[...]
I think some lycées are going to be kept on in Paris, so I really hope they’ll leave me here.
I’m still living from one day to the next, but if I could only retain this peace of mind I’d be able to work and get by all right on my own. How about you? You’re not too bored, are you, beloved little being? Do tell me everything about yourself. You’re still just as present to me, my love, and I kiss you with all my might.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Sunday [10 September 1939]
Most dear little being
Thank you for writing so well to me. I have your letter bearing the number 1, i.e. Wednesday’s, so I don’t think any have been lost. You must have seen from my two long letters (if you’ve indeed received them) that I too am not at all existential, but like you — albeit with more resources — simply get through life from one day to the next. In the first days this primarily represented a kind of flight. But since achieving a temporary peace of mind yesterday, I’m abandoning myself to the day in hand without fleeing — but without seeking anything either. It must be said that Kos. is a magnificent resource. Perhaps for the first time in my life, conversation no longer seems like a kind of difficult, ritual game, but I’m in the know. And she seems very open, and absolutely ready to understand. Moreover, she’s as decent and estimable as possible in incredibly rotten circumstances. Did I tell you she’s talking of finding a job, of writing? Yes, I think I did.
Yesterday after writing to you we went and posted our letters., then ensconced ourselves at the Deux Magots. The weather was sultry. There were lots of people we knew, as there are again today: Agnes Capri in a ravishing print dress, and Sonia — who hasn’t yet skedaddled — and lots of others. We chatted for a long time, then dined at a little snackbar in Rue Vavin, where we spotted Gerassi. We had a drink at the Dome before going home, and when we got in we tried to put some music on, but I don’t know which is worst out of the records, the needles or the gramophone — so Beethoven’s 7th Symphony came out all mangled. As we were sleepy, we soon gave up and went to bed.
Now that there are no more false alarms, you can sleep wonderfully in Paris because it’s so quiet. This morning I got up at about 9, and Kos. brought me tea in some charming and mysterious cups belonging to Pardo (for we’ve ransacked the whole place). Then I wrote to my family — my mother now composes ‘lofty’ letters about war — and called in on my mother’s instructions to get some news of my aged grandmother. How it did move me, finding myself back in that apartment from the days of your military service.89 Heaps of old, old memories came back to me — I already loved you very intensely. My aged grandmother’s senile. She had a fat woman with her, who’s a friend of my Aunt Lili and involved in civil defence. She was urging my grandmother to leave: ‘Children and old people have to be evacuated at once’, she was saying. But my grandmother placed her hands on her round belly and said with a mutinous, obstinate air: I’m not a child, though.’ She’s spry rather than dull-witted in her senility. I quickly left her and went to the hotel. Disaster! — I hadn’t slept there, and the Boxer90 and Lili had been there yesterday evening and left a note under my door saying: ‘We’re at number 8, come and see us tomorrow at 9.30’. It was now midday and they’d left, and I’m afraid they may take it as a sign of ill will — and quite apart from that I’d have liked to see them. There were two huge letters from Sorokine, who’s tending and wiping hundreds of children somewhere in the Pyrenees. She’s gloomy, but still just as agreeable. Also a mysterious telegram notification. But the notification has to be stamped before you can go to the post office, and in order to get it stamped at the police station you need a residence certificate, and as it was Sunday I wasn’t able to do anything at all — I’ll go tomorrow morning. I think it must be Bienenfeld, in a panic because she hasn’t had any news of me, or because she knows I haven’t had any news of her. There was your letter too. I met Kos. at 1, and we had lunch at the little restaurant in Rue Vavin, then drank coffee at the Deux Magots. After that, we went for a walk in Montmartre. You know, now I really understand that story which I used to find so literary, about the fellow who sees his wife and child die without shedding a tear, but then weeps over a slave. There are tiny memories which tear at my heart — in Montmartre, for example — whereas I’m left quite unmoved by the big, serious things.
We went to Place du Tertre — which was very crowded — then to Wepler’s for a drink, and now here we are back at the Dome. We’re going to have dinner, go home, probably chat for a while, then sleep.
I’m quite peaceful as you can see, dear little being. It seems to me too as though we were talking, when I write to you or especially when I receive a letter — it makes me feel close, so close. From time to time I look at your photos, and then I’m tempted to feel sad. But I feel so joined to you that I haven’t yet realized I won’t see you for a long while. I love you, my beloved, I cover your eyes, your cheeks, your whole dear face with kisses.
