Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Thursday evening 13 December [1945]
Dearest little one,
It seems funny to be writing to you. It’s almost like a play in which I can’t quite believe — because you’re still so close, barely 5 hours away from me, and I could easily imagine you coming back in an hour or so and slipping into the bed in your little blue pyjamas. But then, nothing of the kind: I’ll remain on my own here with the footwarmer, while you’re already two months distant — it’s hard to contemplate.327 If you came back in an hour, I’d tell you about my evening — and that’s why I’m writing so quickly. I’m a bit upset, and I don’t want to go up and see Sorokine328 or sleep, just to talk to you. I’m upset about Bianca Bienenfeld. I took her to the Golfe-Juan — Badel was there with Gaby Sylvia at one table, the fair Sumerville with Arbessier at the table opposite — and we stayed there talking till midnight. She moved me — and filled me with remorse — because she’s suffering from an intense and dreadful attack of neurasthenia, and it’s our fault I think. It’s the very indirect, but profound, after-shock of the business between her and us. She’s the only person to whom we’ve really done harm, but we have harmed her. What’s very interesting is the fact that her attack has a multiple significance. It’s the metaphysical drama of Being and Nothingness:329 an intense awareness of nothingness, the mirage of the For-others, the fascination of the objective, and the knowledge of subjectivity and its gratuitousness. And it’s also, psychologically, Bienenfeld’s reflection upon what might be called her character: her masochism (which she discovered with horror while reading Being and Nothingness); her assertive, harsh, almost unattractive side, of which she’s clearly aware. It’s also her situation: married, tied down, settled into the tedium of adult life with a delayed-action crisis of youth; her situation as a student, in contradiction with her settled existence; her lack of either an adult project or an adolescent one. And then, there’s a physiological dimension: headaches, fatigue, etc. She weeps all the time — she wept three times during the dinner, and she weeps at home when she has to read a book or go to the kitchen to eat. Out of all this, what’s primary? In any case, it takes the form of a comparison with us: nothingness in relation to us; need of me, of a prop, etc. She’s terribly unhappy, and extremely lucid without her lucidity getting her anywhere. At times, she really looked quite mad — bottling things up, anxious, but with moments of repressed tenderness and mute appeals that tore at my heartstrings. It’s important to see a lot of her, and I’m going to try because I’m filled with remorse. I’m describing this to you very badly, but I know you’d have been very upset and full of sympathy for her, because she was moving and even pathetic that evening, thanks to that rationalism and taste for seriousness that suddenly assumed the mask of madness, that complete and painful authenticity under the guise of the inauthentic. And then, that kind of reasonable, controlled, intelligent psychosis is far more appealing — and almost contagious — than the gross excesses of someone like Violette Leduc,330 or of Russian women in general. It strikes me as more serious too, and I’m worried. I don’t think she’ll go mad. But I am afraid of her growing resigned. On the other hand, if she saves herself by relapsing into inauthenticity, that’s lousy. In the end, I came home almost thinking how I was going to talk to you about it all — and even now I can scarcely believe that it’s all going to be engulfed; that I’m going to start living things that will be engulfed without being shared with you. Goodbye, little one, dear beloved little one. You’re in the train, and you’re dozing at Wanda’s side. As for me, I’m going to sleep. I haven’t begun to be separated from you, and even as I write this letter I don’t yet believe it.
