Letters to Sartre

by Simone de Beauvoir

  Till tomorrow, my beloved. I love you so, and would so like to go over again with you all that you talk about in the notebook — and our whole life. I kiss and hug you, dearest little one.

  Your charming Beaver

  Kos. has found the manuscript — she hasn’t given it me, but she does have it.

  [Paris]

  Friday 15 December [1939]

  Most dear little being

  My spirits are still quite numbed. It’s not so much about ‘Emma’ — I’ve reconciled myself to that. Kanapa’s coming with me to Megève — that’s settled and we’ve written to book our places at the Ideal-Sport - and I’d be really pleased about it, since he’s a good skier, if I weren’t so gloomy about Bost. There’s really quite a bit of fighting, according to the communiques. Though I’ve no delicacy of feeling, I find it hard to just take a train and go off for winter sports, with a young man who isn’t Bost; to have that kind of distant yet intimate camaraderie which sports create, with someone other than him. I find it hard — like a parody of myself and a precious past. And I don’t like being there, while he’s in the mud and perhaps in danger. And I’m afraid, and don’t know what to do with myself. But I’ll go, almost certainly.

  I’m low, too, because I’d so like to do some work — it’s going so well and is just a matter of time now. Yet here’s Bienenfeld in Paris and insisting on seeing a lot of me, and I don’t want brutally to drop Kos. for her during this week, and I’ve promised Sorokine an evening. I won’t go and see the Boxers on Sunday, but even so I shan’t get any work done till this week is over. Actually, my sister’s apparently not coming to Paris, so there’s always that — she writes that the news about Lionel is on the whole better.

  Kos. arrived at 8 yesterday, still on edge about not having heard anything. Toulouse had been at the rehearsal, looking quite stunning in her great astrakhan cloak and a Russian-style fur hat. Apparently it’s going to have a wonderful cast. Blin’s doing Buckingham (Sokoloff’s role). He seems to be in love with Kos. At any rate, he’s gracefully trying his hand at passion. She still has idyllic relations with Mouloudji, who seems charming to judge from her accounts. She told me a bit about it all, then we went to the Ursulines to see La Symphonie Burlesque again - which quite entertained me — and also to see San Francisco227: it’s awful, but the earthquake at the end is ‘worth seeing’, as my mother says — it’s extraordinarily well done and terribly gripping.

  We went home, chatted a bit, then I went to sleep.

  I worked well at the Dôme, but the Gerassis turned up with their dog - totally obsessed by their dog — and no fun at all. We chatted for a while, then I went to the post office, where I found your letter. How tender and delightful and comforting it was, my dear little one. Come back to me soon and everything will be bearable. Then I worked for another hour at the Biarritz, and Kanapa looked in to settle our plans, and Bienenfeld came by with Lévy. She was maddeningly keyed up and domineering. She’d ordained that I wouldn’t go winter sporting now, but at Easter — and Kanapa was furious. She was angry and disappointed that Kos. hadn’t left. I’m seeing her this evening until 9.30, and after that Kos. — whom I shan’t tell about Bienenfeld being here. If she has work at the Atelier things will turn out fine — and if she leaves it’ll be even better.

  I’m leaving school now, but have to go to a staff meeting at C. See — I find all that a damned nuisance. My love, what a horrible, gloomy letter in exchange for your letters, so tender and agreeable — but with you I don’t restrain myself. Come soon, my little one, I do so need you! I feel the loss now I’ve finished your little notebooks — I loved them so much! All my kisses, o you little thousand Socrates, o lovely little Hippias — I kiss you so tenderly.

  Your charming Beaver

  Les Vikings

  [Paris]

  Saturday 16 December [1939]

  Most dear little being

  No letter from you today — I feel a touch disoriented. Yet I’m in a better mood than the last two days, perhaps simply because I’ve already worked very well for 3 hours, and because — though I didn’t sleep much last night — I’m not yet tired: it’s only 4 in the afternoon. Tomorrow I’m sending a little parcel of books. And also 200 F. In a week’s time I’ll send some more books and money, but I’ve been hit by a 500 F. bill from the cleaner’s. Also, Kos. is staying in Paris, and my private lessons don’t begin again till Wednesday. But my budget will be balanced according to plan in the end, with winter sports and taxes paid by the end of the month.

