Your charming Beaver
I’ll do my best to see Nizan when he comes on leave — write and tell him to see me.
[Paris]
Sunday 19 November [1939]
Most dear little being
Here’s your Thursday letter — the post’s functioning regularly and fast now, which is agreeable. I don’t regard Gibert as really mad (she never called by on Friday, so I haven’t seen her again), but there’s still more there than just playacting — there’s some pathological ‘crux’. As for Wanda, as I’ve told you she didn’t write because she doubtless felt too shy to tell you the story of that night at the Hoggar. Has she written since then? You must have the Shakespeare by now, and I hope you’re pleased with it. Send me the negatives of your photos, then, so that I can have them developed here — that’ll be far better. Don’t fail to send me a little outline history of the war (if I may make so bold) between September ‘38 and September ‘39. Thanks a lot.
Bienenfeld is writing me lots of touching little letters, to tell me that everything’s all right since I love her, and that the problems she has to confront are serious but not alarming — so that’s perfect.
Yesterday evening after writing to you I scribbled a note to Bost, but for Bienenfeld my strength failed me — I flopped into bed and took advantage of the clocks changing to sleep for 8½ hours. I’m driving myself pretty hard, as you can see — never lying in late, or going for an idle stroll — but that’s how it has to be if I’m to combine novel, letters and diary simultaneously. The truth is that at this pace the novel has taken giant steps forward in the space of six days, and I’ll grant myself a bit of respite later on. For the moment, it’s all right like this and I’m even enjoying it.
[...]
Kos. and I had dinner after that at the Milk Bar, then went up to her room where we looked at a marvellous thing together — some ‘Letters to Dead Soldiers’ in a 1932 issue of Europe. These are letters that the post-office administration kept because the addressees were dead, and the selection’s amazingly well done. There’s a homosexual fixing an appointment with his little pal, whom he’s paying lavishly: ‘Above all, don’t wash before coming’, he tells him, ‘I want to have you just as you are out there.’ There’s the story of a peasant who screws chickens (the winged variety204): ‘I haven’t been there to see what he does to them, but it utterly wrecks their rear ends.’ And the story of a soldier’s wife (it’s his parents who are writing to him) who’s totally under the influence of her maid: ‘they walk about naked in the garden, kissing’ — and they’re slowly poisoning his daughter, who’s dying. And heroic letters as well, and desperate ones — they’re absolutely hilarious.
Now I’m going to sleep. Till tomorrow, my sweet little one. I’m still happy and as satisfied with myself as can be, because I’m working so well. I’d just like to read a bit more. I love you, my darling, and feel myself well loved. I kiss you with all my Beaver’s might
Your charming Beaver
I’ve had the most touching, disarming letter from Bienenfeld, who tells me she’s well on the way to becoming ‘all right’, and who does indeed seem to be quite perfect all these days. She’s perhaps going to come back to Paris, and I’ll be miraculously gentle with her.
[Paris]
Monday 20 November [1939]
Most dear little being
I’m at the Coupole, where I’ve just had lunch. I got your letter at 11. Every time I’m sure you won’t be able to write me such a sweet letter as the day before, and every time it’s still sweeter. My beloved, how I love you! You explain very well what it means to have someone as an absolute. Yes, it’s exactly like that for me. A world in which you are — and in so far as you’re in it and aware of it — cannot be condemned. I don’t know why, precisely, but at this particular moment I’m pretty overwrought. Is it a modest glass of red wine? Or the story I’ve just read by St Exupéry?205 Or both? Well, something has given way and I’m filled with what he calls ‘tender sufferings’. I’m sending you the book, because although the fellow talks drivel when he’s thinking abstractly and in general — for example, in the last chapter: ‘The Men’ — he did on two occasions grip me in the stories he tells. Perhaps it’s because I read so little. But I really like ‘In the Middle of the Desert’. That’s where he explains something that I’ve felt — and still feel — very strongly: that ‘tender sufferings are still riches’. He says of thirst: ‘I no longer form saliva, but neither do I form the sweet images over which I might have groaned. The sun has dried up the well of tears.’ Meditating upon this, images at once formed within me; and though they remained dry and lifeless, it was enough for me to recall that they’d been alive — and to measure the distance between the two.
