The Age of Reason

by Jean-Paul Sartre

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said Mathieu hastily.

  The man produced two printed documents from his drawer.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to fill in these forms? And sign your name at the foot of each.’

  It was an application for a loan, in duplicate, with blanks for name, age, occupation, and address. Mathieu began to write.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the man, glancing over the documents. ‘Born in Paris...in 1905...both parents French...Well, that’s all for the moment. Upon payment of the seven thousand francs, we shall ask you to sign an acknowledgement of the debt on stamped paper. The stamp will be your liability.’

  ‘Upon payment...? So you can’t let me have the money at once?’

  The gentleman seemed very surprised. ‘At once? But my dear sir, we shall need at least a fortnight to make our inquiries.’

  ‘What inquiries? You have seen my papers...’

  The gentleman eyed Mathieu with amused indulgence. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘You university men are all alike. All idealists. Please understand, sir, that in this particular case I do not doubt your word. But, speaking generally, what proof have we that the papers shown to us are not false?’ He laughed a rueful little laugh...‘I fear that those who deal in money inevitably become suspicious. Deplorable, I agree; but we have no right to trust people. And so you see,’ he concluded, ‘we must conduct our little inquiry: we shall address ourselves directly to your Ministry. Don’t worry: with all due discretion, of course. But you know, between ourselves, what officialdom is like. I much doubt if you can reasonably expect our assistance before July 5th.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ said Mathieu hoarsely. And he added: ‘I need the money this evening, or tomorrow at the latest, it’s for an urgent matter. Couldn’t it be managed... at a rather higher rate of interest?’

  The man seemed scandalized, and lifted his two fine hands. ‘But we are not usurers, my dear sir! Our Society is under the patronage of the Ministry of Public Works. It is, one might almost say, an official organization. We charge a normal rate of interest calculated on a basis of our expenses and our risks, and we could not lend ourselves to any transaction of that kind.’ He added severely: ‘If you were in a hurry, you should have come earlier. Haven’t you read our notices?’

  ‘No,’ said Mathieu, getting up. ‘It was a sudden call.’

  ‘Then I regret...’ said the man coldly. ‘Shall I tear up the documents you have just filled in?’

  Mathieu thought of Sarah. ‘She will certainly have induced the man to wait.’

  ‘Don’t tear them up,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange something in the interval.’

  ‘Good,’ said the man affably. ‘You will surely find a friend who will advance you what you need for a fortnight. This is your permanent address?’ he said, pointing a forefinger at the document. ‘12 Rue Huyghens?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, at the beginning of July we will send you a reminder.’

  He got up, and accompanied Mathieu to the door.

  ‘Good-bye, sir,’ said Mathieu. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Glad to be of any service to you,’ said the gentleman with a bow. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

  Mathieu strode rapidly through the waiting-room. The young woman was still there; she was biting her glove with a haggard look.

  Outside, greenish flashes quivered in the grey air. But, at the moment, Mathieu had the persistent impression of being caught between four walls. ‘Another set-back,’ he thought. His sole remaining hope was Sarah.

  He had reached the Boulevard de Sévastopol: he went into a café, and asked if he could telephone.

  ‘Telephones at the far end, on the right.’

  As he dialled his number, Mathieu murmured: ‘Has she managed it! Oh, has she managed it!’ The words were a kind of prayer.

  ‘Hullo,’ said he. ‘Hullo, Sarah?’

  ‘Hullo — yes?’ said a voice. ‘It’s Weymüller.’

  ‘It’s Mathieu Delarue here,’ said Mathieu. ‘Can I speak to Sarah?’

  ‘She’s out.’

  ‘What a nuisance! You don’t know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Do you want to leave a message for her?’

  ‘No. Just say I telephoned.’

  He hung up the receiver and went out. His life no longer depended on himself, it was in the hands of Sarah: there was nothing left for him to do but wait. He hailed a bus, and sat down beside an old woman who was coughing into her handkerchief. ‘Jews always come to terms,’ he thought. ‘He’ll agree — he’ll certainly agree.’

  ‘Denfert-Rochereau?’

  ‘Three tickets,’ said the conductor.

