Having been unable to write from the day before yesterday till yesterday, I’m going to tell you everything now. Well, it was Friday. I went to see the Gerassis, to say goodbye. Only Fernand was there — with Red-haired Fanny — and our conversation was short and subdued. I asked Gerassi his opinion on Finland. He told me the White Russians are delighted with Stalin’s policy — saying: ‘It’s ours, and now it’s reverting to us’ — and the Communists and Aragon are delighted too, claiming the place is being sovietized at full speed, but the true revolutionaries (among whom he counts himself) are dismayed. He wasn’t willing to say anything about Ehrenburg, and kept sending anguished winks in my direction because of Fanny — though I didn’t quite understand why. I left him and went home, where I managed to do a good hour’s work, write up my diary in detail and even read the November issue of N.R.F. Kos. didn’t arrive till 8.15. In my diary (after that night with Bienenfeld — it was Thursday, you remember), I was puzzling over why it should be women rather than men who are clumsy in localized caresses (since Kos., R.235 and Bienenfeld have put me through equal tortures). I wonder if it’s because — as Gide says in connection with some fellow — they put themselves in your place, but it’s always themselves they put there. Whereas a man’s unable to make this dangerous substitution, so he theorizes the other person quite directly and honestly. There’s a little mystery here.
[...]
After that I met up with Sorokine, whom I tormented for 5 min. by trying to do some Leibniz with her. But then I yielded — and we chatted, looked at your notebooks, and talked about our feelings. She’d brought me Intimacy, so that I could explain the obscenities to her; but there was a fellow who kept staring at us in the most tiresome way, so we went up to my room. There, things were ever so tender but not sensual — chaste kisses, sentimental embraces, protestations and promises — and she was radiant with happiness. She showed me a charming passage she’d written about our relations, where she explained everything she got out of them; and how I got only herself out of them; and how she knew quite well she could be only an infinitesimal fragment of my life; and how her only hopes rested on what she might provide in the way of ‘personal charm’. It was lucid, and rational, and altogether pleasing. As I’ve told you, I like immensely her cast of mind and way of feeling. I like her more and more — and am tempted to let passion flower with her, see more than I should of her, etc. But I don’t know if I’ll give way.
After that I saw Bienenfeld — all nice and sad — who told me at length about her mood of pathos the night before. I’m more and more indifferent to her moods of pathos, but I’m fond of her little face. I was very tender with her, in spite of-everything; but I was scarcely able to prove it to her, since I had to call in at the post office, get dressed, and finish my parcels. No letter from you — I think you must have written to Megèeve, where there was nothing either this morning, but it’ll doubtless be here tomorrow as I told them to forward everything. Write directly to Chalet Ideal-Sport, Mt d’Arbois, Megèeve, Hte Savoie, up to and including 30 December — then to Paris again.
Bienenfeld accompanied me to the station, where I found Kanapa and an almost empty compartment. We had just a young youth-hosteller with us, who offered me tea and gingerbread. I tenderly bid Bienenfeld farewell, then sat down in my corner opposite Kanapa. We chatted, but he functions poorly in conversation — what a stick he is! I realized then how much tenderness and magic there’d already been in even my most discreet relations with Bost, from the first day I set eyes on him. There’s no communication between Kanapa and me — not even the warm companionship conferred by something very pleasant done in common.
[...]
When we arrived, we were received with a trace of astonishment: the chalet was reopening that very morning. They got us to choose our rooms — which are charming — then we ate ravenously, and very well There were lots of people at lunch — local Megèeve people — but this evening nobody: we’re the only guests. You can’t imagine how pleasing it is to be alone here in the warm, while an excellent wireless plays Franck’s Nocturne (the 5th Symphony’s over). Straight away after lunch we did two hours’ skiing — it’s marvellous having this ski-lift just a step away. The ascent’s at least twice as long as by cable-car from Megève, and the run back down is wonderfully long and interesting.
We came back inside and here I am. I feel intensely happy: with the skiing, with the solitude — of which I’m going to take good advantage — and with the music. And with yourself, my love, whom I’ll see soon, and who are with me meanwhile in all these places to which I’ll return with you — my love!
Goodbye, my sweet little one. You’re my serenity, and my happiness, and the best of myself. This evening, in this little chalet, I’m more closely united with you than I’ve ever been. I love you, my little one
Your charming Beaver
[...]
