Letters to Sartre

by Simone de Beauvoir

  Yesterday after writing to you I went to visit the Gerassis. They were charming, and bursting with amusing and tragic stories about their circle. They’re extraordinarily precious in wartime, because they’re full of backstage gossip and you feel connected via them to the whole world. It seems Nizan did indeed hand in his resignation just two days before the roof fell in,146 but in total good faith apparently, seeing as he’d been in a state of complete turmoil from the outset. Malraux’s trying to enlist in a tank regiment, but all his struggles are unavailing — they won’t take him because of his nervous twitches. G. managed to worm loose after four days, thanks to some powerful interventions.147 He was incredibly interesting to listen to — I’m recording everything in my notebook. I’ve bought a new one, since the first is jam-packed. I bought them a drink, then went to the Dome and wrote to Bost. It was splendid being in Paris — I’d forgotten what it was like, and when I found myself outside in the dark and saw the Great Bear shining over the Vavin intersection it gave me quite a jolt. It’s darker than ever on the boulevard — it’s tragic and moving. Oh! I was forgetting: before going to write at the Dome, I had dinner at the Coupole. I asked unthinkingly for a half-litre of Munich beer, and the waiter couldn’t stop laughing: ‘Wait till we get across the Siegfried Line’, he told me. I wrote to Bost. He showers me with little letters. I reread them all from beginning to end just now and felt like weeping from pity: every one of them is good-tempered and almost carefree, but the days succeed one another against a background of deepest gloom and at times he actually feels it like that. All my tenderness for him returned at once — but I’m much unhappier than before, because I’m dreadfully scared.

  I went to bed, dropping with fatigue. I fell asleep at about 10, but heard Gégé coming in at midnight and called out to her and we chatted for a bit. She has got some work at Kientz’s for 2,000 F. a month, and is just the same as ever. It didn’t last long, but I couldn’t get back to sleep for two hours. On such occasions I tackle practical, long-term problems. How shall we hide the fact you’ve got leave, or how long it’s for, from the Kos. sisters? How shall I see Bost, if he has some leave? A solution appears both urgent and impossible, so I end up in a cold sweat. This morning at about 6.30 there was a siren that began wailing all on its own. It didn’t have the right rhythm for an air-raid warning, but people were still all woken up and shouting at each other in the street. A bad night, all in all, and this afternoon I’m still feeling shattered.

  I got up in a good mood — this was before your letter — and dressed up to the nines. I put on your smart little white jacket, which suits me splendidly with a green scarf, a green turban and a black belt. I found it quite moving to be dolled up like that. I rushed off by bus to your lycée, then — in view of the size of the sums I was collecting — paid myself a taxi to my own lycée, Camille Sée, where they still needed some signatures from me. I finished settling in, then spent an hour reading Dead Souls, which I’ve bought for Bost. I’ll tell him to send it on to you once he has read it — it’s enjoyable. For you, I bought The Idiot. The N.R.F. isn’t out yet. I’ll pick up Green’s Journal.148 I’ll send The Idiot straight away and Green tomorrow, so that I can glance through it — there are also some envelopes in the parcel.

  I had lunch in the little restaurant in Rue Vavin, then had coffee at the Dome while reading Dead Souls and writing lots of little letters: my sister, Kos., Bienenfeld. Now I’m off to the post office to dispatch parcels and money — a 500 F. postal order for you. I’ll read, write to Bost and make up my journal, then at about 8 I’m seeing the Gerassis.

  I phoned your mother, but there was no answer. I’ll have another go, and try to see her tomorrow. I don’t have a minute to be bored. On Monday, if all our fine plans have gone up in smoke, I’m getting down to my novel again. I’ve had your Sunday letter and the little note of the 3rd: one spoiled the pleasure of the other for me. The little note had been opened by the censors — that’s the first time. The mail gets here quickly now, in three days. Do write to me — and do your best for me. I love you with passion and a great deal of anguish.

