Letters to Sartre

by Simone de Beauvoir

  We talked about Koestler. Apparently, before him, Mamaine423 was with a sadist who once left her for dead: she remained alone for three days in an abandoned house, more dead than alive. Torcy (the American, he has the same name as the bar we were in) is obviously homosexual, knowing Larronde and all his gang.424 But he’s very amusing when he talks about people, and very nice. I spent an excellent evening, drinking 4 different cocktails and at least 6 whiskies without the least trouble.

  Sleep, telephone. I finally finished the article for Vogue — which is a relief — and am just off to dictate it to a typist. Then I’ll prepare my lecture a bit. Then deliver it. Apparently there’ll be a huge crowd, and cocktails afterwards at Levi Strauss’s. Farewell, my love, I must leave you. Do you admire all I’ve done in these past two weeks? Almost all the districts of New York, and all the museums and galleries, the cinemas, all the nightclubs you’d told me about and others too, and so many people. In April I’ll know exactly whom not to see, which will be better still. Old Macdonald425 from Politics made me a nice phone call this morning. There were ten times as many people to see as I wanted. But I’ve almost always had long, empty hours just to myself — that’s what has been so agreeable. Today the weather’s very mild and clear, people are skating in Central Park, and New York has never been more engaging. Goodbye, my love. You’re more lovely and more beloved than all the New Yorks in the world. Write to me, dearest little one.

  Your Beaver

  [New York]

  Monday Morning 17 February [1947]

  Most dear little being, my dear love

  I had two letters from you at the beginning of the week. Finally you’d received mine and were answering me — I was very happy, my love. This morning I’m back from my trip and there’s nothing. Perhaps something will arrive in the course of the day. I’ve so many things to tell you. And yet I haven’t written all week — so you can see how busy I am, and therefore how much I’m enjoying myself, my sweet little one.

  Listen then. I wrote to you on Tuesday from the Sherry-Netherland, I recall — that was before my lecture. All that day was spent writing letters and articles and preparing the lecture. I gave it at 8.30 at the Modern Museum, and even according to the Gerassis — who, as you know, are objective friends — it was a success. Stepha told me I looked radiantly beautiful in my ‘concession’ dress426 (which is, in fact, a necessity here) and the lovely necklace. I spoke about the writer’s responsibility, and had the impression it went down well. After that Lévi-Strauss had organized a cocktail party — deadly boring, of course. I saw Hessel, whom I didn’t much care for. Thineray introduced me to some people from Reader’s Digest. Perhaps it’ll work out — it would bring in $1,000, which would be fantastic. Whole procession of people: Mme Parodi427 (who’d apparently invited me round ten times; I’d never had her message and apologized), and other ladies who thanked me ‘in the name of France’ — I’m not sure for what. After that the Gerassis took me to the most charming bar, very plebeian, with a Negro singing — the Tally-Ho, on one of the big avenues — I don’t know why you didn’t tell me about it. We drank whisky till one in the morning, while Stepha told me very entertaining stories about the Bowery.

  Wednesday was my last day in New York and I was quite overcome to be leaving. I had piles of things to do. I had to go to Vogue, in order to dictate my article to the typist and collect some cheques; an interview on the radio, with the Day woman’s husband; another at the hotel, with a guy from the New Yorker. I had lunch at midday with R. Wright and Abel in a little tavern in the Village, then we had coffee at their place. I’d brought a big jar of candies for the little girl, who flung her arms round my neck. She’s ravishing, and though I don’t usually like children I adore her. Actually all three of them are adorable with me: they’ve given me addresses in Chicago, and it’s like having a real family in New York — I feel at home with them.

  [...]

  This evening I’m leaving New York for good. But now I’m thirsty for travel, so I’ve no regrets.

  My love, my dear love — there’s-a letter from you and nothing more is lacking for me to be completely happy. It contained the cheque, which has come at just the right moment. All the same I’m going to borrow $300 from Lévi-Strauss, in order to be rich in California. Actually I’m going to find fortunes here when I get back: from Vogue, France-Amérique, Town and Country, some lectures, and perhaps Reader’s Digest as well. I spent the morning busy with those articles, now I’m off for lunch at the Gerassis’. I have a few things to tie up, then a walk or a film and I leave this evening for Rochester.