Saturday morning
Dearest little one. Now I’ve really begun to feel your departure. It’s especially in the morning on waking that it causes me a little anguish. After that, the days are full and pleasant, especially as Charles V331 is at last beginning to yield. I’ve done all those little things for you, and I’m waiting for Rouleau’s answer.332 I’m pleased because Sorokine has seen a doctor, who told her everything was going just fine.333 So I’ll be able to go off with an easy mind — but nothing new for the time being on that front.334 Yesterday morning I worked at the Flore, had lunch with mother, saw Sorokine, and worked at the Pont Royal — which was ever so comfortable. Then I went to the Temps Modernes,335 where there was a mad rush on. I dealt with all the visitors, and in the evening dined with Bost at the Golfe-Juan. We had a long explanation (in which, of course, he didn’t explain anything at all): I told him at length all about his behaviour in general and towards me in particular. He was devastated — but in a way pleased, because it was a proof of affection on my part. He maintains that what weighs upon him is to a great extent the same thing that weighs on Sorokine or Poupette. He doesn’t have the impression he’s got any real place in a life where you are. He even went so far as to chuck away letters he wrote to me on the boat — as being pointless. That doesn’t explain everything, though. All in all he was full of good will and very sweet, and I’m glad we had a talk, though it doesn’t change anything. This morning I worked and finished correcting your lecture336 at the Flore. I’m expecting Vitold for lunch. You must be on the open sea by now. That means you haven’t yet abandoned me entirely — I can still feel you half in France, even though the other half is turned towards America. When you’re there, I think I’ll be in Tunis, so it will be less painful to let you go. There you are, little one. It’s mild, grey and dreary and I don’t feel bad at all. I telephoned to Aron,337 who greeted my request with a degree of favour. I’ll keep you posted. Blanket of silence about you in the weeklies these past couple of days — just a report on my lecture with a caricature (in Terre des Hommes)338 and a nice interview by Beaufret on existentialism in Le Monde. I’ll be sure to keep everything for you.
Wednesday
Dearest little one, my love. Now I do feel that you’ve left. Yet I’m just as much united with you as when you were here — I haven’t lost you at all. Beside my bed I’ve two photos of you: one with snow on your shoulders, and the other that I like so much where you’re all tousled in the aeroplane.339 I find you there each time I wake up, so I start the day with you. Today I’m at the Pont Royal — it’s 2 o’clock and very peaceful. I feel very happy. I think about your beloved self, the work’s going well, I’m working a lot and will soon have finished Charles V — and I spent a marvellous evening with Camus. I say marvellous because, as I like him enormously, it bowled me over that he should be so affectionate, and that we should be so intimate and talk so easily. We had dinner Chez Lipp, drank at the Pont Royal, then took a bottle of champagne to the Louisiane and drank it till 3 in the morning. He talked a lot about himself — private life and literary life — in a way that touched me. And it made me want to write good things — it gave me a great thirst for life — that one can be such good friends with somebody for whom the same things count as for you. If everything works out well, we’ll go and spend a fortnight winter-sporting in February — he seemed really to like the idea too.
Apart from that, on Saturday evening I saw Bost, for Sunday lunch your mother, and on Monday for two hours Violette Leduc — with whom things started off worldly and almost gay, only to end up in disaster. When she was leaving me at Place Pigalle, I thought she was about to pass out and she really did look crazy. She telephoned Nathalie Sarraute,340 who couldn’t face seeing her. On Monday evening I went with Bost to a dress rehearsal of The Brothers Karamazov. I really put my foot in it by saying to Mayenne Daste: ‘This adaptation’s appalling.’341 Poor Oettly’s beneath contempt — he plays Father Karamazov as M. Perrichon342 — and Davy’s unbearable. Casarès wonderful, Dufilho good, Vitold excellent — we congratulated him warmly and he was really pleased.
Yesterday I had lunch with Merleau-Ponty and on Monday with Genet.343 Genet was very nice, no problems. M.Ponty told me that Magny’s nursing a big grudge against us, because of the article — and
because of the party as well. Apparently, an anonymous cyclist who just missed knocking Beaufret down in the street shouted at him: ‘Hey! Clear off! Existentialist!’, and on the radio even sports programmes start off with jokes about existentialism. However, nothing new about you or me in the weeklies.
