[Chicago]
Monday [July 1950]
My most dear little one. How nice you are to have written so quickly. I had your first letter by Thursday, and it was a great help. This morning I’ve received the second, and I think it’s really stupid that we should have gone rushing off independently into a whole heap of problems, when we were so happy together. The compensation is that in three months we shall both find ourselves free — for depending on one another doesn’t mean depending on anyone. Three months strikes me as being very long and unbearable, but at the same time necessary for that ‘work’ we were talking about — which I was rejecting but must indeed do.
I first have to tell you that nobody here’s interested in the war. That’s what Algren — whom I’ve interviewed at length — asserts and I believe him, going by the general look of the streets and the people. The papers try to enthuse the public by alternately announcing victories and huge defeats; but even the ‘atrocities’ — seven GIs shot with their arms tied behind their backs — leave people unmoved. MacArthur has been trying to kick out two war correspondents who announced that the soldiers considered this war idiotic and pointless, but public opinion is protesting. The atmosphere couldn’t be calmer. In spite of this, I feel Chicago has something poignant about it: that’s the only appropriate word to describe the days I’m spending. This city is so close to me, I love it so much, I remember it so well — it’s at once so exotic and so familiar. And it’s already in a world that’s no longer mine; already radically separated from me, by coming world events as much as by my own history. That history — it’s strange how I’m reliving it street by street, hour by hour, with the mission of neutralizing it, and transforming it into an inoffensive past that I can keep in my heart without either disowning it or suffering from it. That’s not easy. It’s at once painful and poetic. I suppose it’s better to be in my shoes than in yours, but at moments I feel seriously distressed. The weather’s as muggy as in Bobo-Dioulasso,471 as stormy as in Paris; it rains a lot and is terribly close — weather entirely appropriate to the state of my heart.
I’ll try and give you a coherent overview of events. Well, I arrived here on Monday evening, all ready despite my forebodings to carry on from the last days of last year, when Algren had told me: ‘I’ve never been so happy; I’ve never loved so much.’ That night and all next day I felt a reserve, let’s say — or an absence — that was absolutely striking in someone who used to be warmth itself. On the Tuesday night when we were going to bed I asked for an explanation. He told me fairly tersely that he didn’t love anyone else but that something was dead. I spent a bad night, as you may imagine — it was the following morning when I wrote to you. In the afternoon he explained it all to me at length. In Hollywood472 he half took up again with his ex-wife: she wanted to go back to living together, but he refused and got out of it by offering her a car. After that, there was a little Japanese girl about whom he’d been telling me for a long time, who threw herself at his head and wanted to get married. He ended up sleeping with her — after warning her clearly not to expect anything — then dropped her. He says all these struggles and disputes have left him weary of women; that he awaited me with indifference, and didn’t feel much when he saw me again. I come, I’ll go away again — it’s agreeable but nothing more. I understand. It greatly relieved me (I say this for your instruction) to know that he hadn’t fallen in love with another woman, and that the change has occurred within our affair rather than from outside. I more or less got some sleep that night, and the next day we talked about lots of things and in the afternoon spent two hours with some friends of his. The evening was very nice, we even slept together very tenderly. The next day — a classic reaction with which you’re familiar — I was ill. I’d caught a dreadful cold on the first night, it had simmered gently away, and then I’d taken too many Corydranes and drunk too much whisky. Now, I had a firm temperature that kept me in bed all day. It was rather pleasant — we played records and told each other lots of stories. On Saturday I slept twelve hours on the trot and my temperature fell more or less to normal; so we went for a walk through lots of pleasant places, had dinner in a charming French restaurant, saw a spectacular operetta, etc. Yesterday (Sunday) too, the day was perfect. We get on very well and — except for this tension inside me and that stormy weather outside — it’s like it used to be. I revisited lots of Chicago places, and in the evening we talked till late and very agreeably. But then there was a little disaster, because we slept together again and it was so pitiful that it horrified me. I brooded over my horror for a good part of the night, then as soon as Algren woke up tried to talk to him; but he hates explanations — he just runs away. I do try and keep them to a minimum, but this one was really necessary. For him it lasted five minutes, but I dragged it out, this way and that, from midnight till noon — I barely slept at all. Luckily at 4 he had to spend almost an hour in front of a contraption at the television studio, so we made our way together to the Loop, then I went and sat down in a cool, dark ‘cocktail lounge’ with some whiskies — and now I’m writing to you and feeling better. It’s a pity we can’t go up to the Lake before 1 August. Impossible to work in his room — it’s too small, and the rhythm of our outings doesn’t allow it. Besides, I’d need another week to be capable of it. But a big house, separate beds, a bit of swimming — that would help. On the other hand, I love Chicago and this room. Last night I was thinking about returning to France pretty soon, after seeing Sorokine and New York for a bit. On the other hand, I like being here and don’t want such an abrupt break-up. Apart from last night’s incident, I’ve nothing at all to reproach Algren with and continue to feel good with him. I think it’s better to allow these three months to do their work.