After that, I abandoned my novel and I’m now writing to you, my little support, which calms me — for our love is resistant even to drought and far beyond all those sweet, vanishing images.
[...]
I can see perfectly well what I’m suffering from at present. Images have come back to me, but not sufficiently swollen with life to give me a real plentitude of heartbreak — merely enough for me to be amazed not to be heartbroken by them. It’s not my disturbed peace I regret, but the violence of the suffering I do not feel.
(Some fellows next to me are eating coffee parfaits. On finishing their delicious meal, they say: ‘I think it’s immoral to dance’ — for there’s talk of reopening the dance-halls on Sundays — ‘the soldiers out there aren’t dancing, are they?’ It reminds me of my grandmother refusing butter with her boiled egg, because the Good Lord would have added some if He’d wanted to, while at the same time sprinkling it with salt.)
It’s now 6 p.m. I walked across the Luxembourg to school today, and couldn’t have felt more sensitive. It was a fine grey-blue day, the sky blue but not clear, with masses of clouds and every so often a clear gap. Not a leaf left on the trees, or on the ground either. The weather almost muggy, albeit cold. I went along to the school and gave my lesson: that class at Henri IV looks a bit more promising than the other one. On my way out — while crossing that first dark, yellowing courtyard, which is so old and pleasing — I thought of yourself when you were a pupil there, and my heart was filled simultaneously with love-admiration and with love-affection for yourself. And then I sent you the books and came to the Mahieu, where I wrote for 2 hours. That makes another 3 hours of work today, even though it’s one of the busiest days at school — which is pretty good. Sorokine was working dutifully in one corner at the Mahieu, but I merely greeted her — it’s not her day. I’m going to do a little bit more work, then at 7 Kos. is coming and we’ll go to the Ursulines to see The Petrified Forest with Bette Davis. I’ll tell you what the film’s like tomorrow.
Goodbye, my dear little one. This letter’s short on anecdotes, but my life’s so peaceful! My heart bleeds for you somewhat, when I see how austere such days of clear conscience and work seem in the long run. And yet I’ve ten times as much distraction and variety as yourself. Goodbye, dear little beloved one. In two months’ time you’ll be in Paris and we’ll career all over the place together. But I find it a bit painful to imagine for you — that brief break. My love, my dear little one, as soon as I’ve cashed the cheque I’ll send a huge parcel of books, since that’s all I can do for you. You seem all poetic and fragile to me this evening. All perfumed. And it’s just as though I can feel you imprisoned inside yourself, which fills me with anguish. A little absolute has nothing to fear — but a perfumed little being suffers from eye-ache, boredom, regrets and the sullens, when the fancy takes him. I love you so, little being. I kiss your poor eyes, and the whole of your dear face, most passionately
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Tuesday 21 November [1939]
Most dear little being
Your Saturday letter brought tears of laughter to my eyes. It’s a real little anthology item, that account of the medical inspection, along with your preamble. I’m glad you were pleased
with the Shakespeare — but it’s a secret, don’t mention it, take good care of it and send it back as soon as possible. Send me the Romains volumes — and 48 once you’ve read it. Send me back Spanish Testament and St Exupéry too, otherwise I’d have to buy new copies.
[...]