Your charming Beaver
116 Rue d’Assas
[Paris]
Monday 11 September [1939]
Dear little being
No letter from you today. On the other hand, I’ve had another two from Bost — who’s very affecting. He explains how he really likes digging trenches, how he isn’t at all gloomy, and how he’s just wondering if he’ll be scared to death when he gets shot at. He asks for tobacco and books, which I’ll send him. When you’ve finished Gide’s Journal, perhaps you could send him that too? After writing to you yesterday we went and had dinner at the little restaurant, and as it was almost full we had to sit at the same table as Gerassi He dropped one clanger after another, till I was in a cold sweat. ‘I can’t really recall any longer how I first slept with you,’ he said to me. Kos. told me afterwards that I’d changed countenance, and she’d felt utterly dismayed for an instant; but he’d only meant that old night at my grandmother’s. I was on the rack, and fled in disorder. We went for a long walk along Bd St Michel, and sat down at the Capoulade. After that we went home, and on the way home embarked on a big explanation that lasted till midnight. Kos. is full of resentment against Wanda, though Wanda — displeased by our tiff — has allowed her to tell me the truth, i.e. that everything was now settled between you and her. The latest news seems to indicate that Kos. wasn’t lying, and that Wanda did in fact leave for Laigle while pretending to be in Paris (from where Kos. was forwarding any letters). This is also what K. told Bost — but I can’t quite understand, since at the same time she told Bost she’d lied to me. Perhaps that was in the letter she wrote me at La Pouèze, and which I never received. At any rate, all this is fuzzy and unimportant. I told Kos. that I believed her and we made up effusively. We went to bed at around midnight. As I was rereading your last letter in bed, I heard frenzied voices: ‘We don’t need your kind of spies round here!’, ‘Just put a slug through their shutters! — Light! Light!’. I tried to negotiate through the window — there was a blue veil over my light — but the policemen were in no joking mood, so I eventually put it out. Then I was just having a splendid dream — along the lines of Trafic d’artnes, with myself filling the role of heroic detective — when Kos. opened my door in some agitation and I heard the loud wail of the sirens. When I half-heartedly suggested to Kos. that we go downstairs, she accepted with alacrity; so we went down to the cellar, where we found a number of chairs in a tidy row and sat down gloomily. A few tenants then turned up with little campstools, and the concierge told us sharply that the chairs belonged to some gentlemen from across the road, who’d soon be along to occupy them. So we went back upstairs, on the pretext of fetching something to sit on, and I gently persuaded Kos. to wait a bit before going down again. We lay down side by side on my bed, fully dressed and unable to sleep because of the whistle blasts and loud voices of the policemen outside in the street. There was once the very distant sound of gunfire, but we fell asleep as soon as we heard the All Clear. It had lasted barely ¾ of an hour,
and so long as you can sleep on in the morning it’s really no hardship.
I rose at about 9.30 and we drank tea and talked till midday, then I went to the hotel to pick up my mail and a residence certificate I needed in order to get a telegram notification stamped. After that I went to pick up the cable from the post office — it’s so complicated! The cable was from Bienenfeld, saying that she’d received my news and I should come quickly. I wrote to her to explain that I couldn’t leave Kos. immediately — which is true — but that I’d come in a week or ten days. I wouldn’t like her to be upset, though, so I’m a bit worried. I hid out at the Closerie des Lilas to write a quick letter to Bost. He’s still asking for news of you — do write to him, he breaks my heart. I rejoined Kos. and we ate at the snack bar, which is very agreeable, then had coffee at the Dome. It’s marvellous how fellows keep staring at us and even discreetly propositioning us — they must take us for women of easy virtue, or women hard up for men. It’s true that on the streets of Paris you don’t see many women wearing make-up, nicely turned out, and looking carefree — other than at the Deux Magots. We were actually being real ‘women on the home front’ today — packing up a parcel of books for Bost, writing to the forces, and fixing up our home. We bought pots of powdered paint and Kos. mixed it with water, oil, and even Ambre Solaire, then daubed all the windowpahes artistically, while I played Petrushka on the gramophone and wrote letters — with an interval for tea, which involved little cakes and conversation. I don’t know what Gégé will say when she comes back to her flat, but it’s really successful as a mausoleum — not the least ray of light now penetrates it from outside. It’s just finished now and we’re about to go out. The weather has been drizzly all day. Perhaps we’ll go and listen to records at the Boubou’s place. It’s a strange life of leisure that I’m leading, empty and devoid of much meaning, but — shocking to say — full of charm. I haven’t yet realized it’s for a long time — I don’t think about the future. My love, is it true I’m not going to see you for a long time? Are you sure there’s no way of taking a trip to Nancy? Do write to me, dear little being — I love you. If I could only see you again, just for a few hours even . . . Have you got my letters? Tell me how you felt when you received them, do talk to me — I’ll keep my peace of mind only if I can feel you really close. What books do you want? I kiss you with all my might, yourself, my happiness and my life.
