Meanwhile, I’ve written this letter and am now going to mail it, then I’ll go to the Source to meet Bost. He may now spend quite a while away from the front, in Marne or Oise, in which case it would be possible for me to go and visit him there.
My little one, tomorrow I’ll have some news from you. Yesterday morning, when I called in at about 1 p.m., there wasn’t anything yet. I was telling you yesterday how I’ve kept the memory of how you last looked — with your forage-cap and glasses, in the shadows of the compartment behind the other fellows, smiling at me so tenderly. My little all-beloved, I’m with you utterly and surrounded by you and protected from everything, even from the sadness my dear images of you might hold. I love you. I cover your sweet little face with kisses — my love
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Monday 19 February [1940]
My sweet little one, my love
Just now I got three letters from you — and it’s I who am racked by remorse because I’ve written so poorly since Thursday, especially with that letter which got lost. O my little one, how sweet and tender you are, and how potent it is to feel how you love me. I feel quite overwhelmed by happiness this evening because of those letters. What’s more, I’ll perhaps be seeing you in a month. I love you so much, my love. So I went off yesterday evening to meet Bost at the Source. [...] It was a truly beautiful evening. Truly (apart from times with yourself) I’ve never experienced anything so potent and rich in my entire life. You’d sensibly told me that — regarding the pleasure of this leave — I should make allowance for what Little Bost would be. And he has been beyond all that I hoped for: in himself, in how he felt things and talked about them, and also in his relations with me. I honestly felt there was no comparison between the ways in which he cares for Kos. or for me — and felt, too, how I was essential to him. He was charmingly tender and I felt altogether united with him. We went and slept at the hotel on that square with the flights of stairs, opposite the one where you once went with Wanda. The good lady was quite touched when she recognized us.
[...]
I left Bost outside his brother’s place. He’ll see me again at length one afternoon before his departure. I’m not sad about leaving him. I came here (to my place) to reread your letters, over which I’ve shed a few tears, and to write to you. I’m half-dead from lack of sleep, but without being overwrought. On the contrary, sleepiness anaesthetizes regrets and feelings, and I’m literally thinking only of the moment when I’ll be able to stretch out between the sheets and sleep. I’ll have to spend the evening with Bienenfeld between now and then, but luckily I shan’t have to make any great efforts. I think I’m going to grab half an hour’s sleep before going off to meet her.
Here’s another wretched letter — I’m ashamed — yours are so tender and altogether rich, my love. You seem all pathetic to me, as you were in the train — and in your hutments. I so hope you’ll find a nice little querencia, my little one, and that you’ll get back to your beautiful novel.
Goodbye, tomorrow I’ll write better, but I haven’t got all that much to tell. I’m not at all upset. On the contrary, this affair with Bost now seems cleansed of all the old slag and brought back to what’s essential and pleasing about it. Now I’m going to eke out a week of ‘atonement’ with Poupette, Bienenfeld and Sorokine — then it’ll be back to dutiful work for twenty days — then the holidays.
As these leave periods come to an end, it seems really strange to be finding myself alive and all happy. I love you, my beloved. If I gazed at you lovingly when the train left, then remember that expression and think how, at this very moment, my face is just as full of passion.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Tuesday 27 February [1940]
My sweet little one
[...]
My dear, dear little beloved being, I had a sweet letter from you today and felt a bit sad at the thought of the harsh letter I wrote you yesterday, and Bienenfeld’s letter which I posted along with it. I love you so much — how disagreeable all those rebukes heaped on your head must have been for you! But, my love, you really did go too far with Bienenfeld. A bit more consideration was needed — that girl’s no Gibert. I went to the Hoggar yesterday, bearing your two letters ańd feeling pretty anxious. She showed up, tragic and beautiful, with a kind of necessity for which I was grateful to her. She was wearing her dark red dress, and a very pretty black hat with a net, which gave her a fateful look — the look of a woman still young but already marked by life. She read your letters, she restrained herself with astounding guts — but she was transfigured by anger. And honestly, I don’t know what got into your head. That letter, with its moral exhortations and protestations of esteem, was quite unacceptable. I’ll tell you quite bluntly what it reminded me of — the Scoutmaster gazing into Sorokine’s eyes and saying: ‘Now you must follow your own path without me, all by yourself.’ Bienenfeld felt it that way, and tore every sentence apart with gusto. And she was humiliated that you didn’t even take the trouble to explain things to her properly. Humiliated and disgusted by the passionate letters you were writing her only a fortnight earlier. I found it desperately unpleasant. I wasn’t at heart in sympathy with her, but I found her estimable in her attitude that evening, and scathing, and right. She’s not an idiot, and you didn’t take that sufficiently into account. It’s quite true that your letter was indefensible. She knows there’s a lie somewhere and is wondering what the truth is — she’s not without her suspicions even with respect to me. I still think scorn will help her to pick herself up and survive it — but she’s taking it hard.
[...]
