School this morning, then work at the Dôme. I’ve read through my first 80 pages again, and I really think it’s good work — substantial and quite adroit. I can’t wait to show you.
Bienenfeld arrived at 12.30 and we had lunch. She was relaxed, so at once I was too — and glad to see her. We talked again about Thursday, working out exactly why things hadn’t gone well — it was pleasing and casual.
[...]
I went to Les Vikings, where Sorokine tried to sulk because I was 5 min. late, but that didn’t last for long. She brought me some hazelnuts and a superb cardboard folder with two pockets, for my papers — I’m really proud of it. We chatted and discussed the Monadology.
At 6.30 I dropped in at the hotel, where I found a bundle of letters from you, Bienenfeld and Sorokine — sent back from Megève — and checked that Kos. wasn’t there. So I telephoned Bienenfeld, with whom I’m going to spend the evening and whom I’m just now waiting for at the Hoggar, amid the most infernal racket. I haven’t yet had the books.
Goodbye, my dear little one, till tomorrow. I see that I have fifteen good days of work ahead of me. This week at least is looking very promising, and I’m terribly pleased about that. I still love you just as ardently, and you’re still just as ever-present to me, sweet little beloved being. Goodbye for now
Your charming Beaver
Apparently Gégé’s at Castel Novel with stones in her tile duct, terribly ill, and may have to be operated on.
[Paris]
Sunday 7 January [1940]
Most dear little being
I’m feeling jubilant today: I’ve just worked for almost seven hours non-stop on my novel, and I’ve reworked twenty-five whole pages — it’s splendid. It would go really fast if I worked like this every day. I’m spurred on by your arrival — I’d like to have two hundred pages to show you. Well, I’ve already got a hundred now. I settled down at the Dôme at 9 on the dot, drank a coffee, ate two currant buns, smoked ten cigarettes and worked for 3½ hours. After that I ate a rumpsteak and potatoes without moving from my seat, while reading Gilles which I’m no longer enjoying at all. Then from I till 4 I worked again. I’ve just put away my papers, since I’m intending to go to a concert at 5.30 and I want to get my letters written first, in case Kos. comes back by this evening. Otherwise I’ll have a free evening, with the possibility of seeing Bienenfeld — though I don’t think I’ll avail myself of that. As for Kos., perhaps she came back at midday; but as she hasn’t let me know, I shan’t call in at the hotel again till 8. Too bad if she grumbles — a whole day of solitude in Paris is so wonderful! I haven’t had any letters because it’s Sunday, but that doesn’t matter — I had three yesterday and I’ll get two tomorrow. I feel you so close, my sweet little one, and am altogether united with you.
So yesterday I wrote to you rather hurriedly from the Hoggar. We were upstairs, and could hear the muffled sound of music coming from below. Every so often the magnificent dancing-girls would put in a little appearance. The owner looks fondly upon me and is all smiles and little courtesies. Bienenfeld turned up at 8.30, with her superb coat and a muff slung over her shoulder, and it wasn’t unpleasing — humdrum but not tedious. I exerted myself a bit, telling stories — about Sorokine — and discussing Kant. She was really happy. I ate a little Algerian salad, with funny little Algerian sausages241 all round it, and as I was still hungry I rounded it off with a few cakes from the Alsatian pastry-shop. Bienenfeld confided to me that in her heart of hearts she disapproved of theft — she’s terribly steeped in social and Kantian morality. We went back to her place, and though I was dropping asleep we nevertheless spent another hour talking. Then bed, brief and uneventful embraces, and sleep: too short, because I was afraid her mother might roll up in the morning and because I wanted to get some work done. I called back at my hotel — with something of an adultress’s guilty conscience — but Kos. hadn’t showed up, so there was no need of an alibi. (What a lot of alibis have been consumed since then, alas! — and it’s not over.) I’ll tell her, actually, that Bienenfeld’s in Paris and I’ll be spending two evenings with her. After that I came here, and I’ve nothing — really nothing — more to tell, my dear little one.
[...]
There, this time the bottom of the barrel has been reached. I’ll just write a little note to Bost, then go off to the concert. I’m really happy, my love — I’m altogether with you and I love you. Come very soon, my little one, we’ll be so happy!
Your charming Beaver
‘September’ is an excellent title.242
[Paris]
Monday 8 January [1940]
Little beloved
Two letters today and really big ones — how sweet you are! I love you, my little one, with your sensible little life and your bold thoughts. I’m glad you’re finding yourself. I don’t know if one should assume oneself as French — I’ll think about it between now and tomorrow. Partly yes, of course: it seems to me that to write Nausea, in a sense, is to assume yourself as French — didn’t we talk about this once Chez Rey? Weren’t we saying that one couldn’t have the same solidarity with the persecuted Jews of Germany which one would have with the Jews of France, and that the fact of being ‘situated’ necessarily also included frontiers? I’ll think about it (but it seems to me that assuming this no more implies patriotism than assuming the war implies being a warmonger). In this case, it’s a matter (or isn’t it?) of attaining universal objects, ideas, works, etc. through a singular, historical position. What’s now needed is to define the position, and limit it, and see what it commits you to. Talk to me more about this — I find it very interesting. In my little novel, I’ve devised a conversation in which Pierre assumes himself precisely as French, by refusing the idea of transferring his theatre to America. How impatient I am to read you, and for you to read me, my little one! That’s what makes separation most frustrating for me.