At 4.30 I was at the post office, where I found your letter and three from Bost — one of them posted only on Sunday. He’s outraged by Kos.’s behaviour: she has written to him at length, telling him how during that week of silence she’d hated him like in their first year, how she’d remembered all their most disagreeable moments, and how she’d wanted to break off their relations. He found that lousy, and asked for my advice — which I didn’t refrain from giving him. At once he wrote me a letter that was almost passionate — tender and charming, at any rate. Hell not be coming after all until 1 February. I’d like that not to coincide with you but to come straight afterwards — since I too, my love, shall be pretty Goethean after seeing you for all that time.206
I think you’ve done the right thing with Bienenfeld, you know. The future isn’t so black. If we affirm that we love her, she can accept everything. It’s enough to signal clearly our intention to keep our own relations intact and not allow ourselves to be invaded, and she’ll behave sensibly. All that’s needed is a passionate tone in the moments we do give her. Moreover, she has her parents and will always have something or other on her hands, since she’s an active soul.
[...]
There! I’ve been out with Kos., who was all sweetness and light. We merely went and had dinner at the Dôme, where I had sauerkraut in memory of you. I’d eaten a kind of Polish sauerkraut this morning too — which makes a lot for one day. Kos. told me that Dullin had been extraordinarily nice to her, and she was in seventh heaven. She talked to me again about Bost, with whom she has resumed relations by correspondence. She says this business has been a very good thing, because it has shaken up their routine and it was this routine that was hateful. I find that conception of things profoundly stupid, preoccupied as it is with surface appearances. Moreover, it’ll all inevitably become routine again — then she’ll need some fresh tempest. That makes three months I haven’t set eyes on the fellow,’ she told me resentfully.
Alas! my love, what a tedious letter — and I’ve nothing else to tell you. I’m working too hard, there are no adventures left in my day and scarcely any thoughts in my head. I’m going to write Bienenfeld a little note, read The Idiot, and go to sleep.
Till tomorrow, my dear little one. This letter has the sole merit of reflecting my life, which is like that, dry and featureless. I love you, o yourself, who know so well how to express your love for me, and whose day-to-day relations with me — for ten years now — have been ever sparkling fresh. O yourself, my daily bread, and my little sun, and my life, and my joy! I love you, my dear little one. I feel your affection strongly, oh! so strongly, as though you were folding me in your little arms — my dear love
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Wednesday 22 November [1939]
My love
I have the impression I’ve been sending you really short and lousy letters all these last days. But the fact ‘is that absolutely nothing’s happening to me, either outside or inside. Today I’m free as the wind, and am going to write for as long as I’ve anything to say. But there’s still just the same void — my novel’s consuming my time and my thoughts alike. How obliging you are, my dear little one! I’ve received the huge outline, and despite your admonitions I’ll stick to that for the time being.207 First, it conjures up for me a host of rich, precise memories. That year didn’t glance off me entirely, after all — it’s simply that what I needed above all were dates and specific facts. Anyway, I don’t want to lose my momentum. When I get really sick of labouring away like an inventive ant, I’ll take a week off and go into the matter more deeply — but later on. For the work I’m doing at present, your answers are quite sufficient. Thank you, my love, it’s a whole little exam paper you’ve sent me.
[...]
Goodbye, my dear love. I’m living with a tranquil austerity that’s not burdensome, because my eyes are fixed on the Christmas holidays. If that doesn’t work out, it’ll be a dreadful blow. But the chances are that it will work out.
I’m waiting impatiently for your next letter. Are you finding little querencias? Will you be as well fixed up as you were? Do tell me in as much detail as the censorship will allow.
Thank you again, dear little being. You’ve really put some work into it. I love you, my beloved. This morning before getting up I imagined for quite a while that you were beside me, and that when I opened my eyes I’d see your little morning face — without glasses, with your hair all tousled and your eyes all rosy, and with such a tender look. How I long really to see it! I kiss it most passionately, my love
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Thursday 23 November [1939]
My dear love
I’ve got your little Monday letter. It’s a little one, but I’m glad because it tells me that you’re happy — then I’m happy too. I’ve begun a new chapter, which I’m pleased with. It’s a bit exhausting to work as I’m working now, because you have to invent all the time. But it’s enjoyable too, and I think composing all in one go like this ought to provide a certain unity. And polishing it all up afterwards should be an absolute delight.