  Mathieu took the three tickets, and sat looking out of the window: he thought with gloomy bitterness of Marcelle. The windows shook, the old woman coughed, the flowers danced on her black straw hat. The hat, the flowers, the old woman, Mathieu — all were carried onwards in the huge machine. The old woman did not lift her nose from her handkerchief, she coughed at the corner of the Rue aux Ours and the Boulevard de Sébastopol, she coughed along the Réaumur, she coughed in the Rue Montorgueil, she coughed on the Pont-Neuf, above the grey, calm waters. ‘And if the Jew won’t agree?’ But even this thought couldn’t arouse him from his lethargy; he was no more than a sack upon other sacks, at the bottom of a lorry. ‘Well, that would finish it, I would tell her this evening that I would marry her.’ The bus — huge, infantile machine — had carried him off, it swung him to the right and left, shook him, bumped him — events bumped him against the back of the seat and up against the window, the speed of his life had dimmed his senses, and he thought: ‘My life is no longer mine, my life is just a destiny.’ He watched the heavy, dark buildings of the Rue des Saints-Pères leap up one by one into the sky, he watched his life go past. Marry or not marry — ‘It doesn’t concern me now, it’s heads or tails.’

  The brake was suddenly slammed down and the bus stopped. Mathieu stiffened, and threw an agonized look at the driver’s back: all his freedom had come back on him once more. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘no, it isn’t heads or tails. Whatever happens, it is by my agency that everything must happen.’ Even if he let himself be carried off, in helplessness and in despair, even if he let himself be carried off like an old sack of coal, he would have chosen his own damnation: he was free, free in every way, free to behave like a fool or a machine, free to accept, free to refuse, free to equivocate: to marry, to give up the game, to drag this dead weight about with him for years to come. He could do what he liked, no one had the right to advise him, there would be for him no Good nor Evil unless he brought them into being. All around him things were gathered in a circle, expectant, impassive, and indicative of nothing. He was alone, enveloped in this monstrous silence, free and alone, without assistance and without excuse, condemned to decide without support from any quarter, condemned for ever to be free.

  ‘Denfert-Rochereau,’ cried the conductor.

  Mathieu rose and got out; he turned down the Rue Froidevaux. He was tired and nervous, he kept on seeing a suitcase at the far end of a dark room, and in the suitcase some soft and odorous bank-notes; with a sense of something like remorse. ‘Ah, I ought to have taken them,’ he thought.

  ‘There’s an express for you,’ said the concierge. ‘It has just come.’

  Mathieu took it and tore open the envelope: in an instant the walls that hemmed him in collapsed, and he was translated into another world. There were four words, in the middle of the page, in a large sloping script. ‘Ploughed. So what? Ivich.’

  ‘It isn’t bad news. I hope,’ said the concierge.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m glad of that. You looked quite upset.’

  Ploughed? So what? Ivich.

  ‘It’s one of my old pupils who has failed in the examinations.’

  ‘Ah, yes, they’re becoming more and more difficult, from what I hear.’

  ‘Much more.’

  ‘And just think! All these youn
g folks that do pass,’ said the concierge. ‘There they are with a degree; and then what’s to be done with them?’

  ‘Exactly what I say.’

  He re-read Ivich’s message for the fourth time. He was disquieted by its phrasing. Ploughed. So what?... ‘She’s getting herself into some mess or other,’ he thought. ‘That’s as clear as daylight; she’s getting herself into a mess.’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’

  Six. She got the results at two o’clock. For four hours she had been adrift in the streets of Paris. He slipped the telegram into his pocket.

  ‘Madame Garinet, lend me fifty francs,’ he said to the concierge.

  ‘But I don’t know if I’ve got fifty,’ said the concierge, with some surprise. She rummaged in the drawer of her work-table.

  ‘I’ve only got a hundred francs, you must bring me the change this evening.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mathieu. ‘Thanks.’

  He went out, thinking: ‘Where can she be?’ His head was empty and his hands were trembling. A cruising taxi was passing down the Rue Froidevaux. Mathieu stopped it.

  ‘Students’ Hostel, 173 Rue Saint-Jacques. Quick.’