I’m going to bed now, my little one, since I’m dropping asleep. My beloved, whom I love so much, I’d have liked to talk all this over with you instead of writing about it. I’m afraid my letters may seem too condemnatory — and I’m incapable of really condemning you, I find it so abstract. I love you, my dear little one, and am so happy when I think about seeing you again in 6 weeks. The arrangement you propose is perfect: no one will suspect a thing and we’ll see as much of each other as possible. My love, I so long to have you beside me once more! I love you most passionately — little face gazing fiercely at me from the wall opposite. Goodnight, my sweet little one — so tenderly loved.
Your charming Beaver
Le Dôme
[Paris]
Thursday 29 February [1940]
My sweet little one
No letter from you. That means they gave you your jab on Tuesday and you were all feverish. It’s a very good thing you’ve taken a bed at the hotel, but why don’t you take one for the month, so that you’ll have a genuine little querencia? The food’s good there. I’m a bit distraught without my letter.
I did get a very amiable one from Little Bost. He says a safe-conduct is needed to go and see him — but it must be easy to obtain, so near to Paris. I’ll go and find out tomorow. He seems a bit gloomy about being back, but nothing to worry about.
[...]
Bienenfeld arrived a bit later, very glum. But I think she’s gradually recovering and it’s something she’ll absorb quite quickly. She talked about it to Levy all yesterday evening, of course, displaying your letter — in which Levy detected a certain sadism. I’m still just as cool about her, and that won’t change.
[...]
There, my love. It’s a fortnight now since the train carried your little face away. I’ve become once again just as before, but happier because you’re going to come again soon, and I touched you — you’re even more present to me than in the month of January. I love you so much. In six weeks’ time I’ll once again be in the black cafe near the Gare de l’Est, with my heart pounding, and see you arrive. I love you, and kiss you with all my Beaver’s heart.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Friday 1 March [1940]
Most dear little being
That’s what I call letters! I’ve just received your Tuesday letter, when you
had your jab — the censors had opened and resealed it — and along with it the enormous missive of the following day. That one was so thick it had come open all on its own, but there was nothing missing there either. My little one, I’m absolutely convinced by what you tell me. The only thing I still reproach you with is having dispatched Bienenfeld a bit summarily — but that’s unimportant. Especially as she’s already well on the way to recovery. She was quite sprightly this morning at lunch, so I asked her: ‘You’re looking very cheerful, how come?’ and she told me: ‘I had trouble removing Sartre from my life, but now he’s removed.’ Didn’t take long, did it? It’s comical how that girl goes completely off the deep end in words, then finds joy and comfort in the same way. Constructing relations and splitting up cast her into states of ecstasy or despair, like with mad people. I asked her if her calm came from the fact she didn’t see things as final; but she told me that, on the contrary, she no longer had any thought of being able to love you now. Of course, it’s not over that easily — she’ll have twitches — but it’s strange, all the same. What I find irritating and embarrassing is her determination to mix me up with herself. She asks me for confidences — if I still love you, why I write to you, etc. I’m afraid she may want to continue writing to you, because I write to you — and on the pretext that she’s now sufficiently detached from you for that. I’ll end up having to tell her that I’ve stopped writing — but really, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life hiding my relations with you from her! Do advise me. At least she’s not shocked by the idea of my going to see you, and if I go and see Bost I’d quite like to say it’s you I’m with. What do you think? She was gloomy again at 5, but that’s because she’d seen Wahl, because her essay on truth wasn’t going well, and because she was puzzling over truth in general and the meaning of life, saying she no longer knew what to think about anything. All of this struck me as really pretty empty, and I still feel very cool about her.
[...]
I went to meet up with Bienenfeld again at the Mt St Michel, which was very elegant and rather dashing. They tried to dump us at an impossible table, so we swept out — leaving two francs for the bread we’d started nibbling. We went to the Capoulade, where we ate and talked. She was really nice with me — seeking intimacy. She made a criticism of my novel which rather rankled, because it’s fair: which is that it lacks the gratuitousness you find in Hemingway, so that everything’s always there for something. That’s what you were saying to me, but as a compliment — and it’s indeed what I wanted, but obviously it loses in charm what it gains in solidity. She also says that in my work — like in yours — there’s too much thought, whereas the pleasing thing about American novels is the absence of thought. That’s true too. But you shouldn’t make a dogma out of the American novel either, or try to do that at all costs if the things you’ve got to say are different. That’s where she was talking drivel, when she said it was all a matter of style and method. But it certainly does represent a genre of novel — while other genres can still be more attractive and have other qualities. What do you think?
[...]