You know, the passage you quote from Bienenfeld is highflown and false.243 She’s far from living only for you. She lives to an incredible extent for me, and also for her work and countless little private whims. There’s an abstract tension in her relations with you. She calculates — 6 months that I knew him, and 7 months in which I haven’t set eyes on him — and it’s that representation of your useless love which is present and painful to her. She’s actually intensely happy just now. You shouldn’t feel any remorse about not seeing her. It would be dreadful if she were to know, but it’s not at all dreadful for her not to see you.
[...]
This morning: school; work at the Source for 1½ hrs; pleasant lunch with Bienenfeld — I’m pleased because she’s not too clinging. I don’t think my charming vermin are going to prevent me working this term. Then school, and on the way out Sorokine, who accompanied me by taxi to the post office and on foot to the Dôme.
[...]
Till tomorrow. I haven’t yet got the Shakespeare, unless it’s at the hotel. You’ll soon have Gilles, which is dreadfully boring and disagreeable.
How sweet you are to write to me so nicely, my love! It’s truly wonderful how happy that keeps me. I’m feeling fine — my holiday rested and changed me. I’m now thinking only about working and seeing you soon. I love you, my beloved little one.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Tuesday 9 January 1940
Sweet little being
Do you know what’s happening today? I’m 32. But I don’t feel too much of an old woman. I’m in the best of health and looking extremely good. I’ve got all dolled up this evening — wearing my earrings, and a turquoise-blue turban with matching bodice — because I’m going out with the Kos. sisters. We’re going to the Comédie Française to see Right You Are3244 because I want to see that Ledoux act, whom everyone praises so highly. I’m waiting for them at present in a little cafe called Le Dauphin on the theatre square, having arrived early in order to write to you.
[...]
This morning — school. Oh! I dreamt I was making another conque
st: that brown-haired girl from H. IV who gave me a letter at the beginning of the year. I was thinking of deceiving Sorokine with her, but after speaking to me she put on a red wig and they warned me she was a shady character. It’s full of lessons, but I’m too lazy to draw them — so I’m just giving you the raw material
At 8, then, I crossed a grey, cold Luxembourg as enchanted as ever with my Tuesday walk. I drank a hot chocolate at the Mahieu, then gave my lesson. I’ve got two probationers now — real dregs of humanity - and I handed them two bundles of exercises to mark, so that’s at least one benefit. Then 2 hrs work at the Mahieu. Brief lunch with Sorokine - charming. She undertook to explain to me why, in my allocation of time, I shouldn’t classify friends in order of seniority but of merit — which puts her at the top. ‘It’s not a matter of squeezing anything out of you’, she said slyly. I stood firm. They make me laugh, Bienenfeld and Sorokine, for each in turn explains how ridiculous it is to commit yourself and create duties for yourself, and how she doesn’t want me to think I’ve any duties towards her — and then, at the first opportunity, screams blue murder about my being 5 minutes late, or behindhand with a letter.
[...]
Goodbye, dear little loved one, o nice little letter-writer so constant and faithful, little wordsmith, little brainbox. How our tongues will wag before long! I love you with all my might, my sweet little one — I’m waiting for you.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Wednesday 10 January [1940]
Most dear little being
Here’s another sweet letter from you in that beautiful South-Sea-Island-blue ink. My little one, how nice it would be if you were here for the Easter holidays in some accessible place! Come soon, my love, I so, so want to see you. Bienenfeld is amazed and shocked that you shouldn’t be coming until the end of March. I’d advise you now to furnish her with your story about being withdrawn to the interior — that will console her and provide an explanation.
Yesterday, then, I waited for the Kos. sisters at the little cafe on Place du Théâtre Français, but they didn’t turn up till 7.30. This allowed me to bring my diary up to date. It’s merely a summary journal, devoid of interest; but I enjoy keeping it, in order to preserve the detailed outline of a year. They finally bustled in, Wanda placid, Real Kos. nervous and drawn. [...] Real Kos. is the more interesting of the two; what she says when telling you something, for example, is always far richer. But Wanda’s much more pleasing to experience — she has a somewhat heavy grace, that touches one.
[...]
After that I went and worked at the Versailles, alongside Bienenfeld who has read my Chap. 3 and made some slight criticisms — correct ones. I’ll touch it up, in order to show you a perfect masterpiece. She was flattered that I should take her seriously. We worked almost without speaking. I went to pick up your letter, began to reply, then went home to see Sorokine. An hour of Leibniz, then tender but superficial embraces, made extremely pleasing by the constant charm of that little person. She found the courage to say: ‘I like being in your arms like this’ — and a few other sweet nothings, which she drags forth dutifully. She’s very happy, by and large. Her own passion’s so graceful that it quite reconciles me to passion. She confided lots of little thoughts and feelings concerning me and ended up giving me excellent reports, even with respect to the strength of my will, which does irk her — since she’d like to see more of me — but is also in part what she values about me.
