Farewell, my love. It hasn’t yet sunk in that I shan’t see you for another 3 months — you seem so close to me. How I’d like to be with you some day in this city! I’ve never stopped thinking about you as I walk round — it was as though you were still speaking to me. I feel very intensely that when we see each other again, it will be as though we’d left each other just the day before — so it really does seem as if it were tomorrow that I’ll be seeing you again.
I kiss and hug you, as joyfully as can be.
Your charming Beaver
Envelope:
M. Sartre
42 rue Bonaparte381
Paris 6, France, air mail
[New York]
Thursday 30 January [1947]
My most dear love
I was very foolish to think I’d be separated from you here — it’s just the opposite. It’s as if I were remaking this journey with you: I find your tracks everywhere and it pleases me enormously. For example, this morning I came to the Bristol to see if there was any mail for me, and at once settled myself down in the lobby to write to you — I can picture you vividly here. I have so many things to tell you, my dear little yourself, that I don’t know how I’ll get to the end of them. Well, I’ll make a start anyway.
It was Sunday afternoon, then, and I was still dazed with travelling and walking. There was a good lady from the Cultural Section, the Perrier woman I’ve told you about, who came to pick me up for dinner at her home. In her apartment I found an old French professor from Harvard, quite vile, who cooked for me and flattered me and who I later learned was one of those who wanted to stop me coming, out of hatred for existentialism. To cap it all, I’d once given him a bad mark for a piece of homework on Polyeucte,382 presented under the name of the little Perrier girl when she was a pupil at Molière.383 So he was very friendly, as was she, but I soon came to blows with her over psychoanalysis — which she’s mad keen on — and more seriously with both of them regarding the Negro question, because they wanted to get me to swear never to write a line on the matter. They took me home to bed quite beside myself with mingled rage and sleepiness. I was hoping to sleep late, but was on my feet again by 7.30. I can’t get a good night’s sleep here, it’s the anxiety and over-excitement — and perhaps that six-hour lag also plays some part.
On Monday morning I went to take my orange juice and white coffee with big round cakes in the cafèteria opposite. I take that every morning, and it’s a breakfast that suits me very well. Then: hairdresser’s (which I was badly in need of); visit to the Cultural Section, to discuss my programme of lectures; and lunch with Marion Saunders. She’s a real old horror. She gave me $200, and rang Gallimard384 so that I could get the other $120. She took me for an excellent lunch at a very chic American restaurant — the ‘Old Town’ or something like that. Talking of which, food is one of the only things about which you misled me. I find these plain dishes easy on the stomach, and like the fact that for lunch you can just hurriedly wolf down anything you please. Anyway, the Saunders woman kept giving vent to great diatribes against Camus,385 and exhorting me to take her on as my literary agent. I refused politely, but have since learnt that she’s working surreptitiously. Actually, I must ring her. It was still a fantastically fine day. I went to visit Central Station, then retraced my steps towards 58th St. in order to take Walk No. 3 as recommended in my little notebook.386 I took the East River embankment and continued from Queens [boro] Bridge to Brooklyn Bridge. At the outset it was hard to find your way as a pedestrian, but I managed and it was one of the most beautiful outings of my life. God, I do love New York! It was so mild that by the river’s edge there were children sitting, and Negroes, and lots of peaceful people. My eyes and my heart were full of them. And there was also an astonishing and delicious aroma of sea and spices. I arrived at Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. Through the wire lattice-work you could see the Battery and the red sky, and the gulls on the water — I could have wept. I took the elevated train to get back — I had an appointment at the Plaza with the Macht woman.387 With a foretaste of reluctance, I first took an express that carried me in one fell swoop to 105th St. Then, after returning, I went to wait at the Savoy-Plaza. However, I did eventually realize my error and crossed the street, where I saw that dreadful lump of a girl in person. She conducted me into the ‘Oak Room‘, saying it was one of your favourite spots. It really touched me to think of you in those surroundings you so loved. We drank martinis, while she gazed into my eyes and talked of Dolores — in tones of the utmost loathing — and of you, in tones of the utmost self-importance. She really is the most filthy bitch! She insinuated that if she’d given Dolores the cheque, Dolores would have kept it for herself. What it comes down to is that she refused to give me it via her, but instead sent it to you (as you know). A priori, I said everything nice I could about D., just to infuriate her. And as I was precisely about to ring Dolores, she followed me — confessing impudently that she was burning with curiosity — and I had to shut the door of the booth in her face.