The journal’s going well — we’ve got the Russian article, Sarraute’s translating the document, Hadjibelli344 has given us a schizophrenic’s diary, Beaufret and Mounin will be happy to contribute columns. Even No. 6 is almost under way. I’d like to do an editorial in No. 6 on objectivity. What do you think? Apparently my editorial in No. 3 has gone down very well, so M. Ponty and Camus tell me. Camus is asking me to do the essay on action I spoke to you about, for his series.345 It would be put out along with some articles by me, by him perhaps, and by you if you like, on the subject of existentialism. I’m very much tempted, I could probably get down to it on holiday.
Practical matters: from Maurienne, I’ll get either all the money or 100,000 F., with which I’ll get by — so that’s o.k.
About the play:346 if you want the Ambassadeurs, Certes has written to tell me you’ll have to see Bernstein.347 Bernstein’s in America. Rouleau wrote to me saying he’d reply, but he hasn’t done so. Hébertot doesn’t want Vitold. I’ll see to everything as best I can before leaving, and I’ll also hand over anything I haven’t concluded to Bost. As for getting four new copies typed out, that’s difficult — it’s impossible to find anything before Christmas.
Goodbye, dearest little love. This evening I’ll add a P.S. to tell you whether I’m leaving or not, which is still hanging in the balance. I think you’ll find this letter on your arrival. Write to me, my love, I want to remain closely united with you. I’m very happy with our life and with you. I want you to have a good stay over there. Think of me with satisfaction, as I think of you. I hug you tight, tight, in my arms and kiss your dear little face, which is there, all warm, in my heart. I love you, my little one.
Your charming Beaver
There. I’m very disappointed, as I shan’t be leaving for Tunis till the beginning of January. Before the 15th, but I’m not sure exactly when — so write to me in Paris anyway. I’ll probably leave for winter sports on Saturday evening, probably to Megève. I’m very pleased about that, and somewhat consoled. Goodbye, my love.
[Megève]
Thursday 27 December [1945]
Dearest little yourself,
I wonder when you’ll get this letter. New York seems such a long way away from here, yet I’d really like to feel I was talking to you and you could hear me. I think about you so intensely here: about you who left me a fortnight ago already, whom I shan’t see for six weeks, and who’s arriving in America where you have a quite alien life; and about you who used to ski with me in the old days, on these very slopes, in a little blue suit that I can still see as if it were yesterday. I’d so like to think that we’ll come back here together some day, just the two of us on our own and perfectly happy. You know I wouldn’t make you ski all day long, and that it’s a fantastic place for working. I’m delighted to be here, I’m having one of the best times I’ve had this year, except that you’re not with me.
[...]
Six years ago I was writing to you from here and it was wartime. It seems strange to remember that. In a sense, it seems much longer to me than six years. I feel somehow beyond all that, as though in a second life. I no longer really recognize either myself or the old world. Yet there are the memories — the memories with yourself, in that former life. But they have a strange effect, rather harrowing, because they’re so little related to the present.
Goodbye, dearest love. I don’t know where to tell you to write to me. To Paris perhaps, from where everything will be forwarded. I’ll send a wire to the consulate as soon as I know that I’m leaving for Tunis. Be happy over there, and come back to me soon. You and I are as one, and I kiss you with all my might.
Your charming Beaver
1946
[Paris]
18 January [1946]
Most dear little being
Here I am back in Paris since this morning, having missed a first plane for Tunisia and anxious to catch the second if possible. I was terribly upset to be leaving the Ideal-Sport, the day before yesterday in the evening when I found the cable summoning me back. I felt a real little pang in my heart. But with my vice of always being satisfied, this morning I’m enjoying sitting at the Flore, with Begbeider and Erval and others prowling in the vicinity. I was above all happy to find a letter from you. There’s only one as yet, but that’s to be expected — apparently they take ten days to arrive. What an abrupt change of life! Yesterday at this hour I was still on my skis and making my descent towards Megève. Now I’m in town clothes, I’ve just had my hair done, and what’s more I’m stunningly handsome because I’ve a magnificent complexion, all tanned and with my face all relaxed — which is quite out of keeping in Paris. Paris is icy, the hotel has no heating and apparently there’s absolutely nothing to eat here. I certainly won’t stay. If things don’t work out for Tunisia, I’ll go off again to the Mont d’Arbois.