Tell Michelle the following: two days ago, a young woman who runs a jazz club in Chicago telephones Algren: ‘Do you know Sidney Bechet’s address in Paris? His nephew has just been arrested for shooting at someone — he wounded him in the shoulder.’ And the woman adds: ‘I know he plays in one of those two cafès the existentialists own in Montmartre, but I don’t know which.’ I give her the address. And then, yesterday, I go with Algren to see a ‘line-up’, and among the guys on display there’s Bechet’s nephew — a rather good-looking boy who passes himself off as Spanish, and who looks overcome with shame at finding himself there. I’ve in fact been to that jazz club of hers: the young woman’s half Japanese, half Irish — a strange mixture — and very nice. She has a charming bracelet that Bechet gave her, with a ruby-eyed devil — because she sometimes used to chuck him forcibly out of the club, calling him a demon. The jazz in that little nightclub is actually as cold as its decor and its clientele. A white American can rarely play jazz — that’s perfectly true. I’ve had a strange little letter from Sorokine, who’s furious because I talked about her to Oreste.473 She says: Those two faggots are a pain in the neck’, complaining that for me she has remained eternally the girl who sticks pins into people’s bottoms. ‘And yet’, she says, ‘I feel as though I’ve flushed away the last people I knew’ - and adds: ‘Well, you never know!’ I’ll see her in August.
That’s all, my little one. It was cosy writing to you and now I feel at a bit of a loss. Especially as it’s raining outside and there’s no film to see in this town. Perhaps I’ll go to the Museum. As you can see, I’m doing what I said I didn’t want to do: taking responsibility for an affair that was lived jointly, and making it into my own affair in such a way as to be able to dominate and liquidate it. But it’s not I who began, and there’s no other solution. Above all, don’t worry at all about me. I’m not overwhelmed, except at moments and for a moment. By and large, moreover, I’m happy through all this. I’m happy that this affair should have been, such as it has been. With a bit of luck it will end gently.
Do write to me. What helps me most is the fact that I’ve remained anchored in Paris, with you. So nothing else is really important. And you, little one, remember that those sad days you’re going through aren’t
absurd or gratuitous, but necessary to our life. You’ll see what a beautiful life we’ll have from now on, as soon as we’re back together.
I kiss you with all my might.