After leaving her, dinner at Lévi-Strauss’s. Well, you know him. But what a lovely view from his window over the lights of New York! And his wife, though awfully pregnant, is quite nice and quite lively. He told me that everybody — including Joxe — had been lukewarm about this trip, and that an existentialist woman was more than they could tolerate. But he said he’d arrange for me to get at least my travel paid, which would make a huge difference. I can tell you at once that things are going to work out very well, in terms of both cash and general organization. I’m very pleased. At 10, I pretended to be tired — they were both yawning anyway. I met D. at the Sherry-Netherland, I imagine she’ll tell you about it. I found her exactly as I’d imagined. I like her a lot, and was very happy because I understood your feelings — I could appreciate them, and honoured you for having them — and at the same time didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed. She drank one whisky after another, and this was reflected in a certain nervousness, a certain volubility, and some classic crazy behaviour. She took me to see the Pink Elephant bar — which quite overwhelmed me — and then on to another bar on Broadway, where we stayed till 3 in the morning. She was fantastically moving — very scared at the idea of that trip.388
My love, I’m stopping, precisely because I’m just off to say my farewells to Dolores. I’ll tell you the rest this evening or tomorrow. Know only that I’m still in seventh heaven. I’ll be staying roughly till 13 February in New York, at the Hotel Lincoln; then on the 24th I’ll be at 411 South Barrington Avenue, Westwood 24, Los Angeles. Do write. Send the cheque back to me as quickly as possible, I’ll need it in California. My love, you’re everywhere with me. I think one of the pleasures of New York is the fact that I find you everywhere here and love it with you. Till this evening or tomorrow. I’ve still lots of things to tell you. Tell Bost that I’m thinking all the time about him too and send him a big kiss. I cover you with tender kisses.
Your charming Beaver
(Address as letter 26 January 1947)
[New York]
Friday [31 January 1947]
My dear love
I must finish yesterday’s letter for you. I’d like to tell you everything in such detail that I’m afraid I’ll never get to the end of it. Well, it was Tuesday, the day of my lecture. I wanted to sleep late but didn’t do so — I keep waking up at 7 like clockwork. I went and settled down in the hotel bar — which was deserted — and, contrary to what Bost and you say, I worked very well there for the whole morning. That was on the novel. I went for lunch to L’Auberge, came home to get ready, and at 3 they came to pick me up and cast me to the old women of the French Institute. There I saw a sinister individual called Bidard, whom Camus with his usual wit nicknamed ‘Bidasse’,389 and who complained that you’d been outrageously rude to him. I spoke for an hour — much too fast and over-complicatedly, Lévi-Strauss told me afterwards. But that was of no importance, because those old bags don’t understand French anyway. After that, Lévi-Strauss took me
to cocktails at Dolores’s place. I was very moved to be entering that apartment where you’d lived for so long; to see Calder’s bird,390 and the view, and so many people you’d told me about — the Condit woman, the Grazon woman, and above all J. Breton,391 resplendent in her Indian blanket and a feathered redskin headdress. I spoke in English to Hare, whom I found charming, and in French to Jacqueline, who looked stern and expectant. Dolores was as dainty as a little Annamite idol and truly charming to me — I’d quite like to know what she was actually thinking. I had a good time, and was very upset when we had to leave — already an hour late — and go on to D. Nordman’s place,392 since she was giving a dinner party in my honour. I arrived somewhat tipsy and horribly embarrassed., especially since the door was opened for me by a young woman in black whose dress left bare all her shoulders and half her bosom. Everybody was at table (Dolores had rung ahead to say they should sit down without me) and — horrors! — there were oysters on my plate.393 I greeted the Nordman woman, blushingly pushed away the oysters, and attacked a magnificent dish of chicken cooked with cherries. Luckily R. Wright394 was there, and so nice that I could have hugged him. He at once put the situation to rights, and for as long as he was there I found the evening very enjoyable — especially as I was speaking only English and managing very well, which delighted me. People understand me when I speak, but the only trouble is I don’t understand them. I strain to catch the first half of a story, but then it’s the second half, of course, that’s funny and I don’t catch that. Once he’d left there was an abominable hour, because they’d invited French people of the De Roulet sort395 — officials, real swine — who were talking a load of bullshit about France. I left at the first opportunity and collapsed into bed. I had angst-filled dreams the first few nights, and would wake up thinking: ‘Something’s happening to me, but what?’ — not knowing if it was good or bad.
Oh! I was forgetting — I saw the Ball.396 He really is as fat as an elephant, completely round, with huge horn-rimmed spectacles. It’s quite monstrous to see him beside the diminutive Dolores — but he looks amiable enough.