  It’s quite true that twice in Washington I felt an electric shock while touching the elevator button, and at the same hotel my key gave off sparks while being inserted in the lock. But what’s not true is that it’s hard to find ‘Ladies’ in New York — there are sumptuous ones in every cafetria. It seems strange to be leaving. It’s as though I were leaving you to some extent. Till 10 March I’ll be c/o Mrs Moffat, 411 South Barrington Avenue, Westwood 24, Los Angeles. Afterwards Moffat will forward mail. So write there. I’m still writing to Rue Bonaparte. Tell your mother to forward my letters, or else cable an address to Sorokine’s,

  Goodbye, my love. I’m the happiest of queens because I’m at once travelling and not separated from you. Do tell Bost about everything. Oh, yes! Tell everybody that there never was any book called I’ll Spit on your Graves in America, or any author called Sullivan. It was Vian who did the whole thing himself.428 Did that bitch Macht send the splendid article from the New Yorker?

  My love, I kiss you with all the joy in my heart. Do write. Your letters give me such happiness. I’m with you all the time.

  Your charming Beaver

  [train — Kansas City]

  Sunday 23 February 1947

  Here I am in the great train going to California. There’s a long halt at Kansas City and I can start writing. I’m really delighted, and even rather moved, to think that I’m going to see this country, and that I’ll have a real home out there — after all this time being just a tourist. It’s agreeable to think there’s something waiting for you: that it’s not up to you to try and make a place for yourself in the unknown, but a comfortable one’s all ready for you.

  [...]

  Next day, that’s Wednesday, I spent all morning in the train. I saw the great lakes, just as I’d wished. We travelled all along Lake Erie, for 4 hours — it was frozen and unending. However, I read an excellent book, from which we absolutely must publish huge extracts in T.M. It’s called Class and Caste in the South,429 by an American sociologist — and the method’s as interesting as the content. It’s a kind of counterpart to your Portrait of the Anti-Semite but on the Blacks — and also scholarly in character. It contains everything on the problem of the South. It was old Dwight Macdonald who lent it to me — all those people were so kind. I read till Cleveland. There, for 25 cents, I put my luggage in a little locker and took the key — I’m always delighted by such ‘gadgets’ — and asked a driver to take me round Cleveland. A million inhabitants, and a bit less dreadful than Rochester or Buffalo because of the lake, which is very beautiful. But I was beginning to feel crushed by all these ‘hopeless’ cities. The driver took me round for almost an hour for $2, and we had a long conversation as I always do — and what enchants me is that almost all of them were in Paris as soldiers. They’re terribly nice, and so proud of being Americans. This one put me down at the Cleveland Museum where there’s a very fine collection of paintings, with a big blue Picasso and, on that very day, a big Degas exhibition. It was a relief to see how that world still contained things that could be looked at with pleasure. After that, I went and took the Greyhound to Oberlin. For 1½ hours — the city, other cities, always houses. At Oberlin it was 5 o’clock. It’s just a village surrounding a college, there was plenty of snow and peace, and I was very happy — especially since they’d booked a superb room for me in a very pretty country hotel I took a bath and spent a long time dressing. Then I m
et up with a professor and his wife — she’s André Masson’s sister430 and they’re as like as two peas in a pod. So conversation was easy. I had dinner at the Maison de France, gave my lecture, and three very nice students took me for a drink at a bistro. We drank coffee, since no alcohol is drunk in Oberlin, and talked a lot about American intellectual youth: I’m beginning to understand them properly and it seems to be a ‘hopeless’ case, alas! I’m afraid I’m going to come back from here an out-an-out communist — there can’t be less freedom in Russia than here. Well, it would take a long while to explain it all. I think you had exactly the same feeling anyway. Then I went to sleep. And this morning: departure for Chicago.

