love, nor mine — but how long this silence is, my little one! All that I can have of life without you, I have — but it’s nothing. I already knew that, when you were here — you’re everything to me. I know it still better now, and find it both cruel and sweet.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
18 November [1940]
My love
Three days ago I had a letter from you, dated 15 June. It was like a voice from beyond the grave and quite shattered me. How I’d like to know what’s becoming of you at this moment — I’m fretting. Today it’s rainy and grey in Paris, and I’m in very low spirits. My life is still comfortable enough, but I miss you too much. Delarue has been put in charge of the N.R.F.’s theatre criticism, and claims they’d like you as editor of the journal. Perhaps they’ll manage to get you brought back for that purpose, but I no longer dare hope for anything. My life has gone on — all the same and not too gloomy. Yesterday evening Bost and I met his friend Amsellem, who’s a prisoner on parole — which is a very pleasant situation. Bost was in seventh heaven at meeting up with him again, which inevitably threw Kos. into paroxysms of fury, since her jealousy’s unrelenting. It seems that my break with Bianca is definitive, and I no longer hear anything of her. Sorokine has had lots of problems with her mother — who wanted to lock her up at home — so she ended up inventing an engagement with the little boy friend she’s fond of, who seems very nice. But I haven’t seen much of her this week, on account of these maternal squabbles. I’ve seen a bit of That Lady, who’s leaving Paris at the end of this week. On my behalf, she has instructed Marcelle Jeannel, who lives in Lyons, to send you two parcels of food and tobacco every week — how I hope you’ll receive them! How I hope, too, that you’re getting my letters — that would restore some meaning to my life. But I’m discouraged. I’m working, and that’s going ahead well I’ve listened to some superb concerts: Chopin, Schumann, and above all yesterday a superb Bach concert. I’ve also been to see a Spanish dancer at the Salle Pleyel. I’m
reading a bit — I’ve gone back to mediaeval history — but now the libraries are all closed. The N.R.F. sends me free copies of this year’s new publications, but there’s nothing good. Wanda’s well, leading a quiet life with no escapades, but doing sod all. Her sister’s now doing sod all too. Goodbye, my little one — my heart’s so heavy, I can’t bear living without you any longer.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
29 November [1940]
My love
I haven’t written for a long while, I’m so convinced my letters aren’t getting through. I receive absolutely nothing — you’ve plunged into darkness. But I know you’ll reappear one fine day, just the same as ever, and then there’ll be happiness again. I live with my eyes fixed on that moment — I live for that moment alone. I’m working a lot, thinking about the day when you’ll be beside me reading my novel, which will be almost finished when I submit it to you. This work is my greatest joy: it’s the only true link between my past and my future, the only tangible link between you and me. For the rest, I have an apparently full existence — and it’s still all roses with Bost, Olga and Sorokine. I’ve seen a lot of That Lady, who’s now about to return to La Pouèze; a bit of Zuorro, who’s swooning with ardour; nothing at all of Guille, who’s bleakly preparing to become a father. Apparently the Llama’s teaching in Fez. They gave a reading from your works the other day at the cafè de Versailles — so the world isn’t forgetting you. It’s even extraordinary, my little one, how strongly present you are in lots of people’s hearts. As for me, I’m at times very unhappy — I want to see you so much. But then, at others, I’ve all the courage in the world — because despite everything we remain inseparable, we’re still together in the world, and I know that I’ll clasp you in my arms again. If only I had a letter from time to time, in order to be really easy as to your health and peace of mind. My love, if our love has been reinforced by every ordeal, it’s now harder than diamond. Do keep me with you, my little one, as I keep you — all intertwined with my life. I kiss you passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
10 December [1940]
My love
It’s quite a time since I wrote. I still haven’t had any letter from you, you see, and that disheartens me. All I’ve had is a note dated 26 October, which is already old. Luckily your mother has given me more detailed news of you. I’m still living in the same old way, just waiting. I think only of the day when I’ll see you again. It’s for that moment that I’m working dutifully on my novel. It’s finished, and I’m polishing the first part — but there’ll still be lots of work to be done on the second. Everything else just helps pass the time. But the time does pass, anyway. I have moments of dejection, when it’s unbearable to me to be separated from you like this — and there’s not a night that I don’t have nightmares on your account — but by and large my days are pleasant. I’m often at the Dome by 8 in the morning, in pitch darkness — which strikes me as very poetic. I see a lot of Bost, listen to a lot of music. I’ve had to take up with Bianca again, but its only limping along. Olga’s in the process of leaving Dullin’s workshop. Wanda’s still hanging round doing nothing and seeing nobody. I’ve seen a lot of That Lady, who has been making a long stay in Paris but is leaving again at any moment. Life in Paris is lively, apart from the evening. The N.R.F. is coming out again, edited by Drieu and with Gide, Fabre-Luce and Giono writing for it. The populists have given a reading of The Wall’ at the cafè de Versailles — as I told you, people aren’t forgetting you.290 I’d so like to know how you’re living! If at least I had letters from you regularly! — but perhaps the mail will work better from January on. What a lot of little stories I’ll have to tell you, my little one. You know that Maheu’s teaching in Fez? That Guille’s expecting a child (without enthusiasm, but the Bel Eute is radiant)? My sweet little one, you haven’t left my life. Nothing has any meaning except through you. I’m hoping you haven’t too much lost me — hoping you continue to feel inseparable from myself, in that strange existence of yours. How I love you! It’s impossible to love anyone more intensely than I love you, after these eleven years of common life. I kiss you passionately, my love.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