On Wednesday morning, in magnificent weather, I first went to collect a cheque from Marion Saunders on 35th St. and had a prowl round that area. Then I took a taxi to Columbus Circle, and from there walked north, via Broadway and the banks of the Hudson, as far as [l]25th St. I came back to have lunch with Dolores, who took me to a seedy little Greek restaurant near her place and talked to me about herself — a bit too volubly, since she found the silences distressing. After leaving her I made heaps of phone calls, dropped in at the French Institute, then went to call on the Gerassis. They welcomed me with a warmth that touched my heart. Stépha became quite faint from emotion over dinner. The kid’s terribly nice,397 with an American straightness and French intelligence. We drank martinis and went to dine at the Veau d’Or, where I had a marvellous duck à l’orange. I enjoyed seeing Stepha again, she’s really very sweet. On Thursday there was still that same weather, in which it’s impossible to sleep late. I wrote to you from the Bristol, then went to say goodbye to Dolores, whom I found surrounded by suitcases, harassed by phone calls, and consumed by fear of the plane — which I can understand. She really put herself out to organize articles for me, so I think everything will go all right on the cash front. We laboured away a bit, because we were saying goodbye without ever basically having got to know each other — so had no regrets and no prospects. I really do find her extremely pleasant and likeable. Just a bit too much of a ‘good lady’, as Bost puts it, for my own taste. But if you’re male, and what’s more inspired by an imperialistic passion of generosity, no more appropriate person could be met with. Let me know if she arrived safely and talk to me a bit about her. After leaving her, I went to snatch a bite at random. I’ve already told you, I think, that I like the way people eat here: without giving it much thought, lightly, cleanly, and quickly. I went for an enormous walk: the banks of the East River from Queens[boro] Bridge northwards; the German neighbourhood; and the fantastic 125th St. and Harlem which — when you’re fresh from American crowds — is staggering, with all those people strolling about and chatting and enjoying themselves. I returned in a taxi all the way down Park Avenue — it’s quite extraordinary seeing the transformation from seediness to opulence. I picked up Gerassi at his place and he took me to the Museum of Modern Art, which was spellbinding. Then dinner at their place, and an evening with Billie Holiday — but there I was pretty disappointed — there was just a little black band, nothing out of the ordinary. cafè Society — the show’s at midnight — I’m too tired to go there these evenings. Finally, yesterday [Friday], a big walk in the morning to Brooklyn returning by Brooklyn Bridge, which is fantastic — even terrifying. In the afternoon I had lots of appointments. At the Cultural Section. I phoned Sorokine — I was really moved to hear her voice and she sounded so happy. The ‘general idea’, as Dolores would say, is that I give lectures at Washington, Lynchburg, New London, Rochester and Oberlin, from 13 to 20 February roughly. Then 3 free days in Chicago. Then plane to Los Angeles and stay at Sorokine’s — with lectures in Los Angeles and San Francisco — until 10 March. Then departure by car or bus for the South, with side-trips on the way. Then return to New York where Sorokine will stay with me for a fortnight, and for another fortnight I’ll be on my own and give a few more lectures. Isn’t that wonderful? Only I’ll have to find some money for the trip, because she won’t have a sou — but I can live comfortably on $13 a day, room included, and with lots of little purchases: stockings, beauty products, etc. After that, I went upstairs to Vogue — on the 19th floor — which decided me to go up the Empire State Building this very day: it’s fantastic. Then I saw Jean Condit about an article. After that the Knopf woman,398 who wants me to cut She Came to Stay line by line, adjective by adjective. I won’t do it — unless she pays me $200. After that I began writing to you in the Oak Room at the Plaza, while waiting for Odette Lieutier399 and a friend of Piscator’s.400 We just started discussing, so I’m having dinner with Piscator on Sunday. Then I went home to sleep for an hour, since I was dropping — I have a cold — and I found your letter. My love, my dear love, I feel you so close to me! I read it, then slept for an hour clasping it to my heart. After that, a party at the Nordman woman’s, where R. Wright spoke very appealingly about France. I saw Abel there,401 and found him very nice. He invited me to have lunch later on with him and Chiaromonte.
It’s now Saturday morning, the weather’s fine, and I’m going for a walk. I adore New York — at all hours — and am as happy as a queen. Youf letter brightened my spirits. Do keep writing to me. My little one, my dear little one, it’s you I meet everywhere about New York, and it’s you again whom I love when loving the skyscrapers. I kiss you so passionately.
Your Beaver
Alumnae House
at Vassar College
Poughkeepsie, N.Y.
7 February 1947
Dearest little yourself, my love
I’m writing to you from the most marvellous, cosy little room in the guest house at Vassar. There’s snow all round the house and a fine misty moonlight. I’ve just finished my lecture, before a theatre-full of young girls fit to drive Camus to distraction, and had tea with the old ladies —
I feel happy as a queen. It’s my first college. I came from New York on a train that followed the Hudson for 2 h. — it was superb, that enormous river all clogged with snow and ice. The sky was unsullied, over white hills. It was strange being out of New York in the countryside. At the station there was an old, white-haired American Quaker lady and a former girl student of Souvarine’s. I saw my first American small town, so classic it might have been a film set — but at the same time it resembled Megève, because of the snow. Then I saw the college, with all the girls in ski-wear conscientiously making their way down pathetic little slopes. I found the charm of the place quite breathtaking, with its library, its ski-runs, and its little bedrooms in the English style. I dined with some old ladies and
gave a good lecture, I think. Now I’m delighted to have plenty of time and a pleasant spot for writing to you. There’s only one shadow on my happiness — the fact that I’ve had no letter from you. I know for sure that you’ve written and it’s due to the planes: no mail’s getting through from France, and Teddy402 tells me Dolores spent two days grounded at Shannon. Nevertheless, it’s a tiny bit sad. Your dear face was there, laughing, on one of the college walls (do you have that article? — the Macht woman swears she’ll send it you, but she gets everything screwed up) and my heart was suddenly quite smitten with love. Did you know that the pupils here are putting on The Flies? The old lady who’s in charge of it told me they’ve never shown such enthusiasm for any play. I was shown the sets and costumes, which are being made up with the help of specialists brought in from New York. There’ll be two performances, one on 5 April that I’ll try and go to.
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