  Monday

  My dear love. I stopped the letter yesterday evening, I’m going to finish it this morning. I’m in seventh heaven. I woke up as the sun was rising over a great desert and for the past two hours we’ve been travelling through spectacular landscapes of red earth, scrub and mountains under a fantastic sun. What a contrast with the ice of Buffalo and Chicago! I was up by 7, because I’d gone to bed early. I had my breakfast and am now in the ‘Lounge’, where there’s a bar, a radio, all the magazines you could want, and tables for writing. A long train journey like this is very enjoyable. So I set off.

  Tuesday

  The train is jolting too much and I haven’t been able to write. I’ll tell you about Chicago tomorrow. It’s now 7.30, I’ve just woken up and I’m crossing huge fields of orange-trees covered with oranges. In half an hour I’ll be in Los Angeles. I’m hoping for a letter from you there. I dreamed about you and you were very nasty — that tells you how satisfied with you I still am. Goodbye, my dear love. I kiss you with all my love. Write to me.

  Your charming Beaver

  (Address as letter 26 January 1947)

  [Los Angeles]

  Friday 28 February [1947]

  My dear love

  How happy I was to find your letter here. You’re writing faithfully, o yourself, and that counts for a lot in my happiness. I’m beginning to feel a bit distressed to think that you’ll be heaven knows where when -this letter arrives, and that you’ll have to reply to me back in New York. Write c/o Mme Gerassi, 215 E. 57th. I’m writing to you from a room at Sorokine’s. It’s marvellous: you can see the whole of Los Angeles in the distance, and the sea, and there are big eucalyptus trees and horses and hens — it’s countryside and town at the same time. On the table there’s an immense basket of oranges and orange-blossom that some unknown admirer sent me. Also, I’m writing to you with an everlasting fountain-pen given me yesterday by Annabella431 — though actually, I don’t find it very comfortable and will probably abandon it along the way. I’m enjoying myself more than ever, though a piece of my heart remains firmly in New York.

  First, you should know that Chicago wasn’t terrible. On the contrary, I liked Chicago a lot, perhaps because I liked the guy with whom I saw it. I took the train at a little station near Oberlin College, and we travelled for six hours along a frozen lake while I read. At Chicago, they (the consul) had reserved a room for me at a splendid hotel. I at once went off to spend an hour at the Museum, then had a walk round and a taxi-drive down Michigan Avenue and all along the lake. Then I phoned a certain Nelson Algren,432 a friend of Wright’s and beloved of that wretched Mary Guggenheim. He replied that I had a wrong number, because I wasn’t pronouncing his name properly. I tried three times to explain to him, but as soon as he recognized my voice he’d shout: ‘It’s a wrong number!’ with growing exasperation. I gave up and hastily did some work on an article for France- Amérique, which I was supposed to send off in a great hurry. But I wanted to go out for the evening with this guy, so I got an American woman to ring up and she pronounced his name right. We made our explanations, and at 9 I met up with him at the hotel. He’s a typical American, poker-faced and physically inexpressive, who started off travelling across America on freight trains and working a a ‘pin-boy’ — the person who picks up the skittles in bowling-alleys. Then he started writing, had a bit of success, and now for two years he has been living on a publisher’s advance, after which he’ll start again earning his living as best he can. He writes books about Chicago — where he has always lived — that remind you of both Saroyan and Damon Runyan. And he’s more or less a communist, of course. I found him very nice, and intelligent, and human — as they can be when they’re successful

  He immediately grasped where he should take me first: to the Chicago Bowery — to a dance-hall rather like Sammy’s, but even more sordid and less commercial; to a little club where magnificent women stripped naked and danced obscenely under totally indifferent eyes; to a Negro club; and to a little Polish bar. The streets outside were cold, full of snow, entirely deserted — it was very different from New York and in a sense more potent. He put me in a taxi — kissing me clumsily, but very seriously and intently — and I had a long conversation with the driver on the way home.

