Your charming Beaver
Do send Bost all the books you can — he’s really clamouring for them.
[Paris]
Monday 16 October [1939]
Dear little being
I have your little letter of the 13th, but not that of the 12th. If I understand right, you did receive letters from me on the 12th — but how annoying all these delays are, and how paralysed and isolated one does feel. I’m pretty glum today, because normal life is beginning again — beginning again without you — and it’s dreadfully austere. Yesterday after writing to you I worked for a bit, then went to the 5 o’clock train to look for Kos., but she wasn’t on it. So I went off by Métro to the Gaité Rochechouart, to see Peter Ibbetson168 — it’s atrociously bad and ridiculous. I got back to the Gare Montparnasse just in time to pluck Kos. like a flower. She was very nice, but I was rather disappointed. I’m not sure what help I was expecting from her, but she’s herself one more person to be helped. I find her a bit of a burden, and imbued with a gloom that it falls to me to dispel. But that doesn’t stop me from being glad of her company. She wants to take a philosophy degree, and I’m giving her strong encouragement. She’s going to register tomorrow — it’ll keep her busy and might be useful to her. It was 9 when we vainly sought refuge in the Dôme — which was full so we went to the Rotonde, where I ate an andouillette while telling Kos. heaps of stories, especially about the Lunar Woman. Then we went up to chat at my place till one in the morning. Wanda has a slight sore throat and will not be here for a few days. I slept from 1 to 7.30, and it was pretty painful when the alarm-clock got me out of bed. I was rather gloomy, starting my regular existence alone without the expectation of rejoining you when evening comes — I, who used to classify my days last year according to my evening assignation, and who used to be so happy on the days when it was with you. Nothing but days without you now. I walked to the Gare Montparnasse and had coffee at the counter in the Dupont — after which it’s 10 min. by Métro to Convention, followed by 10 min. on foot to the Lycée. I found 9 pupils, as good as gold in their blue pinafores, and talked to them about consciousness. The Lycée’s magnificent, there’s a staff room, with huge club armchairs and modern tables, as big as a railway-station concourse — and everything else to match. The deputies and headmistress are friendly, in general you feel free, and it’s lively and agreeable to work there. But alas! the headmistress informed me that I’d also have a final-year class at Fénelon and, furthermore, that there was some vague idea at the ministry of sending me to Bordeaux. This froze me to the marrow. I decided to go off quickly and see M. Monod, the school inspector, to have it out with him. Sorokine was waiting for me at the gate, so we jumped into a taxi and I raced off to Lycée Henri IV. How agreeable it is on the inside! But it’s all under repair, so life’s concentrated in one modern wing that’s all tiled and very ugly. I encountered a collection of real shrews there, all dressed in black and each with a gas-mask in its putty-coloured satchel slung over one shoulder, and the most shrewish of all was the headmistress: semi-hunchbacked, wearing a black hat, and she too with a mask and a sinister air. She handed me an impossible time-table, and when I pulled a long face she expressed great disappointment at my accepting to work at her school without greater enthusiasm. I have 17 hours! It’s frightful, and I don’t see how I’ll manage to work at my novel, especially with all the travelling to and fro — I’m really disgusted.
[...]
I think I’ll be obliged to give up my room to Wanda, because of her painting, which causes me some heartache — but in fact there’s one next door that’s not too awful. What else? I had a letter from Bienenfeld, who tells me that Kanapa wants to see me. I’ll see him, it should be quite enjoyable. Bienenfeld seems really happy — she wrote me a charming little letter.
Write to me at the Hôtel du Danemark, 21 rue Vavin. Do keep writing to me, I have such need of your letters — and such need of you.
This letter is wretched, but Kos. is with me and that puts me off. I reread your philosophical letter. You’re a splendid little philosopher, my little poppet. You must begin to construct a system, since you have the time.
Goodbye, my love. Tomorrow I’ll find a more peaceful moment to write to you and send you a big organizational plan of my life, which I’ll make this evening. I love you, my beloved — life without you bores me most desperately. I kiss you tenderly, my love.