Chalet-Hotel-Restaurant
Ideal-Sport
Megève (Haute-Savoie)
Monday 25 December [1939]
Most dear little, being
Like yesterday it’s 5 in the afternoon, I’ve just had tea, the wireless is playing and we’re alone in the agreeable, warm lounge. How happy the two of us — just the two of us — would be here, my little one! But I’ll fix things so it really does happen. Yesterday, after writing to you, I got off a letter to Bost — not as long as yours, but a long one all the same — then finished my detective story and read some more of Kafka’s The Trial On the stroke of 7 they served us dinner — we were alone in the dining-room. A splendid dinner: as much Potage St Germain as we wanted (made with split peas, just as you like it), mountains of Gnocchi alia Romana, an escalope with peas, and a superb crème caramel. I’m going to grow fat for sure, since I’m eating like a horse. We didn’t stay up for long, as we were dropping with exhaustion. I read some more of The Trials and finished it in bed at about 9.45. My room was nice and warm, with a hot-water bottle in the bed, and through the window next to the bed — once I’d raised the blind — I could see all the mountains lit up as in broad daylight under a clear, bleak, starless sky, and the moonlight over the snow couldn’t have been lovelier. I was comfortable, and blissful, with my heart at peace. I had a little dream about you, of the kind I used to have about Zaza. I was looking at you resentfully, asking you why you’d stopped seeing me, and feeling intensely sad. I also dreamed I was waking up in the morning and all the snow had melted during the night, so nothing could be seen but green meadows - I was beside myself with anger. But in fact when’ the light woke me just before 7, the snow was there all right. There was a superb sunrise - which I watched from the warmth of my sheet — then I got up quickly, keen to get back to the snow.
[...]
My love, I’m thinking so much about you all these days! I hope those letters will arrive tomorrow. I love you, my dear little one, and constantly yearn to have you with me. And our love — as moving as the old Argentina — is constantly there in my heart. I kiss you with all my Beaver’s heart
Your charming Beaver
I’ve already caught a lot of sun and my face will soon be all tanned. I’m really content, as happy as I can be without you or Bost — and feeling so liberated from my ‘charming vermin’.
Chalet-Hotel-Restaurant
Ideal-Sport
Megève (Haute-Savoie)
Les Arcades
Brasserie at the PLM Coach Station
Megève (Haute-Savoie)
Tuesday 26 December [1939]
Dear little being
I’m starting my letter in a little Megève brasserie where we’ve never been together — it’s just opposite the coaches. It’s 11.30 and we’re about to go back up to lunch. Kanapa’s just ringing his family. I’m still having a prodigiously good time.
[...]
At 2.15 we went off to do the St Gervais run. The snow was trampled and again had something of a crust, and Kanapa overtook me cleanly. I came down pretty poorly — lacking the Christie and courage.
It should also be said I was in a state of feminine inferiority; I’m feeling so well it’s barely noticeable, but it does weaken you all the same. The snow stops half-way between the Bettex and St Gervais, leaving a long stretch you have to go down on foot — which is really tiresome. Next time we’ll go only as far as the Bettex. We went back up by the cable-car, which is impressive, and were back at the chalet on the dot of 4.30.
Tea; reading — Verdun; then my diaries, which I want to read through again from beginning to end. The first one — on my first month of war — is undoubtedly the best and you’ll soon be reading it, my little one. As I was immersed in it the mail arrived — giving me a jolt of pleasure - so I got down to writing to you again. We’re no longer alone, unfortunately. There’s a woman here now — a schoolmistress of some kind — and a group of young people: not noisy, but chatty, spoiling the atmosphere.
Kanapa’s still neuter — nothing of the sex maniac about him! He does often use the word ‘bottom’, but always with some good excuse — ‘I fell on my bottom’, I’ve got a bruise on my bottom’ — and skiing provides plenty of good opportunities.
Goodbye, my love,. This is a wretched letter, but I’m really tired. I kiss you, my dear little one, whom I so long to see again. I love you so.
Your charming Beaver
[Megève]
Wednesday 27 December [1939]
Most dear little being
Here are two letters from you: the one of the 22nd, which did after all arrive dutifully, and the long one of the 24th — which is so long and entertaining and has so gladdened my heart. My love, how well you do love me! You speak to me of ‘our’ snow, but that’s just how I see it; and when this morning I went down the Mont d’Arbois run really well and fast, I turned in thought to you, to give you credit for my success. I’m with you all the time on these slopes, my love. I remember everything so well. Oh! how I’d like to be with you, my little one.