Yesterday, I did some more work after writing to you. As it was going well, I lingered at the Dôme until 10 to 5; then, just as I was passing through the door, I saw a little fury advancing towards me with a ferocious air — it was Sorokine, with whom I’d had an appointment in my room at a quarter to. She told me that I’d forgotten the appointment and was disgusting. That annoyed me, so as we reached my room I told her, if she was going to whine like that, she’d better leave. ‘Good, I’m leaving’, she said dully and went out of the door — but without closing it. I let her stew for a while to see what she’d do, but then I felt ashamed; so I opened the door and saw she’d just — ever so slowly — moved down a few steps. So I called her roughly back and she clambered up again, dragging her heels. I told her curtly to sit down opposite me for her lesson. I understood then — in miniature — those huge, reprehensible, but irresistible fits of rage which sometimes grip you in the face of weak, defenceless little individuals, and which come from the very annoyance one feels at not being able, or willing, to control oneself better. I experience that with Sorokine, and it’s really shameful. She’s not at all annoying, she’s actually charming with her mysteries and her caprices - it’s with myself that I’m annoyed. I gave her the lesson — an hour on the notion of substance, so she’ll be able to understand Bréhier’s lectures on the Monadology208 — and after an hour she looked at the clock and said mysteriously that we ‘wouldn’t have time’. By an adroit and casual manoeuvre we went and sat on the bed, and I told her what I’d been doing — while her feet and legs shook with a nervous tremor, heightened by a kind of play-acting that was itself nervous. This too annoyed me, so I said — with a crudeness that I myself can’t get over — ‘Just hang on a moment!’ I blushed for it — a Kos. would have left for ever. But she didn’t bat an eyelid, merely calmed down, and after 5 min. I began kissing her. But we didn’t have much time, so after 5 min. I let her go - whereupon she rolled herself into a ball on the bed, half in tears. I tried to console her, but as I didn’t want to be late at the Opera I eventually left her and got ready to go out. I took her with me — looking grim as death — and in the taxi tried to cajole her a bit, but to no avail. She left me in front of the Opera and vanished into the night, her spirits as sombre as the night itself. To finish with her — I met up with her again this morning at 12.30, as on every Thursday, serene and charming, bringing me philosophical problems to solve and toffees. I had lunch with her in the quiet little blue brasserie in Rue Lecourbe where I’ll take you some day. Then I took her by Métro to Sèvres, and from there on foot across the Luxembourg to t
he Latin Quarter. She confided her troubles to me sweetly — the chemistry, her parents, myself — but added that in my case it was still far better than nothing. I was tender as could be with her, and told her lots of little stories. From now on, we’re going to separate the philosophy lesson from the kissing sessions — those kissing sessions in any case set her nerves dreadfully on edge, but she insists on them — and I don’t want to go any further. It’s a little problem. Have I told you that a pupil from some lycée or other is paying her for private lessons at 20 F. an hour, in order to have at least a pale reflection of my lectures? And also that the pupils at Molière used to call me ‘the Beauvoir babe’, which is disrespectful to say the least.
[...]
We got home and Kos. — who was dead tired — said goodnight at once. I couldn’t be more delighted since I feel fresh in the evenings, even though I’m sleeping barely 8 hours and doing hard mental work. I finished off The Idiot and the last hundred pages are fantastic — so much so, that I think I’ll send it off to you after all. Bost tells me he has sent you some books, so you’re rich now.
As I was falling asleep, I heard a vague screeching through my earplugs and great bursts of laughter over my head. These inform me more surely than the sirens, since an air-raid warning’s a festive occasion in this little world — an opportunity to get together in your nightshirts and jabber away noisily. I rammed my plugs in deeper and slept till morning. It seems you could hear the guns so clearly that lots of people went down to the shelters — but with my earplugs I no longer fear anything.