Your charming Beaver
Café-Restaurant de Versailles
3 Place de Rennes
Paris VI
Paris, Tuesday 17 October [1939]
Dearest little being
I’m not in too bad a mood today, because although it’s my hardest day of the week I realize that I won’t be too tired to do some work in the evening — from 4 or 5 until 8, which is fine. Here’s what I’ve done. First, yesterday after writing to you I went with Kos. for a bite at the snack bar, after which we went to the Dôme. We did have a chat, but we were both dead beat so we went home at 9. We were told that a lady had called, and had said she’d call back again soon as she’d nothing else to do — it was the Lunar Woman, of course. I found a little letter from Bienenfeld, who says that Kanapa wants to see me. I’ll see him — it’ll be quite enjoyable. I wrote to Bost, then went to sleep. I rose at 7.30 - it was to Henri IV that I was going this morning, which is not at all disagreeable: it takes me 10 minutes to get there crossing the Luxembourg, which is magnificent at present and particularly delightful in the morning mist, then I have coffee at the Capoulade before going on to the Lycée. I did 2½ hours of lessons, interrupted by a charming distraction — an air-raid drill First, the headmistress traipsed round the corridors with a tin hat on her head and gas-mask slung over one shoulder, blowing shrill blasts on a whistle. Then we all went down in Indian file to a magnificently appointed shelter. There we sat down and, with the whistle still stuck in her mouth but now bare-headed, the headmistress put us through a gas-mask practice. ‘Teachers too!’, she shouted, but I hadn’t got mine. She explained that we weren’t to speak or move if there actually was a raid, because that uses up oxygen. You should have seen her play the general — she’s a proper shrew! We ended our lessons, then I went to write to Bienenfeld and eat a bite at the Source — I’m entranced at finding myself in the Latin Quarter when I come out of school. After that I took a Métro and was at C. See by 10’clock. Two hours of lessons. The headmistress is a paragon compared with the usual run of headmistresses, she really couldn’t be more affable - but it’s a pity she has a blue chin. I shall be charming with her too, since after all my future lies in this Lycée. But I’d really take pleasure in teaching that other one a thing or two. I took another Métro to Montparnasse and went to the post office to pick up Bost’s letters, since as I think I told you he’s now writing to me Poste Restante.169 There was a very nice letter from him. He more or less gets all my letters, but no parcels. I’m annoyed, because I’d sent him some books and a little pipe. I came here to this gloomy Cafe Versailles, to write to him and start writing to you. But I won’t post my letter, I’ll wait for yours — because I prefer calling in at Gégé’s after 5 and getting both the morning and evening deliveries. Upon reflection, I’ll post it all the same, in order to gain a day. I’ll start to write to you again anyway this evening, because this is just a little scrap.
I’m off now to meet Kos. at the Deux Magots and finish off the evening with her. Yesterday we worked out a detailed time-table, from which it emerges that I’ll be able to work perfectly well this year. That calmed me down, and I’ll make a serious start after Poupette’s arrival. My life’s full, but how insipid, o salt of my life! Till this evening. I love you, my little sweet thing.
Your charming Beaver
Le Dome
[Paris]
18 October [1939], Wednesday
My love
I found a letter from you yesterday at Gégé’s (these are not tears, but water170) dated the 14th, and this morning how happy I was to receive the letter of t
he 15th with the two photos. There’s still your letter of the 12th that’s missing, which annoys me because precisely from the others I can tell it was the reply to those four letters you took such a long time to receive — but perhaps it’ll turn up in its own good time. The ones of mine that you haven’t got — the ones dated the 6th, 7th and 8th — weren’t of any great interest. I was writing in a state of over-wrought impatience, and nothing was happening to me. Thank you for all your good advice, which I have fully understood and will follow, always provided that the situation remains the same. Well, if it changes we’ll see — you can give me fresh advice as appropriate.171 You know, in the photo you have just the same face as ten years ago. I remember yourself so well, with your little forage-cap — you haven’t aged a whisker.