I’ve just come in, written to Bost, finished off this letter to you, and am now off to sleep — it’s almost 12.30. My little one, I’ve read your letter once again and am absolutely convinced. I’m satisfied with all your resolutions — I who precisely was condemning your suspect generosity. I think you’re right, and a clean sweep has now been made. I approve of you wholeheartedly. We’ll talk about all this in a month’s time, my love. I’ll be seeing you just after the Easter holidays — how splendid that will be! I love you, my beloved, and kiss you so passionately — o little totally-refurbished one, little pure one.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Saturday 2 March [1940]
Most dear little being
I’m a bit upset by your letter, even though you’ve told me not to let it disturb me. O my beloved, I love you so intensely and do so wish I could hug you tight and see your little face and speak to you. When I think how worried you were the day before yesterday, because of me and my feelings for — or rather judgements on — you, and when I picture the strange state in which you found yourself, I weep with impatience to see you. It’s as though I were seeing you through a transparent but deceptive glass: I’m borne towards you, you’re so close, I feel as if I’m about to touch you, but then — no, there’s this obstacle, I have to write, and the letters take two days to arrive, and the reply takes another two days, and letters are anyway too short. I picture you turning them inside out in annoyance as you do with me, when you question me about some story I’ve been told about in a couple of words, but of which you want to extract an hour-long account from me. And the letter’s just like me — all stubborn, saying just what has been put into it. My dear little one, I want to see you — and never have I felt such tenderness for you. How can you imagine, sweet little being, that I don’t think you utterly honest and pure with me? There’s no more bracketing off and never will be, my love. Your words and smiles aren’t signs — I believe in them as totally as it’s possible to believe in anything. My love, I think you were right to break with Bienenfeld. I think only well of you. It’s true I found it unpleasant, for the reason you mention — that sentence to W.: I’d trample the whole world underfoot’259 — but I’m over that. And you must have been out of your mind, my little one, to believe that could prevent me from writing to you. It’s annoying because tomorrow’s Sunday — a letterless day — so I’ll have to wait for Monday to know if you’ve had my letter, if you’ve emerged from that strange state, and if you’ve recovered your peace of mind. My love, it so touches me — you can’t imagine how much — that you should care as you do about my letters, and my judgements. I feel so intensely how you care for me, and am so happy about the fact that you’re with me. It’s the eleventh year of happiness you’ve given me, my little one, and never has our love been stronger or purer. I love you — quite passionately. I’d like you to be all imbued with it and see how beautiful you are in my heart, dear little image.
[...]
At 7.30 I left and went to meet Bienenfeld at the Ternes Dupont, before going to a concert at the Salle Pleyel. She was under the weather. She has done with you, but the meaning of life’s bothering her and she no longer knows whom she cares for — even I myself am ‘tossed to and fro’ in her heart. You were right, that rupture’s introducing a certain coolness between her and me too — and that opens up prospects of freedom for me, since she’s soon going to need a man. She’s already talking about getting drunk, soon she’ll be looking for adventure, then another love — and I’ll be delivered. She’s not by any means so groggy as all that — she’s now concerned only with what attitude to take, what I think of her, etc. She’s not gay, of course, but she seems even more resilient than I thought. I definitely don’t find her very appealing — it’s over.
Goodbye, my love. I’ll write at length again tomorrow. I love you passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Café Perrier,
Rue de la Boétie, Paris VII]
Sunday 3 March [1940]
Most dear little being
[...]
I’m not sure whether or not you should write to Bienenfeld. You could write and tell her you find writing pointless — or write her stilted letters at extremely infrequent intervals. I don’t at all think she’s clinging on to you — indeed, I’ve been quite surprised by it. I think she’d like you not to disappear from her life — her inclination being to hang on to everything — but she’s a bit self-critical about it. I’ll keep you well posted. In the light of her letters and my own, I’d like you to write to me at length about what you think of her attitude.
[...]
Returning home, I arrived before 8 and, as Kos. didn’t turn up till 8.30, was able to get on with some correcting of pupils’ work. I don’t think I’m going to continue my journal — it’s too far behind and I keep it up only out of habit. It no longer interes
ts me, and I’d rather keep all my time for letters — you’re already finding mine too short. Kos. eventually showed up, terribly tired and gloomy, and we spent two wretched hours at the Dôme — which was her fault, since she was utterly down in the dumps. I came home at 11 — which is now — and am going to bed, as I’m too tired. I’m reading an enjoyable detective story, which I’ll be sending you pretty soon.[...]
Goodbye, beloved little being. I love you with all my might. Come back to me soon, my love
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Monday 4 March [1940]
Most dear little being
What a joy it is to receive such long letters! I’ve had two today and am so happy. My love, how splendid it would be if you spent all summer in the rear! I’ll be free by the month of June this year, you know, and provided I just pop back to Paris for the prize-giving and the baccalaureat orals, I’ll be able to instal myself close by you. [...]
As for Bienenfeld, I subscribe wholeheartedly to everything you say, as you must have seen from my last letters. Why doesn’t she hold any appeal for me? Probably — although I felt she deserved respect for the way she took things — because of that hollow, cold side she has, despite the outbursts of passion. You’ve seen through me: it’s quite true that, in experiencing this rupture along with her, willy-nilly I did rather take her side. I never blamed you for making the break, since after all that’s what I’d advised you to do. But I blamed us — myself as much as you, actually — in the past, in the future, in the absolute: the way we treat people. I felt it was unacceptable that we’d managed to make her suffer so much. In fact, though, she isn’t suffering all that much, so I feel much calmer about things. It’s quite true what people say, that one soon resigns oneself to other people’s troubles.