[...]
That’s all, my love — but I’m going to see you again. I can’t wait to show you the beginning of my novel; it’s been reworked a lot, I’ve added lots of stuff, and I think it’s good — but I need you to tell me. My little one, my dear little one, I’ve never loved you more strongly — oh! come quickly. You don’t tell me whether I’ll be going to spend my holidays at Annecy, as I was hoping. Is that idea of renting a villa going to work out, or not?
Goodbye. I’ll write to Bost and Sorokine, then finish off Verdun, then sleep.
I kiss you so joyfully, my love
Your charming Beaver
The extract from Bienenfeld’s letter doesn’t strike me as all that lukewarm, or all that empty. She certainly loves you with all her heart — at least intermittently. She’d told me in an irritating way: ‘I’’ve written S. a playful letter’ — and I’d foreseen the worst. Nothing suits her worse than playfulness — and the consciousness she has of it. On the other hand, her letter today about the Christmas Eve party with Ramblin and Levy was quite pleasing. I’m sorry to have put you off her so much, but that’s pretty well how I feel myself.
Chalet-Hotel-Restaurant
Ideal-Sport
Megève (Haute-Savoie)
Friday 29 December [1939]
Most dear little being
I haven’t had your little daily greeting today. But that doesn’t matter — I’ll doubtless get two letters tomorrow.
[...]
I was back by quarter to 4, then worked till 7. The new version of Chap. 3 is finished; there’s a somewhat philosophical conversation between Pierre and Françoise, but I think it’s indispensable. That makes 60 pages of the novel that are in final draft form (subject to your judgement) — it’s proving terribly quick to rework, and enjoyable too. I’m hoping by the end of February to have gone back over all last year’s work. And there are another 300 pages drafted, which will only need putting into final form.
I’ve had a tiny note from Bienenfeld, and a tiny one from Bost, written on Monday, when he was frozen stiff from having been on sentry duty for 12 hours. He’s hoping to be in a house soon, and doesn’t seem to be going to the front. I’m going to write to him for a while now — and to Kos. and Sorokine — but short letters, as I’d like to do a bit more work.
I’m spending fine days, full and poetic, with lots of memories and hopes and plans in my head. I’ve thought how I’d like to write a big novel covering 30 years of life, to show the whole outline of a life — which is so interesting. It’s a vague idea, but I imagine one would have to invent a whole new technique, which could be quite enjoyable.
Goodbye, dear little being, light of my days. I feel I’m on the way towards us — as surely and tranquilly as when you’re sliding along, well-balanced, on your skis (the teacher has told me I’ve a very good downhill stance). We’ll soon be together — indeed, I’ve never really left you, my love. I love you with all my might. Truly, you’re everything for me, as I’ve been repeating to myself again throughout today. My love.
Your charming Beaver
[...]
Chalet-hotel-restaurant
Ideal-Sport
Megève
Brasserie at the Rochebrune
cable-car (lower terminus)
Saturday 30 December [1939] — morning
Most dear little being
I’m beginning my letter early today — it’s only 10 in the morning. That’s because, as you can see, I’m at the Rochebrune cable-car and there are 100 numbers ahead of me, which means at least half an hour’s wait. Do you remember this station crammed with skiers where you always have to queue interminably (and where a pupil with ill-timed zeal had taken your ticket, so I was forced to wait for you all shivering for a quarter of an hour at the top)? It’s like that today, jam-packed with people, and I went for a coffee in that buffet place next door where you once had a near-quarrel with Bienenfeld. It’s teeming in there, and quite fun.
[...]
How happy I am this morning, my love! I’ve thought at great length about the moment when I’ll meet you at the station and we’ll set off into Paris. We’ll go to the Hôtel Mistral, won’t we? How merry we’ll be! We’re the merry kind, you and I — it’s so agreeable. How well we get on, my love! In a week perhaps, I’ll be seeing you.
Do tell me what to tell the Kos. sisters. It would be so much easier for me not to have to hide — just wonderful! But I don’t want to risk problems, or having to see less of you. Decide quickly.
Till this evening, dear little one.