Yesterday after writing to you I rejoined Kos. at the Deux Magots. She was in the dumps, because she’d done almost nothing all day except trail around and was exhausted. We bought some material for me, for a magnificent new red turban. Then I called in at Gégé’s, and she showed me some lovely new fabric patterns. Pardo can’t find a job and is probably going to enlist — in the auxiliaries, of course. Everyone’s enlisting, it’s quite moving — all Kos.’s foreign friends are enlisting. She showed me a comical letter from Delarue, who’s in utter despair: Alain’s ethics seem to be of no use at all to him.172 Kos. and I had dinner at the snack bar, then — o joy! — we went to the Cafe de Flore. It’s reopened, you see, I’m not sure exactly since when. Lots of places are reopening: the Jockey from 5 to 11 in the evening, and Agnes Capri during the same hours — we’ll go and see what’s going on, I’m curious to know what people you can find there and how they’re behaving. As for the Flore, it was jam-packed. Sonia was there looking splendid, and Fernandez, and Fargue, and lots of other acquaintances. Inside, it was all draped in blue, and as they now have new, bright red benches, the effect’s magnificent. The cafes are far more agreeable than at the beginning of September, because at that time they were only roughly camouflaged and had to keep their lights shielded, whereas now they’re all tightly enclosed behind thick curtains and fully lit — seeming almost like chapels when you come into them from the darkness. It was jam-packed, then, and one astonishing thing was that it was practically all men. There was an aroma of coarse male tobacco and political conversation, and the whole atmosphere was pretty different from what it used to be. All the waiters have changed, only the manager has remained the same. We chatted, but I had to make a big effort because Kos. was rather low. Then we walked home, fairly early, and I went to bed and read Troilus and Cressida for a bit, which I find delightful.
Today’s my Thursday’ — my free day.* I rose at 8, had coffee at the Dôme, read the newspaper and Le Canard Enchainé — which made me laugh quite a bit — then did some work. I’m still working half-heartedly. I had lunch and at 12.30 Sorokine arrived, charming and passionate. I found it very awkward, because Kos. is in the next room and you can hear absolutely everything, but I couldn’t stop her — after half an hour of falsely animated conversation — from falling headlong into my arms. We exchanged kisses and she was happy, but then she asked me greedily how many times a week I reckoned on seeing her, and I said two, which made her so unhappy that she burst into tears. Eventually I promised her 1½ hours of Kant one morning; an evening; and part of Wednesday. Actually, I do have time — it’s more that it’s a bit of a damn nuisance. But after this she was happy, and went off all tender and gay. I find her as agreeable as could be, especially when she’s being affectionate — yet you can’t conceive how bored I am by these outpourings of affection on the part of Bienenfeld and Sorokine. Still, I did receive a very warm, agreeable letter from Bienenfeld, which quite moved me. But it amuses me that with respect to Sorokine, about whom I was talking to her, she should say: ‘Don’t tell yourself she’s nice or else you’ll be caught, like with the Kos. sisters’ — she recommends me to adopt an implacable hardness. It’s comical, she doesn’t realize it’s with her I was caught like that. In a letter that’s got lost,173 I wrote you a whole dissertation on this privileged character one always accords to oneself — I’ll write it again for you, if the letter’s really lost. It’s one of the things that most annoy me, because one can never be certain one won’t fall into the trap.
I telephoned Levy, to fix an appointment with him and Kanapa for tomorrow.
My sister’s arriving this evening. That makes a dreadful day. First Sorokine, now Kos. from 4 to 8, then Poupette. But it won’t be like this any more next week — I’ll hardly see Kos. except in the evenings. So long as I can’t see you, what I like best by far is being alone. I’m sick of putting myself out for people who don’t bring me anything. My glumness in this regard comes partly from the fact that Kos. couldn’t have been more sullen this morning. All right, she had a headache, but it reduced her to a snivelling despair that was hard to endure. Already I think of her only as a burden to drag around — but luckily she has her ups and downs, and will assuredly grow pleasanter. Wanda’s still not here.
My sweet little one, you say you’re sustained by my letters, whereas I find them really wretched all these days. But I’d like it to be true. It’s wonderful to have somebody who sustains you, I realize that now more strongly than ever — it’s so rare, so precious. My love, how grey a life without your presence is!
Goodbye, my dear love. How I long to see you! I love you, my sweet little one, and kiss you most passionately.
Your charming Beaver
*A wartime ‘Thursday’, falling in fact on Wednesday.
[Paris]
Thursday 19 October [1939]
Most dear little being
This morning I left too early to get the mail, but I’m hoping to have a letter this evening. The one of the 12th wasn’t yet at Gégé’s yesterday, but I’ll doggedly keep going to look for it. I so need your letters, my love.
[...]