  Here’s Bost’s address: 51st Infantry Regiment

  5th Company — Zone 170

  I was in the depths of black despair yesterday. I wrote to you, then went by taxi to C. See — there was a staff meeting at which my presence had been insisted upon, but when I arrived they’d only reached the second year. I had to wait until 7 — in other words, 2 whole hours. Luckily I had Garnets de Moleskine, which I was precisely wanting to finish off before sending it to you. The second part’s quite striking, though the fellow comes over as lifeless and not very likeable. There are some striking things in Giono’s preface too — so much so that, in the state of mind I was in, I actually got goose-flesh in spite of the stifling heat. Those violent shivers and crawling skin were something that had never happened to me before. Actually I wasn’t too upset to be there, since it brought back countless memories of my student days, when at home or the Sorbonne I used to read or work in the midst of any hubbub. I was totally engrossed in my reading, and when I lifted my eyes and saw all those women it gave me the oddest jolt of astonishment.

  They let me go at 7.20 and I took a taxi, knowing what awaited me. I wandered through the darkness of Rue Malebranche, without being able to make out the hotel names. Eventually I chose one more or less at random and went up to room 9, where I found Bienenfeld looking lovely in a blue wrap — but with a ‘hardened’ expression. I explained how I wasn’t to blame, and she melted into agitated passion. Her room is agreeable, in a hotel that couldn’t be more seedy and sordid. I went with her to dine at Mirov’s, then we went up to her place, after which she accompanied me back to my hotel, still full of passion. She complains that you don’t write to her enough, and of having been cut off from you for the last ten days. I do indeed have the impression — although your letters are always so affectionate, my dear little one — that you’re far more cut off from the world at Morsbronn than before: far more engulfed in solitude. That doesn’t matter between us, since it’s solitude with me — as the saying goes — and that’s how I feel it. But it does strike me as stronger than for a long while. You seem all cocooned in solitude — altogether enclosed with the infernal, felt-haired beast,228 the warm stove, and your ethical thoughts. Is that just a false impression, or not?

  As for me, I soon grew irritated. Too much ‘madly happy’ — or: I’ll tell Sartre how Tito wanted to sleep with me, he’ll find it madly amusing’ — and too much nervous outspokenness. All the same, she was very sweet. But it oppresses me to hear someone say: ‘I love you so much — love you both so much’, and to see myself landed with so many obligations because of the violence of these declarations.

  I went home at 9.30, and knocked at Kos.’s door. Mouloudji was there, extremely agreeable, and greeted me with an odd mixture of shyness and mockery. This was because Kos., pursuing my investigation,

  We went home, I did a little (very little) washing and mending, and while doing my nails I began Lewis’s The Monk, adapted by Artaud, which I’ll send you in a week’s time — it’s very entertaining.

  7 hours’ sleep. Lycée C. See. Good work, across from 71 Rue de Rennes,229 where I had lunch — a very poor one. Work at the Versailles, after a fruitless visit to the post office — nothing from Bost either. Then I dropped in on Kos. for 20 minutes, and am now writing to you. At 5.30 I’m seeing Sorokine at Les Vikings, to get her to work seriously. Then at 8 Bienenfeld, with whom I’ll spend the night.

  There you are, my love. Oh! about my novel. I am going to re
ad Fabre-Luce,230 but have no intention of painting great historical tableaux. I simply want events to be located — but don’t have any need of details or subtleties. I’ve redone the 1st chapter, very well I think, and I’m redoing the second. My little judge, you’ll read a big wad of it in January.

  Goodbye, most dear little being. My tenderest kisses — I love you, you dear little recluse, o little shrouded star

  Your charming Beaver

  It’s agreeable — I’m writing from my room and opposite I can hear the piano at the College Inn. Every so often they open the door and a great gust of music assails me — then it’s muffled again.