  Your charming Beaver

  Le Dome

  [Paris]

  Saturday 7 October [1939]

  My love

  This morning I had a letter from you — so tender, my love! All you say about me not being a ‘thing in your life’ gives me such strength.149 I really do feel it. We truly are just one person, you and I, and that’s a fantastic power. And when I feel it as I do now, I can envisage absolutely anything. That was Monday’s letter. This evening I had Wednesday’s. You should know that the N.R.F. no longer sells single issues — you have to subscribe. I sent you a first parcel this morning, containing The Idiot and some envelopes. In spite of your wanderings, I’ll probably send off the second too, with Green’s Journal, some Waterman ink capsules, the latest ‘Masque’ and ‘Empreinte’,150 and the ‘Castor’. Perhaps it’ll get through to you, and not much money will be wasted anyway — I hope you’ll have it by Wednesday or Thursday. I’m in a great state of emotional depression (not intellectual, just emotional), caused I think by the ups and downs of hope and despair of these past few days. Unless the difficulties grow more definite and intractable, I’m going to try something. But I’ll wait for your next letters and your advice before reaching a final decision.

  Yesterday after writing to you I called back to the hotel, where I saw Gégé. She told me that with Pardo returning for good, they couldn’t rent me the flat. She returned me the money I’d already given her, and I at once began hunting for a hotel. I’ve found two very nice ones — next door to one another — in Rue Vavin next to Les Vikings. One at 250 F. inch, with well-furnished, comfortable rooms but on the small side. The other at 300 inch, the rooms a bit shabbier, but large and to my taste more attractive. That’s the one I’m choosing for myself. The Kos. sisters will see, but in the large rooms Wanda could paint — others have apparently done so. I spent a long time on this hunt, then went on to write some letters at the Dome and read Green’s Journal: it’s wretched. Nothing of what he records is worthy of interest, and he can’t tell a story — you feel you’re confronted by an appearance, just like with G. Lumière.151 After that I went up to the Gerassis’ place, where I had poule au pot and played dominoes with some enthusiasm. But there’s a running battle going on. The day before yesterday, it seems Stépha made the mistake of staying with me for an hour, whereas she’d said she was coming back in five minutes. In itself that’s not so serious, but what is serious is the fact that by doing so she destroyed his good mood — that good mood which it takes vitality and heroism to achieve. The Boubou explained all this solemnly. Don’t you think that’s a really splendid new right — the right to a good mood?

  I’m being turned out. I’ll send this off at once and go on writing to you at home — but the manager’s not joking. They’re putting the lights out — farewell — I love you.

  S. de B.

  Le Dome

  [Paris]

  Saturday 7 October [1939]

  My love

  I’m continuing the letter I had to break off. I stayed right to the last, at the very back of the Dome in the chess players’ corner, and when I left it made a strange impression on me to see the cafe behind its blue windows, already quite empty, with three waiters doing their accounts at the till. Outside there were crowds of people in little groups, hesitating to disperse — it was agreeable. I came home through streets as dark as the darkest tunnel and am writing to you from this little flat which won’t have been mine for long. You know, it gave me a real jolt yesterday when I decided to live in Rue Vavin. It’s much better, of course, since I have to catch my Metro at Montparnasse, and then Kos. hates the Hôtel Mistral and I want to stay near her. But I felt as though I were separating from you, and definitively abandoning our life. So your letter this morning made me doubly happy, by assuring me that nothing would ever separate us. Well both go back to the Hôtel Mistral, my love, won’t we? We’ll live
together again? Promiscuously? Little being, dear little creature, I love you so much — I can’t stop crying today.

  [...]