Saturday 14 December [1940]
My dear, dear love
At last, a letter from you — and one that tells me you’re receiving mine!291 How I regret not having written every day, my sweet little one! - but I was in despair. I’ll do so now. It changes my whole life — the idea that, as in the old days, you’ll know everything that happens to me. I was so scared, my little one, that in spite of everything you might be unhappy. I know quite well you’re rock hard — but you’re also a ‘sensitive soul’, and the slightest pang of your heart throws my own heart into turmoil. Of course I’m not bored from a sense of duty, my dear little one. On the contrary, I hate being unhappy and since June have never ceased to flee unhappiness, often successfully. My life’s full - with people, work, and music. But at times I have so painful a craving to see you that I’m unhappy despite myself. The fact is that I love you, my little one — you and nothing else — with your dear face that I no longer see, and your tiny person, and your tenderness, and all our happiness. Usually I tell myself wisely that nothing of all this has been lost — and live in waiting. But at times one gets tired of waiting. One wants plenitude — and it’s you alone who can give me it. But, as you say, I shall have you back, my love, and for always — and we still have a life ahead of us. Above all, don’t worry about me. Especially now that I have this letter, I’ll have peace of mind. I’m living more or less like last year and, in the last resort, that’s much closer to happiness than to unhappiness: it’s a kind of happiness in abeyance. Starting from tomorrow, every day I’ll tell you everything in detail. Have you received any parcels? The N.R.F.’s concerning itself with you and others — so who knows? The N.R.F. has reappeared, edited by Drieu, with articles by Fabre-Luce, Gide, Giono, a story by Marcel Aymé ... as a whole it’s not brilliant. They’re giving me free copies of their books, which are miserable. I’m not reading much, but I’ve studied Kant thoroughly and am beginning to know something about music. I’m pleased with my novel: in three months it’ll be finished, and the only thing missing will be your criticisms. My love, how happy I am to be able to write to you! In itself my life is pleasant, if only I can think about yours with satisfaction — which I’m now going to do. But how I do love you, my little one, and how inseparable I am from you! Do keep me with you.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris — Official Form]
[14 December 1940]
My love
I’m at once writing you a second letter, since you’re receiving them so well. I’m going to get down to telling you about my days. I’m at the back of the Select, next to a tableful of rather pleasing young German women, who give the place an odd little exotic air. It’s Saturday and 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Outside the weather’s dry and biting, like at winter sports, and sunlight’s flooding into the cafè. This morning I got up at 7.30 and left home in pitch darkness. It’s amazing that morning gloom — so lively, with all those vehicles of which you can see only the lights, and hurrying shadows, and draught-proofed cafès. I went off to take the Métro and meet Bianca at Le Passy, in order to go with her to the Conservatoire rehearsal. As I’ve told you, we broke off, then made up again — and it’s just limping along. But we’re dragging it out, because she’s going to be married in a fortnight and follow her husband to America. We probably shan’t ever see each other again, and that solves the problem. Lamblin’s in despair as usual. All things considered he isn’t exactly impotent, only his parents neglected to have him circumcised and that’s the key to the mystery. They’re all very happy because the German authorities have been merciful and the University’s reopening on 20 December.292 I’ll be able to return to the library and resume my studies on th
e Middle Ages. Anyway, we went to that concert — in the first row of the stalls. They were playing Bach, it was first-class, and Charles Munch was a joy to behold — tapping his foot, singing, and calling on one performer after another. I was in seventh heaven. After that I took the Métro to St Michel and met Bost for dinner. He told me how Kos. had informed Dullin yesterday that she was attending drama classes under Rouleau, Bertheau and Barrault. Dullin sank back onto a couch, then chucked her out — both her and Keshelevich. Everything’s going kaputt for him, and it serves him right. Kos. is nervous, but I think she did the right thing — she was mouldering away in that dump. Have I told you I’m having quite a lot to do with Mouloudji, who’s writing some really pleasing things and interests me? Sorokine’s worried about it (wrongly) — I must tell you about her too. I’m full of stories and you’ll know them all. I love you. I’m happy, because of your letter, as I hadn’t been for ages. My love.
Letters to Sartre Page 47
