Letters to Sartre

by Simone de Beauvoir

  [...]

  In connection with the corrida with Bienenfeld of which an account follows, I thought of how you once told me at St-Germain-les-Belles: ‘I won’t give “myself”, but I’ll give you lots of presents’ — and you wrote me the same thing. Yet ultimately you converted your whole self into currency and gave me all that it’s possible to give someone, my dear love. It’s still the case that love’s no symbiosis — but we’ll weep over that some other day. That’s what really devastates me’, Bienenfeld told me, her teeth chattering.

  At midday, you see, I arrived at La Sorbonne to find her wearing a scowl. She handed me a paper — containing some drivel about our ethical conversation of the other day — after which there was a formal ‘address’:

  You don’t give yourself, you take.

  It’s false that I’m your life — your life is a mosaic.

  For me, though, you are my life — I’m all yours.

  And she explained to me that the night before in bed she’d thought (one thing leading to another) how I was at the centre of my own life — and had hated me for it. That she still hated me. And that she shouldn’t have come. I first pointed out that you exist for her, which — as she now keeps us entirely separate — makes a mosaic in two colours. Also, that she’s concerned about her parents, her work, etc., that nobody is anybody else’s life, of course, but you build things together, etc., that giving and taking are strange words — and giving yourself is the best way of taking. Something which I didn’t say to her was that I’d just as soon she didn’t give me all the time she takes from me. She explained, in a woolly way, that for the first time yesterday she’d tried to look at the affair from my viewpoint: but then I was at the centre and all the people in my life were there too — whereas normally whenever she thought about me she’d deliberately wipe them out — and it was horrible. She was really trembling. Perhaps I’ve a heart of stone, but I wasn’t moved in the least. I think it was her own fault — anyway placing yourself in the other person’s shoes is elementary. My God! at the start of our own love affair I always tried to understand how I was placing myself in your life, from your point of view. And how, if I loved you more than you loved me, this meant I found more riches in you and was the more advantaged — in view of what I was receiving, and also by the very plenitude of my feelings. If, in love, there are things you find metaphysically painful, I can understand that. But you have to digest it in the same way as all the other things you have to digest about the human condition, telling your friends about it but not making it into a personal grievance. I find those alternations between dogged optimism and ill-considered lapses into tragedy frankly odious, in all objectivity.

  The most concrete element in all this, I think, is her jealousy with regard to Kos.

  She unburdened herself of this over lunch, then accompanied me to H. IV, all shivering with cold and nerves. There’ll be more of the same tomorrow. I quite understand it all has to do with a certain sadistic wretch, but it still inspires me with as much repugnance as a scallop!253 The story about ‘Sartre not wearing underpants’ is quite true — that’s when she started thinking about the coarseness of her jokes. But I’m so used to her out-of-place tone, that this shocked me no worse than the rest.

  My sweet little one, goodbye, till tomorrow. On Sunday you’ll get the sequel of the Bienenfeld story. I think you find me a bit mean to her, which is possible. I’ll see tomorrow evening whether I should be nice — but she does get on my nerves.

  I love you so much, dear little being.

  Your charming Beaver

  Le Dôme

  [Paris]

  Saturday 20 January [1940]

  My dear little one

  I had a little disappointment this morning, in that I didn’t get a letter from you. I’ll go back after 4, but it means there’s a day’s delay now. How cold it is! — we’re quite numb. Outside it’s dreadful, we shiver in the hotel and the Dôme’s positively unendurable. I did stay there from 11 to 1, but for lunch I fled to the Coupole where I am now. I’ll try to stay and work here this afternoon, where at least it’s bearable.

  [...]

  I returned to my room and at 8, just as I was wondering if she were sulking and not going to come, Bienenfeld turned up with a little scarf on her head like at winter sports, all smiles and full of charm. I felt one weight lift from my mind, despite everything. She’d brought along some records, so we spent an hour listening to a pretty uninteresting Schubert trio, a rather beautiful Chopin ballade, and the beginning of Beethoven’s 16th string quartet — which is superb. I graciously took both gramophone and records up to Kos., then — since there was no room at the Dôme or the Coupole — we went for a steak at the Select, where Bienenfeld was as charming as she’d been odious yesterday. She can be really moving the day after one of her frenzies — so here I am, more attached to her than for weeks past. She explained how her gloom of two days ago had involved a certain imitation of the Kos. gloom. Also, how yesterday she’d deliberately prolonged her frenzy in order to make an impression on me, — even though she’d in fact come through it. We went over one point after another, and I explained everything to her on the basis of phenomenology. She understood everything, saying that naively she had a childish ideal of a Prince Charming, and of a life submerged in that of a Prince Charming. It’s comical, this kind of gap between a thought that’s almost mature and an infantile sensibility. Truly, in her perfect sincerity and simplicity (uncomplicated by reflection), she was altogether touching — and I was altogether tender and convincing. She told me, what’s more, that even if her frenzy had been warranted and she held only the tiniest place in my life, though she’d certainly be desperately unhappy she’d hang on all the same. Also that — albeit believing her life to be all screwed up — she’d entirely forgotten to think about you, or have recourse to you (which proves nothing so far as you’re concerned, as I can well imagine her doing just the same thing with our roles reversed). We talked about all this till they chucked us out. She related it to her mother’s frenzies — correctly, I think. She came up with me for 20 minutes and we kissed, now I’m writing to you — so sleepy I’m ready to drop. Goodnight, my little one, I’m going to sleep. I kiss you with all my might, most dear little beloved.