  The next day, I was intending to spend the whole day with the guy and was beside myself with fury when a telephone call came from the consul, who’d ‘arranged’ my day. I had to accept a lunch at the Alliance Française and dinner with the consul — I was livid. I returned to that fantastic museum, got a taxi to drive me to the Bowery, and also took a long taxi-drive along the lakeside and round the downtown area — which I find almost as beautiful as New York. Then a horrible lunch at the Alliance, with horrible old ladies and a fake French woman of letters. The consul wasn’t too disagreeable, in a loutish way — it’s possible to put up temporarily with that type of man. A friend of his, a well-informed but revolting American businessman, took me for a big tour round in his car before dropping me off at Algren’s, where I had an appointment. He lives in a scruffy little house in the Polish neighbourhood, and you should have seen those gentleman’s shocked faces when they had to stop the car in that squalid street. I found my guy in his little, indigent intellectual’s room and he took me to the streets and bars of the Polish neighbourhood. The bars were very agreeable: outside the wind was bitter and we’d hurry inside to down a vodka in the warm. He showed me old gangster bars and told me lots of stories. I had the impression of leading a little neighbourhood life — it was all very informal — and we got on very well despite my English. I was terribly upset, because he’d arranged a dinner for me with one of the two authors of Black Antiquities, and I couldn’t go. He also rushed to the phone to order the books I wanted for me — he was so nice — and in the end he asked me so insistently to return to Chicago, and kissed me with such feeling outside the taxi when I left, that I was moved myself. It gave Chicago a very genuine and very intense savour. After that I went and had dinner in a magnificent restaurant beside the lake with the consul and the businessman, and it was boring and irritating. They took me ceremoniously to the train, the businessman bought me quantities of books and magnificent reviews, and I went to bed in my berth full of excitement at the idea of that big journey — three nights and two days. The 2nd day did in fact drag a bit, but all in all it was very agreeable. I read the latest Steinbeck and lots of other things — and how beautiful that scenery is on the second day, when you’re crossing deserts. A guy approached me on the first day, (a guy of 50 or 60) in the dining-car, with that nice, direct manner of theirs, and asked me over lunch my opinion on Russia. And he gave me a book of his. He’s a journalist — a war correspondent, who also used to teach at

  Harvard, but was thrown out because he’d written too favourably about Russia. He’s going to carry out a big survey throughout Europe, with a whole team, to try and understand where Europe’s future lies. He’s not a communist, but an idealistic sympathizer. Once again, I was staggered to see how the political problem is posed in different terms for those people and for us. He got out at Emporia, where he was going to give a pro-Russian lecture. I put his book, adorned by a huge portrait of Stalin, down beside me. The face of the Negro who does the sleeping-berths lit up, and he pointed at it with a broad grin: ‘Oh! this is a good guy!’ And h
e did me lots of little extra services throughout the journey. It’s all these tiny things which make relations with people here so warm and pleasant, and which enliven a journey so much.

  On Tuesday at 8, I arrived. Sarbakhane was at the station, her hair and face magnificent, but more enormous than ever. She had a little car that Moffat has bought her especially for us, which is truly kind. I was terribly glad to see her. She brought me here, which is a charming spot where Moffat was waiting with a lovely little breakfast on the table. O yourself! — I’m madly excited, since it’s possible Capra might film Immortal Man’433 with Claude Rains and Greta Garbo. It seems very serious. Moffat is a ‘writer’ under the orders of Stevens, the director of Gunga Din434 and a friend of Capra’s. Stevens is very interested by the subject as presented to him by Moffat, and he has asked Moffat to do a treatment of ‘Immortal Man’ before taking on any other work. Moffat’s going to do that this week, and he says it’s almost certain that either Capra or Stevens will accept it — and that otherwise he’ll find someone else. Stevens, with whom I had lunch yesterday, seemed also to like me very much, so much so that he’s going to accompany us on part of the trip we’re going to take round California. We talked about the project a bit and he was very interested. I promised Moffat — who’ll do the cutting and the dialogue and everything — half the net profits. It would mean at least $30,000 for me — doesn’t that make your head spin? We’d live for a whole year in America, you and I. My head’s already buzzing with plans. I know quite well that lots of things like this fall through, I’ve got no illusions, but I find just the idea so enjoyable.