Evening
My love
I’ve been having a really lovely day. [...] Then I got your letter. All right, then, you’re not such a bad little one if you sent off the books — that was well done. So I’ll inform my sister that I’m supposed to be going on a five-day visit to her, and that she should even send me a wire. And we’ll go to the Mistral, my love. I’ve had some mysterious, lacklustre letters from Bost, who says he can’t say anything because of the censors, and who’s sometimes doing sentry duty in the ice and sometimes sleeping in Galeries Barbès beds.236 I don’t have any idea what he’s up to, he must be up near the front, and soaking up alcohol all day long — he seems a bit fagged but still alert. A letter from Sorokine, who writes: ‘I intend to try and seduce you as thoroughly as possible.’ Nothing from Kos. or Bienenfeld. There you are, my little one. We ate very well, and once again I’m getting little snatches of music out of the wireless; but one’s constantly being thwarted — it’s an instrument that would make a saint swear.
Goodbye, my love, for now. I’m glad you were pleased with the books. I love you, my little one, and I’ll send the ink-capsules soon. I kiss you most tenderly, and most happily, my dear little one
Your charming Beaver
[Megève]
Sunday 31 December [1939]
Most dear little being
I’m now spending one of the most poetic evenings of my whole life. Is it Kanapa’s absence? It’s more a cluster of coincidences. The group of students has vanished too, a
nd some isolated individuals have turned up in their place. So now there are only solitary guests scattered around the two main rooms. A blond man, about whom I know nothing. A divinely handsome skiing instructor, who disembarked yesterday evening. The schoolmistress and a handsome young man whom, to my great astonishment, I found at the schoolmistress’s table when I got back just now — they had dinner together. The girls of the household have gone off in beautiful, brand-new ski-clothes, and the chambermaid too — with a scarf on her head — in the company of her husband the cook: they’ve gone off somewhere or other to see the New Year in. So you really can feel quite intensely that it’s New Year’s Eve. I’ve seated myself at a kind of desk in the first room where the wireless is located, and for two hours now I’ve managed to find good music. But when, by chance, I passed over Gounod’s Ave Maria and lost it for an instant, in the next room I heard the sound of a violin that was playing it too. It was a musician who showed up here yesterday, declaring that he was capable of doing anything provided he was given board and lodging. He’s all dressed in black, with a black tie, a stiff collar, and a frill of beard. He carries parcels, helps with waiting at table, repairs skis, and plays the violin in case of need. Yesterday evening while falling asleep I’d already heard that violin. Just now, he’s scraping out gypsy tunes at the request of the schoolmistress (who’s forty if she’s a day, and you can’t conceive how ugly), who must be feeling like a young girl again because of the handsome youth. He’s really good-looking — I wonder what he can want with that woman. A moment ago the musician was prowling round the wireless, asking me what kind of music I liked; the teacher was busy repairing a ski; and I felt I was involved in a novel — was myself (without any play-acting on my part, I swear) a character in a novel. An atmospheric novel, of course, that could turn into a detective story or whatever you liked. You can imagine how this little chalet in the snow manages to. generate such powerful impressions, on the last evening of the year. The wireless really did compensate me for all my pains this evening — so much so that I’ve neither read nor worked since 6.30 this evening. I’ve listened to music by Bach, Beethoven, Ravel, Debussy, Borodin, Lully, etc. There were blank moments, but overall it was wonderfully pleasing. From beginning to end I’ve been having a splendid day. We left for St Gervais at 8.30, in the most glorious weather you could hope for. The run was hard, but I did it well. We took the ridiculous little train which climbs up to the Col de Voza: just one wooden carriage pushed pantingly by a wheezing engine — it’s truly comical. On the train we ate the cold meal I’d brought along. By 11.30 we were at the Col, where we went and had a coffee in that beautiful hotel. How that moved me, my dear little one, to rediscover that place which so enchanted us when we were together. The beautiful hotel was just the same as ever — still just as pleasing, with its bar and the straw mats on the walls. Once we’d drunk our coffees, we left down the Blue Run, which was charming and easy — especially since the snow on it was soft. But I recalled with emotion how we struggled — we two poor little greenhorns, who knew almost nothing — on snow that had crusted over. When the snow’s crusted, that run must be of fair to middling difficulty. I rediscovered in detail every turn: the stream near which I fell; a hump I couldn’t get down, while you yelled at me from below; the crossing where you bruised your poor little knee. My love, I found you there again with such intensity that I’ve tears in my eyes as I write this.
Letters to Sartre Page 31