I can’t quite remember when I last wrote to you, a week ago probably. Life went on being wonderful there. I saw quite a lot of that little Lefevre-Pontalis.348 He’d be quite overcome with emotion and gratitude each time I showed up to have lunch with them, and I used to get him to go up so we could ski together. We were planning to come back together on Saturday, and he was taking ski lessons in order to make a respectable descent towards St Gervais with me. He was frightfully disappointed when he saw me decamp yesterday. His wife looks like a fat sow and he’s bored with her. I saw Salacrou349 too, who’s an old habitue of the Ideal-Sport. We had lunch together yesterday, just before I left. He’s like a doddering old fool. On one of his first ski runs he fell on his ‘liver‘, and now he has himself accompanied everywhere by a teacher. He’s so cowardly that he’s not going to Greece, where he has been invited, because he’s scared of boarding a French plane. In my case, I’m at least going to board one — and I’m even choosing the plane rather than the boat — though I’ll undoubtedly be scared on the way.350
So now you know what kind of life I led. Kos. decided to get onto her skis, and twice over she went down the Mont d’Arbois, escorted by Bost, quite slowly but almost without falling — she was beginning to enjoy it and was in a far better mood. But poor Bost told me that his life was really utterly, if not ruined, at least crushed by that existence with Kos., and that he didn’t feel at all happy. And seeing them living side by side, I can understand him. I find her quite terrifying — and the nicer she’s being, the more quietly terrifying she becomes. Wanda went on with her little old lady’s life, with a few hours of skiing every now and then. She too would make her run without falling too much — but it would take her an hour and a half. Bost and I had a splendid day on Tuesday — we went to the Col de Voza. In other words, very early in the morning we made a run down to St Gervais, then took a little local train up to the pass. After that we skied down to Les Houches, on that run where you wrecked your knee. I was quite overcome remembering how we were two poor little beginners on that icy run. It was pretty hard on Tuesday, and Bost couldn’t get over our courage. My little one, I’d so like to go off alone with you again — skiing, travelling, or anywhere — I feel quite bursting with tenderness for you. After that, Bost and I had lunch in one of the beautiful hotels at the pass — which we’d regained by cable-car — then we skied down to St Gervais through magnificent fields of fresh snow. There was bright sunlight and in the evening an extraordinary moonlight, with a literally violet sky and green mountains. It was when we reached home that I found the telegram summoning me back to Paris, if I didn’t want to miss the second plane. I was very upset that evening — by my grief at leaving, my hope of Tunisia, and my fear it might fall through. I had to drink a lot of little shots of marc to drown my joy and my sorrow — the hotel had some fantastic marcs and kirsches. Yesterday I made one last mel
ancholy run, then had lunch with Salacrou, who told me how at his dress-rehearsal Toulouse threw up in Dullin’s box, and all Dullin could think about was how to prevent the people who’d come to congratulate him from coming in. Salacrou’s entertaining for an hour, albeit instantly unlike-able. After that, Bost and Kos. accompanied me to the cable-car and I plunged with sinking heart into the valley. A taxi took me to Le Fayet, where I got a nice corner seat with no trouble. I slept all night, alighted at 7 in the morning, spent some time with Sorokine — who seems in a good state — then went first to the hairdresser and afterwards to the Flore, where I’m now writing to you and where everybody, of course, began talking to me about the journal and countless other things. Nothing new in the weeklies. I’d promised Merleau-Ponty an editorial for No. 6, but I feel empty, incapable of thinking or writing the tiniest article. The novel is going all right because it’s non-topical, and can be written in the wilds, but philosophical discussions, polemics and so on really go clean out of my mind there. I don’t know how I’ll manage to get back into the swing of things for at least a week.
Letters to Sartre Page 52