  ‘Right,’ said the chauffeur.

  ‘Where could she be? At the best she had already left for Laon; at the worst... And I’m four hours behind,’ he thought. He leaned forward and pressed his right foot hard on the mat, as though he were accelerating.

  The taxi stopped. Mathieu got out and rang the bell at the Hostel door.

  ‘Is Mlle Ivich Serguine in?’

  The lady eyed him dubiously. ‘I’ll go and see,’ she said.

  She returned almost at once. ‘Mlle Serguine hasn’t been in since this morning. Is there any message?’

  ‘No.’

  Mathieu got into the cab again. ‘Hotel de Pologne, Rue du Sommerard.’

  After a moment or two, he rapped on the window. ‘There it is,’ he said; ‘on the left.’

  He jumped out and pushed open the glass door. ‘Is M. Serguine in?’

  The tall albino porter was in the office. He recognized Mathieu and smiled. ‘He hasn’t been back since last night.’

  ‘And his sister... a fair-haired young lady. Has she been in today?’

  ‘Oh, I know Mlle Ivich quite well,’ said the man. ‘No, she hasn’t been in, there was only Mme Montero who telephoned twice to ask M. Boris to come and see her the moment he got back: if you see him, you might tell him.’

  ‘I will,’ said Mathieu.

  He went out. Where could she be? At the cinema? It was scarcely probable. Wandering about the streets? In any case she had not yet left Paris, otherwise she would have been to the Hostel to get her luggage. Mathieu took the express out of his pocket and examined the envelope: it had been sent from the post-office in the Rue Cujas, but that proved nothing.

  ‘Where to?’ asked the chauffeur.

  Mathieu looked at him hesitantly, and had a flash of enlightenment. ‘She must have had one or two before she wrote that. She has certainly got drunk.’

  ‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I want you to drive slowly from the quays up the Boulevard Saint-Michel. I’m looking for someone, and I want to see into all the cafés.’

  Ivich was not at the Biarritz, nor the Source, nor the Harcourt, nor the Biard, nor the Palais du Café. At Capoulade’s, Mathieu caught sight of a Chinese student who knew her. He approached the Chinaman who was drinking a glass of port, perched on a high stool at the bar.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Mathieu, looking up at him. ‘I believe you know Mlle Serguine. Have you seen her today?’

  ‘No,’ said the Chinaman, speaking with difficulty. ‘Some accident has happened to her?’

  ‘Some accident has happened to her!’ shouted Mathieu.

  ‘No,’ said the Chinaman. ‘I was asking if any accident had happened to her.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mathieu, turning his back on the man.

  He no longer even thought of protecting Ivich against herself: he was solely possessed by an anguished and violent desire to see her again. ‘She may have tried to kill herself. She is quite silly enough for that,’ he thought savagely. ‘After all, perhaps she was merely somewhere in Montmartre.’

  ‘To the Vavin Square,’ he said.

  He re-entered the cab. His hands were trembling: he thrust them into his pockets. The taxi took the turn round the Medicis fountain, and Mathieu caught sight of Renata, Ivich’s Italian friend. She was coming out of the Luxemburg, with a portfolio under her arm.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ shouted Mathieu to the chauffeur. He jumped out of the taxi and ran up to her.

  ‘Have you see Ivich?’

  Renata assumed an air of dignity. ‘Good morning, Monsieur,’ she said.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mathieu. ‘Have you seen Ivich?’

  ‘Ivich?’ said Renata. ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Luxemburg. She was in queer company,’ said Renata, rather superciliously. ‘You know she has failed, poor girl.’

  ‘Yes; where has she gone?’

  ‘They were going to dance somewhere. At the Tarantula, I think.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Rue Monsieur-le-Prince; under a gramophone-record shop, the dance-hall is in the basement.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Mathieu was hurrying away, when he turned back: ‘Excuse me, I had also forgotten to say good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye, Monsieur,’ said Renata.

  Mathieu returned to his chauffeur. ‘Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, it’s quite near. Drive slowly, I’ll stop you.’

  ‘If only she’s still there. I’ll comb all the thés dansants in the Quartier Latin.’