  [Paris]

  Sunday 17 December [1939]

  My love,

  I’ve had two loving letters from you today, which has made me really happy. I’ve anyway been having an excellent time since I wrote to you. The fact is I’ve been able to work properly — and if I could do as much every day, I’d be in high fettle every day. You must have been a bit disappointed, because I haven’t written all that much about the notebooks. But, my love, you really don’t seem sufficiently alien for me to be able to form an objective impression of you — so I was able to judge only the method. As for the ethics, I need more material. In general, I don’t at all feel you’re making too much fuss about a very small war. It represents a testimony, as you say somewhere, both upon yourself in wartime and upon a moment of your life which is certainly quite specific — and it couldn’t be more entertaining. I lent one to the Gerassis, who are revelling in it. Wahl has told me he now has proofs of L’ lmagmaire, and is informed that it will appear in five months’ time - that’s all I know. With respect to your hopes regarding Bienenfeld, I think they’re fruitless. Unconsummated craving is as fearsome as the other kind, and it binds her tight. So when she sees you again, she’ll be utterly smitten again. Especially with sexuality involved, that won’t take long. If you want to stop the affair, that may be possible without a disaster — but not without a fuss. It would take a lot of toughness, moreover: diminish the passion in your letters, say a cool farewell, etc. - all difficult things. If that would really make you happier, try it. She won’t be too seriously hurt, I don’t think. But she’ll make plenty of pathetic, dreadful scenes. It’s your choice.

  After writing to you yesterday I hurried down to Les Vikings, where I found Sorokine with a pupil to whom she’s imparting my last year’s teaching at 15 F. an hour, which allows the said pupil to shine at the Lycée La Fontaine like a brilliant star. The said pupil left, and I sat down next to Sorokine and explained Descartes to her; she’s very intelligent when she wants to be and it was interesting. But in a nearby booth there was a fellow ‘hurling himself at a poor woman’, as Sorokine put it, and showering her with passionate kisses. The woman was young and blonde, and the fellow was Laporte231 — whom we vulgarly couldn’t take our eyes off. Sorokine made me laugh, because she said with a blush that she had a question to ask about a passage in Quai des Brumes, which I’d lent her. She twisted and turned and held back, and finally showed me that atrociously purple passage where Mac Orlan compares the prostitute to a source of energy — an electric accumulator concentrating all forces. ‘She had wrapped her body in copper wire’, he says — or something like that — and Sorokine was convinced this was some frightful obscenity. She asked if it didn’t embarrass you to take your books to publishers, seeing that they’re so obscene. She confessed to me that her celebrated old scoutmaster had kissed her on the mouth — after two kissing sessions he’d dropped her, however. She was more charming than ever and I’d be happy to see more of her.

  After that I sped off to Bienenfeld’s, where I found a passionate welcome. We went to dinner at the Knam, we talked, and I made a real effort. Moreover, I was in a good mood and tired at the same time, so that I was entirely myself, unadorned. She always finds me funny at such times — and is quite enchanted. We returned to her place, went to bed and talked a bit, then moved on to embraces. I found it really charming to sleep in her room like that, though I slept quite badly since she shifts around and snores — which is just like her. We woke up at about 8.30, and like a satisfied man I discreetly avoided her caresses. I wanted to have breakfast and work (I feel I can get right into your skin at such moments). We went to the post office to pick up your letters and send off the books and money. Then on to the Mahieu, where we worked side by side. Then we had a slap-up lunch at the Capoulade, and went to the Danton near the Odeon to work some more. I left her at 4.30 and went to a concert with Kos., who was fairly gloomy — still because of the uncertainty regarding the Atelier — but amiable enough all the same. We listened to the ‘Eroica’ symphony, to a ‘Spanish Rhapsody’ by Ravel that’s a real delight, to a piece by Roussel that we didn’t even notice (when I think how you and I went to listen to a whole Roussel concert, my love — how conscientious we were!), and finally to The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’, which I know by heart but which is very agreeable. We came back to eat at Dominique’s, then had a drink in the front section of the Dôme — where it was terribly cold. We spotted the Magus in uniform, a red cross on his arm, and exchanged a few affable words: he’s gathering ‘health statistics in the Moselle, and I found seeing him quite poetic.

  Then I came home at 10.30 to write you this letter. Next I’ll-get off a note to Bost — but he hasn’t written to me for three days. I agree with what you say about his letter, really.