[...]
I got myself called a ‘crazy old fool’ at the Versailles. As usual, there was a gaggle of ill-favoured, housewifely whores grumbling about the work being so hard. ‘What I say is, if I don’t get a present there’s nothing doing’, one was declaring in an affronted tone. It was that same one who started grumbling coarsely to her neighbour that I was smoking too much. I just went on smoking one cigarette after another, so she called me a crazy old fool — out loud. I didn’t bat an eyelid.
Goodbye, my little one. Sorokine has gone off and now I’m going to see Kos. Till tomorrow. How well you do always write to me, o best of little ones! Your letter was very funny (about Pieter’s snores). It’ll make a fine volume: ‘War Letters’. I love you, and am waiting for you — we’ll be so happy, my love!
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Thursday 11 January [1940]
Most dear little being
I haven’t been able to call in at the post office today, thus depriving myself of a letter — but I’ll have two tomorrow, which is a delightful thought. Left to myself and with nothing to reply to you about, I’m very poor in things to tell you — still being studious and dutiful and uneventful. I’m filled with happiness, and serenity, and zeal for work — it’s wonderful, the rate I’m keeping up.
[...]
This morning I was at the Dôme by 8.30 and worked till 10. Then school, followed by lunch with Sorokine, as angelic as ever. I explained lots of things to her about contraceptives and abortion, which interested her keenly. We parted idyllically — the idyll’s now constant. A happy combination of circumstances (Kos. is spending Saturday evening with Wanda and Mouloudji, Bienenfeld’s going to the Frangais with her father to see Right You Are) means that I’ll be seeing her on Saturday evening and will certainly sleep with her again, an idea that doesn’t displease me it must be said — oh! with only the most honourable and affectionate intentions, you understand! After that another two hours of school, work at the Mahieu, then at 5.30 Bienenfeld arrived and we dashed off by taxi to the Opéra-Comique, where we had an excellent ground-floor box. How pleasing Mozart is — it entranced me. In a light comedy with easy music, you no longer feel bothered by sad scenery or by conventions — everything’s just a gracious and acceptable game. Moreover, the interpretation was extremely good — genuinely an unalloyed pleasure. After that we went to eat Chez Capoulade, and before going off to sleep (a night of passion, the idea of which I find a bit chilling) we’re now writing to you from the Mahieu. This is a wretched letter, with a humdrum flavour to it. But it’s my life that’s humdrum, not my feelings for you. Just now I was struck by the violent thought that in 10 days I’d be seeing you — and my eyes were starting from their sockets! My sweet little one. [...]
We’re being chucked out — they’re upturning the chairs and switching off all the lights. Goodbye, my love, for now. I love you so much.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Friday 12 January [1940]
Most dear little being
I’ve worked flat out again today. That means the first 160 pages are now finished, and I’ve drawn up a big plan for recasting and fleshing out the next 50 — so you’ll have something to read. But I’ll tell you everything in order. Well, yesterday at 11 we went home to Bienenfeld’s place. Embraces. If I’m to tell you everything, in addition to the usual rufous odour of her body she had a pungent fecal odour which made things pretty unpleasant. So far as friendship with her goes, no problem — but our physical relations couldn’t be more distasteful to me. We talked a bit in bed, and she said she often felt she was shocking me when she made jokes. I said that was true, but perhaps it simply meant I was excessively thin-skinned. She excused herself by claiming you were coarser than she was — but that’s not true. Not only are yourself never ‘out of place’, you’ve a very keen sense of when other people are. On your better days this shocks you, while on your worse you derive a sadistic pleasure from it. But it no more passes over your head than it does over mine. She says she often herself feels she shouldn’t have said something — whether too vapid or too heavy — but the fact is she shouldn’t even think it. She’s always swamped by herself, and as she justly and sadly concluded: I’ m not authentic’ [...]
I must report to you a charming sally by that altogether authentic person, Sorokine. You know she forgives me my literary activities, but finds them utterly derisory. Yesterday she said to me: ‘So, when you’ve finished your novel you’ll start another one, then you�
�ll be hurrying to finish that one so you can begin yet another!’ That made her laugh. I told her: ‘You too — you study a page of Leibniz so you can move on to the next, and so on!’ She couldn’t contain herself at this: ‘It’s not the same! With you, you invent things so you can write them down afterwards!’ — that struck her as the absolute limit. It filled me with an immense liking for her, of the same kind I sometimes feel for Bost.
[...]
You don’t say anything about my evening with Wanda at the College Inn. Hasn’t she written to you about it? Tell me what she says about me, and some more about her too — she interests me. Have I told you I want to take the two Kos. sisters out with Mouloudji one of these days?
I’m going to write a short letter to Bost — short, both because I’ve nothing to recount and because contact does, after all, get lost with a fellow who has frozen feet all the time and survives only through big doses of alcohol He’s ever so decent — and I’m not like Kos., I retain the most powerful and vivid feelings for him — but I don’t much want to tell him things or, above all, go into too much trivial detail. I wonder how it would be if you were in the same situation. As things are, I feel you precisely within arm’s reach.
Letters to Sartre Page 33