  ‘Stop — there it is. Wait a minute or two.’

  Mathieu went into a record shop.

  ‘The Tarantula?’ he asked.

  ‘In the basement — down the stairs.’

  Mathieu walked down a staircase, inhaling a cool mildewy odour, and pushed at one wing of a leather-covered door which swung back on to his stomach. Mathieu stood, leaning against the door-post, and thought: ‘She’s there.’

  It was a gaunt and antiseptic cellar, completely devoid of shadow. A filtered light descended from oiled paper fittings in the ceiling. Mathieu saw about fifteen tables covered with cloths, marooned at the far end of this dead sea of light. The beige walls were plastered with bits of multi-coloured cardboard depicting exotic plants, which had already begun to crackle from the effects of the moisture, and the cacti were bulging with blisters. An invisible radio was broadcasting a paso doble, and the potted music made the hall seem even more denuded.

  Ivich had laid her head on her partner’s shoulder, and was pressing close against him. He was a good dancer. Mathieu recognized him as the tall, dark-haired young man who had been with Ivich on the previous evening in the Boulevard Saint-Michel. He was breathing into Ivich’s hair, and kissing it from time to time. Then she would throw her head back and laugh, her face drained of colour, her eyes closed, while he whispered in her ear; they were alone in the middle of the dance-floor. At the far end of the room, four young men, and a girl violently made-up, clapped their hands and shouted: ‘Bravo!’ The tall dark fellow brought Ivich back to their table, with his arm round her waist, while the students buzzed around her; but there was an oddly awkward touch in their familiarity. They greeted her with warm, embracing gestures; but they kept their distance. The made-up lady held herself aloof. She stood, a heavy, listless figure, with, a fixed look in her eyes, lit a cigarette, and said pensively: ‘Bravo.’

  Ivich dropped into a chair between the girl, and a short, fair-haired man with a frill of beard. She was laughing hysterically.

  ‘No, no,’ she said, waving a hand in front of her face. ‘No alibi! No need of an alibi!’

  The bearded gentleman promptly rose to surrender his chair to the handsome dark-haired dancer. ‘T
hat settles it,’ thought Mathieu. ‘They recognize his right to sit beside her.’ The dark handsome gentleman seemed to find this quite natural: he was indeed the only member of the party who seemed at ease.

  Ivich pointed a finger at her bearded escort ‘He’s trying to escape, because I’ve promised to kiss him,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the bearded one with dignity. ‘You did not promise, you threatened.’

  ‘Well — I shan’t kiss you,’ said Ivich. ‘I shall kiss Irma.’

  ‘Do you really want to kiss me, Ivich darling?’ said the girl, surprised and flattered.

  ‘Yes — come here.’ She grasped her imperiously by the arm.

  The others drew back, looking rather shocked, and someone said: ‘Look here, Ivich!’ in a gently remonstrative tone. The handsome, dark-haired gentleman eyed her with a thin-lipped, chilly smile: he was watching her. Mathieu felt humiliated: to this elegant young man, Ivich was merely a victim: he undressed her with a knowing sensual air, she was already naked to his vision, he had guessed the contours of her breasts and thighs, and the odour of her flesh... Mathieu shook himself abruptly, and walked towards Ivich, feeling rather weak at the knees: he had realized that he for the first time desired her, though little to his credit, through another man’s desire.

  Ivich, after a good deal of attitudinizing, took the girl’s head in both hands, kissed her on the lips, and then repulsed her violently.

  ‘You smell of cachous,’ she said indignantly.

  Mathieu planted himself beside their table.

  ‘Ivich,’ he said.

  She looked at him open-mouthed, and he wondered if she recognized him. Slowly she raised her left hand and held it out: ‘So it’s you,’ she said, ‘Just look at that.’ She had torn off her bandages. Mathieu saw a reddish, sticky scar, edged with little dabs of yellow pus.

  ‘You’ve kept yours on,’ said Ivich in a voice of disappointment. ‘I forgot — you are a careful man.’

  ‘She tore it off in spite of us,’ said the girl, in a pleading tone. ‘She’s a little devil.’

  Ivich rose abruptly, and looked darkly at Mathieu.