  Your charming Beaver

  Bost has sent Kos. some striking little photos, where he can be seen in a huge hole in the snow from which only his shoulders protrude. That’s the hole where he has to stand for 14 hours. But that’s over — he hasn’t been relieved, but he’s back in the dug-out. He says the splendid thing about the front is that, sentry-duty apart, they leave you in peace. He seems quite lively and alert again.

  Bienenfeld has charged me to tell you she forgot to write to you because she was working so hard, and apologizes profusely.

  [Paris]

  Sunday 21 January [1940]

  Most dear little being

  Well, I’ve been properly punished this morning for having been lazy yesterday evening! When I reached the post office I found all the counters closed — so I’m all solitary and abandoned. But I’ll be there at 8 tomorrow morning and will read your letters while I eat my breakfast, before going to school. I love you so much, my little one! Just now Gégé took an old photo of you out of her bag, in which you were all thin and pleasing, and it gave me quite a jolt — I’ve almost got tears in my eyes at the memory. O dear little flesh-and-blood presence, how I desire you!

  This time I’ve really very little to tell. After finishing my letter yesterday evening, I flung myself into bed utterly exhausted and woke with a start when my alarm went off at 8 — but I got up dutifully. The weather was milder in Paris, and it was snowing which was wonderfully poetic and pleasing.

  [...]

  It has occurred to me that it would be a terribly good idea if you were to come on about 6 February, since it’ll be Shrovetide and I’ll have a good excuse for pretending to go off on a visit to Poupette. But you can’t choose, of course. Oh, how I long to see you!
I’ve been in anguish for the past hour thinking about your life, with which you content yourself so well but where you’re alone, my little one, and so devoid of everything — you who loved few things but loved them so intensely! Little all-alive, all-gay, all-warm, who’ve been embalmed like a little mummy. My love, we’ll see a few things — we’ll make a beautiful leave for you! I love you, my beloved, so very, very much, so tenderly — for what you are for me, and simply for what you are, my sweet little one.

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Monday 22 January [1940]

  My sweet little one

  At 8 this morning there were no letters. The big mail bag was there, but still unopened. Luckily, when I returned after school they were both there dutifully — the one of the 17th and the one of the 18th. How postponed leave was going to cause me. But I knew from the papers, and from people, that the English had already stopped having any, and everyone was saying they were going to do the same thing with the French — even though nobody seemed to regard this as absolutely definite. Moreover, I’m made of steel now. What’s more, I think it’s more annoying to be the person who doesn’t go on leave than the person who can’t see anyone arriving. I was wrought up about my trip to see Emma, because it was I who was active. Here, I’m wholly inert. So inert that this date of 1 February which you set as the final limit doesn’t affect me — even though it’s only eight days away. It remains something purely unreal. I haven’t been rejoicing at all. On the contrary, I’m feeling vaguely off balance today, for the first time for ages. Probably because I’ve finished an important chapter; because I’ve got to fix up another one, which isn’t too good; and because I’ve nevertheless been disconnected from my work by the idea of your arrival, without being connected to that arrival itself. My thoughts no longer know which way to turn.

  [...]

  I worked for over two hours, but with no taste for it. Perhaps it’s because the chapter’s no good (the one at the Flea Market, between Françoise and Gerbert). I’m writing to you, then I’m going to write a letter to Bost, who still doesn’t know anything definite about his leave. But listen, since the Kos. sisters don’t think you can tell when a soldier on leave is going to arrive — to within a few days — you can turn up more or less unexpectedly. He too can turn up with a certain lag — it’ll be easy to arrange.

  I’m going to meet Kos. at the Deux Magots, then we’ll go to a cinema in Rue Récamier of which Gégé has spoken highly to me. I’m glad to be going to the cinema, off balance as I am. Goodbye, my sweet little one. Till tomorrow. I’ll see you soon. I need you so much!

  Your charming Beaver

  [Paris]

  Tuesday 23 January [1940]

  My sweet little one

  So it’s true, you’re going to come! I’ve just had your letter, and it has put me in such a fever I’m afraid I shan’t be able to work all day — or perhaps all week. It’s a kind of dread I’m feeling, not at all agreeable, with a nervous desire to weep. But I think in a day or two — certainty aiding — it’ll become stabilized as happiness.