I went to bed at about midnight and rose at 8 — I had school at 10.30. I went to the post office in Rue Littré, where I found a really nice long letter from Bost; then I went to answer him from the Versailles, which is just opposite, while eating my breakfast. I found it incredibly poetic, that gloomy cafe where the waiters were still washing the tables — it was like those provincial cafes where you end up when you get off a train in the early morning. It reminded me of Bordeaux, and of arriving at Carcassonne too, and it brought tears to my eyes. O my sweet little one, my love, we were still happy that morning. I remember with such emotion the ramparts, and the little open-air cafe, and how intensely we felt our love in the narrow streets — do you remember? I left for school. I have a lovely little locker in the magnificent staff room, in which I’ve put an attache case with all my private papers — I prefer not to leave your letters or anything else lying about at home. I gave my lesson, then wandered round Place de la Convention in search of a bar-restaurant. It was 12.30 and I had to be at Henri IV by 2, which was a bit tight. I ended up in a very comfortable restaurant with tablecloths and cruets, but where I ate very well while reading Troilus and Cressida: pate, sirloin and roast potatoes, strawberry dessert, all for 10 F. — perhaps I’ll go back. I took a Métro which dropped me at Jussieu; it was incredibly agreeable alighting there, and I still had time for a coffee while starting to write to you. At school I found only six pupils — my class has melted away: they’ve exchanged one group for another, but this other as yet exists only on paper. A class of six pupils is sad, because you can’t imagine to yourself that — hidden away in the back rows — there may be one or two faces lit up with comprehension. It couldn’t have been more of a damned bore. At 4 I met Levy and Kanapa at the Balzar. Kanapa was no longer crazy at all, but very nice and simple, with no twitches or glances at his watch, no affectations. But it would have been more enjoyable to see him on his own. As it was, we made only general conversation and I talked almost all the time. I’ll ask them out from time to time. I enjoy seeing the odd male — however dainty a shoot he may be — since I literally talk only t
o women these days. After that I saw Kos. for two hours, then Poupette at the Dôme. We had dinner at the Milk Bar, from which I’m writing while she writes to Lionel. I’ll write again when I get back home in an hour — but I’m going to mail this note right away. Nothing from you. My love, I’m so sad, so sad to be deprived of you.
Your charming Beaver
Le Dôme [Paris]
Friday 20 October [1939]
Most dear little being
I wrote you a very skimpy little letter yesterday, but what with Kos., Poupette and school, I don’t have a minute to spare. I’m no longer even keeping up my journal — though luckily I do have a bit of time this morning, so I’ll try to bring it up to date. So we had dinner and spent the evening yesterday at the Milk Bar, then Poupette came up to my room. She was full of confidences and attempted sincerity, and fairly nice — but what an odd person! She gave me a long account of her relations with Lionel, who spent the month of September at St-Germain-les-Belles, as you know. She looked after him devotedly all that month, and Lionel began to expound a theory to her, according to which there are two women contained in her: a tender, devoted woman made for marriage and motherhood, and a very artificially constructed woman — the woman painter — whom he doesn’t like. He loved her more than ever during that month of September, he used to say, because she used to wait on him and he adores being waited on. I think he’d set himself the goal of transforming Poupette into a slave-woman for his private amusement — but he must have been disappointed. After all, the very first word with which she greeted him when he arrived in the Limousin was: ‘You mustn’t prevent me from working.’ On a subsequent occasion he proposed to her that they place their relationship on another footing, saying that he’d like a truly loving relationship with her — a male-female relationship that would spare him the need for amorous adventures. She protested, saying: ‘I prefer you to have adventures, it takes the load off me.’ Eventually, when his family wanted to whisk him off to Portugal, he proposed to stay at St-Germain-les-Belles on condition that Poupette devote herself entirely to him. She refused outright, because that would have prevented her from working. Apparently he really held that against her. She explained to me that he’s perfect as a friend, but she’s none too happy with his feelings as a lover, because he’s so lacking in tenderness and so domineering. I eventually threw her out, because I was dropping asleep. I was just dozing off when I was woken by shouts of ‘Madeleine, Madeleine . . .’174. It was Kos., who then began groaning horribly. I got up and woke her by knocking on her door. She was having a nightmare — a big dog was lying on her body. I went back to sleep after that, but then I had nightmares too, in which De Roulet and Bost were all mixed up — most unfortunately for me. I woke up an hour ago, laid low by a dreadful cold, and feel quite exhausted. Kos. gave me a nice little breakfast, with an egg and some milk, and I’ve just begun this letter to you. I’d so like to get one today! What did that one of the 12th say, that I certainly shan’t get now?