  I called in at the Hôtel Mistral to clear my room. The new landlady’s a shrew — I’m glad to have got the hell out. After that I went to the hairdresser’s, and was inspired by that to buy a few beauty products, then went home and gave myself splendid ‘heather’ coloured nails and a nicely painted face. With your little white coat, I was extremely beautiful — and the Audry sisters paid me lavish compliments. I’d arranged to meet them at 3, you see, at the Marignan. I ate lunch and read the Agatha Christie I’m sending you, which is entertaining. Then I met up with them outside the door of the Marignan, which has been temporarily closed down by military decree for staying open after 11-so we went to the Pam Pam. Audry’s sister has grown still younger — she looked ravishing — and things are going well for her too: at the moment her husband’s pulling in 20,000 F. as easy as pie. So she says with a grave expression: ‘A person mustn’t think of their individual misfortunes, when there’s such an immense general misfortune’ — but she makes no bones about smiling and discussing good restaurants. She’s charming, though, always full of obscene stories which she tells most gracefully. Those Champs-Élysées — it’s fantastic how much they resemble a ‘home front’, in the most conventional sense: a 1916 home front as brought back to life by Crapouillot, crammed with beautiful tarts, elegant officers and obvious shirkers — and with particular stress on the word ‘shirker’, though I’d never encountered anything of that kind. It was pretty sickening. I got rid of them at about 5. I was dying to see a film, so I went to the Ursulines. I felt quite moved at the sight of that cinema hall — it’s something which goes back to the Llama, one of the spots in Paris that represent a continuity in my life of the kind provided for others by a country cottage. There were lots of people, quite smart and also quite noisy: noisy because they were aware of the war, and because it destroys barriers and discretion. They were showing St Louis Blues,152 which is often boring but has some fine passages. When I saw a night club with a band in it, I began weeping buckets. I was weeping for Little Bost, utterly convinced that I should never repeat those evenings I had with him at the Nox or the Cabane Cubaine. Even if he doesn’t peg it, what will he be like after a war? How will things be between us? It’s not at all the same thing as the Llama, and my affair with him. It’s just something that was very agreeable and precious, but that can’t be revived. Above all, I think with horror but virtual certainty that he won’t be coming back — and find the thought detestable. I continued to sob through Cavalcade,153 which lends itself very well to that. It’s terribly unappealing, but a careful piece of work and not boring. It was full of war stories, but I wasn’t captured by it for a moment — I wasn’t crying over the story or its heroes, but over myself. When I emerged from it, however, I was captured by the darkness. Paris is fantastically beautiful during all this period — not gloomy, but deeply and purely tragic — and especially this evening, when there was a first winter fog. I once more became the impersonal consciousness of a great cataclysm — and that stopped my tears. I went home to see if there was a letter from you, and there was one, Wednesday’s, which first made me leap for joy then cast me down again — alas! my love — I’m anxiously awaiting the ones to follow. I had another good cry, then made my face up again as best I could and went to eat pancakes and chips at the Crêperie Bretonne, while finishing off the Agatha Christie. That made me late. They were vaguely expecting me at the Boubou’s place for a game of poker, but I didn’t go. Instead I went and wrote a letter to Bost, and was thinking I still had plenty of time to write a long one to you when they turned me out.

  I’m not bored, as you see. On the contrary, I barely have time to read all I’d like to. And I’ll get down to my novel again before long. I’m not gloomy either. When I see all those deadbeats, and all those weak, amiable little individuals like Bienenfeld, Kos. etc., I find it agreeable to think how sturdy we are, you and I.I feel that, so far, it’s been a success for our principles and way of living. My love, it’s not just our relations that you’ve accomplished — it truly is your life, your principles, and my own life too as an indirect consequence. My love, it wrings my heart when you say you’re no longer affected by your little books. They’re so alive for me, and so mingled with your little person. You’re a lovely little accomplishment of Heaven — I love you.

  How I’d like to see you, if only for a moment!