  In a week at the latest — my love! Listen, Little Bost isn’t even talking about coming, and in any case I can arrange things with him on the spot. I’ll go, with or without you, and pick him up at the station when he arrives. So tell Wanda, as arranged, that you’re arriving six days later. Tell her as soon as possible, so that I can explain my departure to my sister’s before your arrival. As for your civilian clothes, your mother’s trying to keep them — so write to her. I’ll write to her myself — under Eugenie’s name254 — pleading with her to drop them off at the Hôtel Mistral or my place. I pressed her about it but she dug her heels in, claiming you were in agreement. I’ll tell her you’re arriving the day after and we want a long time just on our own, my little one. Oh! I’m only now starting to feel how thirsty I’ve been to see you — I can’t bear it, I want you so! If you arrive on Thursday the 1st, I’ll miss the Friday at H. IV and the Saturday at C.Sée, which makes only one day at each place and leaves me all yours for 3 days, with no school. By 4.30 at the latest, on whatever day it may be, I’ll be in that gloomy cafe at the Gare de l’Est where we often used to go in Laon days, on the right when you leave the station, all in black panelling with a downstairs room — do you know the one? It must be the third cafe down — on the corner of the Boulevard, I think, before you cross over. Tell me if you remember it, my little one, and whether it suits you? We used to like it a lot.

  I’ve begun to have dreams about your arrival. Last night, by one of those childish transpositions I’ve already discussed with you, I dreamt I’d gone back — as in the last war — to see my father (when he was a zouave) at Villetaneuse near St Denis. It was actually a memory of that road where my mother and I met him. And I encountered my father again with a joy that left me bewildered, since I could vaguely recall that I didn’t love him at all and he was old and senile, but while I was puzzling over whom it was I loved in that way, you came along — and that woke me up.

  I love you, and I’m pining for you. I felt like crying with desire while listening to Bach just now — and I still do. Oh, may my life with you be restored to me, my little one! Do come! I’m so waiting for you, my love.

  Your charming Beaver

  I’ve been reading The Castle for a while, and find it wonderful — better than The Trial, but desperately gloomy.

  [Paris]

  Wednesday 24th January [1940]

  Most dear little being

  I’ve had two letters from you today, my love. They haven’t given me certainty, but what is certain anyway is that by the 10th at the latest you’ll be here — and I’m beginning to feel like celebrating. I’m beginning really to believe it. Little Bost has written me two very cheerful letters too, and it seems certain he’ll arrive before the 10th. It would be perfect if he came just a few days after you. I’ve warned him he’ll have to see me while you’re seeing Wanda.

  [...]

  I went back to the Dôme, worked for 2½ hrs and wrote to Bost for ½ hr, then came home to meet Sorokine. She quite overwhelmed me. I find her love for me so poignant, and feel I could love her really a lot if I had more time to give her. She’d been nervy these past few days, and today she wanted an afternoon of embraces. But precisely I wasn’t in a fit state — which I explained, as discreetly as I could, after our first kisses — so we just stayed tenderly intertwined, with impure kisses but nothing more. She explained, very touchingly, how she depended on me; and how I was everything for her; and how little she saw of me; and how she wasn’t hoping for the impossible, namely that I should ever care passionately for her, but would merely like to be sure that if she disappeared from my life it wouldn’t be altogether a matter of indifference to me — though she often wasn’t sure even about that. It wasn’t in the least pathetic or reproachful, and every so often after a struggle she’d say, with a great gulp, as though it were a malediction: ‘I love you so much, so very much . . . it’s such a burden, like a tension that never lets up for an instant.’ After that we went back to embraces, and she grew languid and melting till I was obliged to ravish her after all. It was comical how she grew calm in an instant — all gay tenderness and truly charming. I very much like, for instance, the way in which she takes my head in her hands, caresses it tenderly, and says laughingly: ‘And there’s a brain in there!’ then proudly: ‘I know what it’s like: there’s a bulb, and it’s yellow and red . . .’ and she describes it, then in a slightly shocked tone: ‘and that’s you’. I’m never bored for a moment with her, she’s all inventiveness — in feeling as in thought. I find her endlessly graceful of mind — she’s really got something. I was in turmoil when she left, and still am.

  I passed from her hands into Bienenfeld’s. No aftermath of a frenzy this time, but tranquil tedium — nothing really irritating, but terribly humdrum. The truth was, moreover, that a heart pretty much replete with Sorokine’s features was left untouched by that sharp little face. We ate at the Nordla
nd where we talked about food, then talked about politics at the Dôme. She honestly offers me nothing, whereas the other one gives me what used to be precious about Kos. — in a more facile way this time, but also more pleasing. Namely, a new perception of the world, a world rethought in an absolutely unexpected way by an original little consciousness. But Bienenfeld was extremely pleased with me and everything passed off as well as could be.

  She has just left me, it’s almost midnight, I’ve written to you — and now I’m going to read The Castle for a while, then sleep. Have I told you that, on a second reading. The Castle strikes me as far better conceived than The Trial? Yesterday evening as I was going to bed, it made me quite sick of writing: I’ve the feeling it’s pointless to write, if one can’t strike a novel and disturbing note — like Kafka and you.