Your charming Beaver
Algren
1523 W. Wabansia
Chicago
Wednesday [July 1950]
My dear little soul. I had to finish my letter in a hurry on Saturday, because a friend of Algren’s was coming to pick us up by car to go up to the Lake. The weather was fine and we first crossed Chicago for ever, then a vast zone of refineries, factories and blast furnaces — which was extraordinary to see in the evening on the way back, spitting fire everywhere. Algren has bought a ravishing little house hidden in the trees, with a garden running down to a little lake. You cross the lake by boat and on the other side there are dunes and the immense Lake Michigan with a lovely sand beach. I think it’ll be really agreeable living there. But the present owners won’t be leaving till the first of August. They cooked hamburgers for us in a kind of big oven in the middle of the garden. We swam in the lake, then ate and drank scotch till dark. It was a bit long, but not boring. I’d terribly like to be settled in there. On Sunday and Monday we stayed at home and I worked almost all day. We go out to dinner at about 8 in the evening and after that for a drink. We walk a bit. It’s a good arrangement for work. On Monday evening, as we were coming back at midnight from a little Italian restaurant, at the moment of climbing the stairs Algren sensed a presence on the wooden balcony in front of the door — and, in fact, there was a woman in a grey smock waiting. ‘It’s Florence, an old friend,’ said Algren, affably ushering her in. She was a bit overawed: ‘If you’re busy, I don’t want to disturb . . .’ But she accepted a coffee and then asked for some whisky. After that, propped against the stove, she began telling the story of her life in a pathetic voice, complaining of numerous unhappy marriages and a great, interrupted literary work. When she’d finished talking, she began collecting all the scraps of paper that were lying on the table, screwing them up and throwing them into the rubbish bin. Then she forced us to put away the ashtrays and shoes, on the pretext of tidying up, and demanded more whisky. She swallowed a nice big glass in a single gulp, then gave the tap a powerful buffet, filled the glass with water and swallowed that. Algren asked her where she was thinking of sleeping that night, and she said: ‘Here, of course, when you’ve thrown this other woman out.’ He said that was difficult. ‘Leave him to me for this night, and I’ll leave him to you for your whole life,’ she entreated me. ‘After all, that’s only fair. It must be ten years I’ve loved him, and I need to talk to him.’ And then she threatened him: ‘If you don’t keep me here, I’ll never see you again — I’ll marry someone else tomorrow morning.’ Algren eventually told her we were married, which cast her down for a moment. She demanded more whisky, but he’d hidden it. Then she hunted for razor-blades to shave her legs, and — apologizing, laughing, applying herself — did in fact set about conscientiously shaving first her legs, then her armpits. Then she looked at herself satisfiedly in the mirror: ‘That makes all the difference in the world.’ She did her hair, but haughtily rejected my make-up. ‘I don’t use any powder and I have my own lipstick.’ Then she violently assailed Algren, saying he was responsible for all her misfortunes and trying to hit him. Meanwhile, she’d continually go off to the lavatory, where she’d remain each time for a quarter of an hour. Eventually we rang for a taxi, but she refused to leave before doing the washing up. She heated some water and furiously washed every plate in the house. Then she did agree to go down, however, and Algren put her into a taxi. I’d realized from the outset that this was yet another of the crazy women who prowl round Algren, but what I didn’t know was that she’d just escaped from the asylum, as her grey smock testified. The next day at 10 she was back again, shouting angrily through the glazed door. Algren decided to ring the asylum: what else was there to do? They told him they’d been searching for her since the evening before, that her mother was distraught, and that they’d send two orderlies to pick her up — which they did. The woman was sleeping in front of the door when they arrived. She has been confined for three years. Algren knew her ten years before that, not very well, but when his last book was published she wrote to him to ask for a copy, which he sent her with a nice note. So as soon as she escaped, she rushed off to his place. The neighbours have told us she’d been waiting for three hours.
Yesterday we went back to the races, in the-car of the same friend and with some rather nice people. I had a pretty enjoyable time, because the trip was agreeable and I placed some bets (and lost). We had dinner in a kind of country hostelry — American style, of course. All in all, the days are going by agreeably. The weather’s now cool and sunny, which is extremely pleasant. I’m working pretty well, at least in terms of quantity, and we don’t talk about anything: I mean neither about our feelings, nor about the future. Sorokine, to whom I explained at length that I could spend only a week with her, is inviting herself for a fortnight in September. Actually, it’s all the same to me now.
I’ve read that Psychologie de la Colonisation.474 There are lots of interesting things there, and Leiris’s viewpoint is indefensible. However, it’s woolly and very suspect in its conclusions. You should read it yourself, in connection with the ‘gift’, because there’s a curious inversion of ‘potlatch’ in that idea of dependency.