  Goodbye, my dear little one. I’ll be seeing you in a month, then. I wonder if, upon reflection, it wouldn’t be better if you came without your frill of whiskers. I so long to see you! I can remember so vividly our last time together, and it quite overwhelms me with love for you and desire. In two months, shall I really be seeing you almost at will, my dear little one? I love you so, care so much about you. My dear love, my life — I kiss you so tenderly, o best and tenderest and most beloved of little ones.

  Your Charming Beaver

  Wanda hasn’t yet written to her sister, who’s writing to her for the first time today.

  I’ve given you a poor impression of this agreeable cold Sunday with its hint of snow — a bit disorientated because I didn’t wake up at home, well rested after a long lie-in and lots of relaxed work and leisure. The morning was vaguely reminiscent of those Sunday mornings at Rouen, with you. I love you so much.

  [Paris]

  Monday 18 December [1939]

  Most dear little being

  [...]

  I rushed to the post office, where I found two letters from you — dated the 15th and 16th. You’re right about how nice it is when they arrive quickly like that. My love, how tender your letters are — they’ve quite overwhelmed me with happiness. I don’t know if it comes from you or from me, but I no longer feel in the least that little cocoon of solitude all round you which I was mentioning two or three days back. On the contrary, you’re altogether close and present to me. My love, how well you speak of our love — never have I felt it to be so strong and happy. Oh, yes, we’ll have a lovely leave, dear little one, little avid one, little avidly loved one. You’ll know by now that Kanapa’s coming to Megève with me. Does that satisfy you? I’m going to take my diaries and lots of books, and I think it’ll be fairly agreeable. At all events, I’d enjoy it if it weren’t for that odd delicacy of feeling with respect to Bost, which makes me vaguely hate Kanapa. I’ve had an incredibly pleasing, nice and interesting letter from Bost, which confirms what you were saying. I’ll send you it once I’ve reread it properly, and you can send it back to me as you did with the other one — for which I thank you.

  Goodbye, my love. I’ve reread your letters — how I love you, and how strong it makes me that you should love me so well! I’m happy, my love

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Wednesday 20 December [1939]

  My love

  What pleasure your Monday letter gave me! So you’ll be here in Paris with me in three weeks’ time. Listen, at all costs say nothing about it to Bienenfeld — she�
��ll want to see you for at least four days. And since her parents will be here, she won’t get time off easily, so she’ll pester us in snatches every day. That kind of sharing would be even more unbearable than the other. As for Wanda, if you do quarrel with her you’ll make up, as once you’re here she’ll do everything to bring that about. Anyway, once in Paris you’ll want to see her — and you’ll have to see both of them. So don’t mention anything to Bienenfeld, and as for Wanda, handle things as we said. Perhaps on the 8th she’ll still be at Laigle — that would be very convenient. I’ll write to tell Poupette I’m supposed to be visiting her for a few days, and she should if need be send me a wire I can produce (I’ll explain it’s to save you from Wanda and Bienenfeld — that’ll pose no problem).

  [...]

  I did some work, then went to meet Bienenfeld at the Mahieu. I took the Métro, and from Odeon ran so fast that I fell flat on my face on the stairs. Luckily it was dark, so nobody saw my embarrassment. I didn’t want her to be annoyed. When I arrived upstairs at the Mahieu, she was there all charming and not annoyed in the least. She told me how she’d been spending her time, then we went to the Polish tavern — she was full of enthusiasm and happiness. I see my relationship with her as a ‘serious affair’. Not exactly a duty, but an affair whose price you know, in which you find a certain charm each time, and which you want as a whole. Something a decent person may count themselves very lucky to have, but which leaves room for lots of immoral desires. She always amuses me by her seriousness. I’d shocked her the day before, because she’d told me I must find it disagreeable when you changed theories in which I’d placed my trust, and I’d answered: ‘I change a few too — it adds a bit of variety to one’s life and I quite like that.’ So she nodded her head and meditated seriously upon her seriousness. She wanted to say goodbye to her father, so she dropped me home by taxi at 8.30. Kos. didn’t come till 10.15, which was a godsend. I wrote up my journal carefully and in detail, then corrected two piles of written tests, and despite the ungrateful nature of these pursuits I found that moment of unhoped-for solitude — in my room, in the evening — extremely pleasing.