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Sunday 8 October [1939]

  Most dear little being

  No letter from you today. Give or take a day, that doesn’t surprise me. But how is it you don’t get all of mine? That does surprise — and annoy — me. It must be that little post office near La Pouèze which was the problem. I don’t have a great deal to tell you. I’m awaiting your next letters — and the advice you’ll give me — with fantastic impatience. I need them in order to make up my mind, and the uncertainty annoys me.154 I’ll be calmer when I’ve actually abandoned the whole idea. I’ve once again had the following thought (or rather made the following observation): that belief and desire are really one and the same thing. When I had a hope — in the train bringing me from La Pouèze to Paris, for example — I was consumed with impatience and tender images, and my desire was so violent I lived only for that. And this morning I caught myself thinking, or almost thinking:’I don’t really care, after all’ — and feeling slack, and in no great hurry to make a move, and uninterested even in the possibility of success — and that indifference was precisely the certainty of failure which engulfs me. Truly, my heart no longer beats when I tell myself: ‘It’s possible’ — and this calm is precisely a deep conviction that it’s impossible.

  Yesterday after writing to you I hurried off to bed, dropping with sleep. However, I did begin he Singe d’Argile,155 and can’t have got to sleep before 1 in the morning. For a change the light woke me fully by 8, but I stayed voluptuously in bed, finished he Singe d’Argile — which is feeble, with a stale old trick — and read more of Green’s Journal. In the end it’s quite entertaining the extent to which the fellow’s just an appearance. That doesn’t exclude sincerity, but there’s sincerity even in appearance (I’m thinking of that sense of the fantastic — the beyond — which you have to believe in, since he never stops talking about it), and quite apart from that he’s so diligent he reminds one of Ginette Lumière.156 He’s the kind of person you’d like to tell — when he’s talking about painting or landscape, or recording little human facts — ‘Oh, how diligent you are!’ I read, then got up. The concierge brought me a little letter from Bost, who tells me he jumped for joy when he received your letter and broke his pipe while reading it. He’s going off soon — but where? Write to him again. I think of him as a rather carefree condemned man, and feel he should be given as many pleasures as possible before he pegs it. Perhaps it annoys you that I often ask you to write to him. But it’s like a kind of remorse I feel towards him, when I think how you and I will meet again and so be happy, while he’ll die in some hole. I know perfectly well there was nothing we could do about it. But all the same, we belong to the generation that let it all happen. Our stance does seem entirely correct to me — I mean, refusing to move in politics, but on condition we also accept everything without complaint as a cataclysm in which we have taken no part — it’s correct and satisfactory when one’s thinking of oneself, but for young people who haven’t had time to lift a finger it’s terribly unjust. We couldn’t have done anything — I don’t feel any remorse for not having done anything — but I do feel remorse when I think it’s someone else who’ll pay for our impotence. There’s a regular pattern now: in the morning the day begins calmly, then by the evening I’m sunk in melancholy or pathos — but always on the edge of tears or beyond. I ought to write in the morning, but it’s in the evening that I feel most like writing.

  I had a coffee at the Closerie des Lilas, while
finishing Green’s Journal. Then I went and sent you a parcel, and after that ate a steak at the Milk Bar and had coffee at the Dome while writing to Bienenfeld, Sorokine and That Lady. I also wrote at length in my diary. During all this I saw the Boubou and the Baba (separately), and Stépha grumbled about how the Boubou thinks of himself at present like a precious vase, fragile and cracked.

  At about 3 I wanted to go to the cinema, in Rue Boulard just near Denfert Rochereau, where they were showing Angels with Dirty Faces.157 But that performance was full up, so I went off to wait for two hours — reading Defoe’s Colonel Jack and the end of Dead Souls — in that Cafe Oriental where you once helped to sort things out for Bost and me. Then, at about 5, I went back to the cinema: there was a huge queue — or rather three queues side by side — just very young kids, mostly. We waited for ten minutes, then the first house came out and there was a fantastic rush, people all had tickets booked in advance, and they jostled the usherettes, half demolished the doors, and half killed the boss — who was trying to stem the tide. It was a vast, densely packed cinema that was soon full up. The film was very agreeable, despite the subject, because James Cagney is so marvellously attractive. I’ve decided to see him everywhere, on every occasion, whatever the subject may be. Actually, the subject wasn’t so stupid until the end, and then rather in the same way that Defoe’s books are moral — they’re all charming villainy, and then some ballast is thrown in right at the end without it convincing anyone. The fights were good too.