I’m expecting a new letter soon. I’ve had a note from Kos., who tells me she has signed for The Flies475 — I’m very glad. She seems on excellent terms with me. What do you think about the war?
Goodbye, my sweet little one. Don’t forget my address: 6228 Forest Avenue, Gary, Indiana. The time seems very long without you, you know. And how anxious I am to know you’re safe and sound at That Lady’s.476 I suppose those days of parting were the worst. I’m with you, with all my heart.
Your charming Beaver
(Address as letter 26 January 1947)
S. de Beauvoir
6228 Forest Avenue
Gary
Indiana
Monday 31 [July 1950]
My dear, dear little one. I was impatiently waiting for your letter. Ten days without a thing — I was beginning to worry. Send just brief notes if necessary but do write, my sweet little one. I become distraught as soon as I feel you’re not there. I’m longing desperately for details about Claude Day and Dolores. If only you don’t forget to send your next letter to Gary! We’re moving in tomorrow, and from now on nothing will be forwarded since the house will be empty. Your letters arrive in two or three days, which is wonderful. I’m glad to be leaving tomorrow. It’s beginning to become close and humid here, and it’s really not comfortable for working and life’s a bit dreary. I feel it’s terribly absurd to be spending another two months far away from you, when we want so much to be together. And this prospect of war makes our separation even more painful for me. If it weren’t for that, I’d just tell myself: ‘It’s the last time we’ll leave each other for such a long time.’ But with this uncertain future, it wrings my heart to be losing two months of our life. On the other hand, though Algren didn’t buy this house for me, of course, he did so based on the idea of my coming here, and he’s terribly sweet — I can hardly say to him: ‘Since you’re no longer in love with me, I’m leaving.’ And now there’s Sorokine, who’s coming at the beginning of September. I don’t know. If I could press a button, I’d go back to France. Especially as half the time I’m full of dread. The American papers are so downcast that I think the USSR’s return to the UN is a good thing for peace.477 But they talk all the time about a Communist attack on Formosa, and some even say it’s all set for 10 August. I know that’s part of their domestic propaganda — they have to terrorize the country, in order to get the new taxes and their antidemocratic policy accepted — but I’m afraid and Algren’s blind optimism doesn’t reassure me. There’s a series of astonishing articles in the Chicago Sun at the moment, explaining to people how to defend themselves against the
atomic bomb: stay calm; wear clothes of light colour and as loose as possible, and gloves; obey orders — and so on. People seem as much influenced by propaganda as the ones on the other side of the curtain. A hairdresser asked me the other day: ‘Is it still as terrible in Paris? How about the Communists? Are they still laying down the law in your country?’ All Algren’s friends are ‘progressives’, of course (though very disappointed in Wallace,478 who eventually came out in support of the Korean War). They believe we’ll have war in a year or two’s time. I warned Algren that I’d go back to Paris if things grew worse.
I’ve had a very nice letter from Sorokine. She says you intimidated Oreste dreadfully, making him feel like ‘a third-class gigolo disguised as an intellectual’. She’s definitely coming to Gary in September. Long letter from a Lebanese who spends two pages expressing his enthusiastic admiration for The Second Sex, but then entreats me to change the title, because it seems to point to some inferiority of women — and he spends two more pages explaining to me that women, though doubtless not identical to men, are not beneath them! I’m in contact with the zoology professor who’s translating me, but he’s still only halfway through the first volume.
Life is calm. I rise late, work, between noon and eight — putting in about five hours — and we go and have dinner in a good restaurant, then on to listen to some jazz or something. There have been some very agreeable evenings in black South Chicago; and others on the lakeside, where people bathe at night, light campfires, rig up lines and complicated nets — a whole nocturnal life. A very nice black musician, with whom we were chatting the evening before last, told us as though it were the simplest thing in the world how one day, when he was twelve, the Mississippi burst its banks, his house was swept away, and the whole family — I2 children, father, mother, grandmother — swam 5 kilometres to a hill where they stayed for two days. You get the impression in this country that half the people have endless stories behind them.
Letters to Sartre Page 61