Your charming Beaver
Remember! I haven’t told you anything about Kos. or about Wanda,
116 Rue d’Assas
[Paris]
Tuesday 12 [September 1939]
My love,
I got your two letters this morning, Thursday’s and Friday’s, and they wrung my heart. You had no news of me, of course, as I got your address only on Friday. Communicating’s a lengthy business — it’s so far — for the first time I couldn’t stifle a huge, desperate longing to see you. I’m uneasy at the idea that you’re going with the artillery. You’re not going to be in safety at all. The idea that you could be running risks is unbearable to me. Do write and tell me, precisely and honestly, how exposed you’re going to be — I’m tormented by anxiety. I also had a letter from Bost, who has played a dirty trick on me. He was leaving on Saturday with a day’s provisions and didn’t know where. He was leaving — and it obviously wasn’t towards the rear, so he’s being sent to the front. I must get used to thinking about him as though he were dead, but my whole being rebels. I relapsed into a feeling of horror all morning — always that blank horror, devoid even of any concrete regrets.
Yesterday the day had been agreeable, as I told you, and it had ended agreeably too. I went to eat a bite with Kos. at about 9, then we called in at the Dome, where we found the Boubou at the centre of a tableful of noisy, picturesque Spaniards. It reminded me of my first year after my agrégation — those big conglomerations that would split up into subgroups and jabber away in a variety of languages. Kos. was highly entertained, and also charming. We got rid of all the people, then went and listened to music at Gerassi’s — but he doesn’t play us his records with very good grace. On the wireless we heard a fine ‘Elegy’ by Fauré, and also Firebird; and on the gramophone some very lovely variations by Beethoven on a theme by Mozart — then we went home to sleep. This morning everything was grey, and Kos. had toothache and was plaintive. All the same, there was an agreeable moment over breakfast. I’d been to buy eggs and milk (I enjoy this domestic life) and we talked — even about coats and hairstyles — while readjusting to our existence. After that, I called in at my place and found that disastrous mail. There were also some little letters from Bienenfeld, who really would like me to come. But her mother’s furious at the idea. Bienenfeld’s asking whether I could give that money back to her father. If I get your salary and the N.R.F. money, I’ll do so. But I really would have liked to fetch up the Kos. sisters and have a bit of money in hand — so do please write to the N.R.F. One thing, at least, has happened to please me: a note from my headmistress, letting me know that they’re keeping me in Paris and I’ll be the only candidate for my post. I went for a walk through the streets, utterly gloomy after those letters and reimmersed entirely in the war. Then I went to the Dome and Kos. did me some good, even though she’s very downcast too. I didn’t tell her about Bos, it was pointless. We ate and then went to the Champs-Élysées, which was pretty deserted and absolutely dismal. After strolling up and down it for a while, we went into a cinema — only 1¼ hours, the whole programme. There was a bad thriller, a very good old Mickey Mouse, and a newsreel on the declaration of war. After that we went to my place (to 71 Rue de Rennes, I mean) and spent a long time rummaging among old things and books, which was quite fun — but I no longer have any past there.
Do you want Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady? It’s not at all bad — I found it there.
After that we went and ate in Rue Vavin, before going home. We’re both tired to death — I’m not sure why — and I’m saddened to death. I’m waiting — I’m not sure what for — I think I’ll be waiting till the war ends. I’m still blocked, but from time [to time] I remember something from that trip to Morocco, or Megève, and it wrings my heart. But that wouldn’t be a problem — it’s fear that’s the worst thing — which this evening has merged into despondency and a headache. My beloved, I feel your love so clearly in your letters, I feel you joined to me, I love you so. I kiss you, beloved little being, with all my might.
Your charming Beaver
Envelope:
F.M.
Private Sartre
Observation Post
Artillery Headquarters
Postal Zone 108 *
116 rue d’Assas
[Paris]
Thursday 14 September [1939]
Most dear little being
I was very depressed on Tuesday evening when I wrote to you. I went to bed, and for the first time since you left I reread your letters and spent a long time looking at your little photos. How I love your face! I recalled lots of images of you and felt passionately how much I loved you. I shed a few tears, and that brought a kind of relaxation. Yesterday morning I had another letter from you. So far there’s not a single one missing. You seemed to be working well and not being bored, which comforted me. And then Gerassi — whom I met at the Dome — assured me that, given the address you’d sent me, you certainly weren’t in any danger. I was glad to hear this. But I’d like to know precisely how matters do stand, so tell me straight. Nothing from you this morning, but it sometimes skips one delivery. I’m just anxious to know whether you got my letters and the book — I do hope so. Nothing from Bost, but that’s only to be expected: since he was being transferred, he won’t have written. I’m a little less anxious about him now. I think that what’s going on is the ‘concentration of forces’ always being talked about in the papers, and that he’ll be in no danger before the first serious attacks, which means days and perhaps even weeks of respite. Moreover, even if he does die nothing tangible will occur: I’ll
continue not to be able to see him, and doubtless my memories will continue indefinitely to remain blocked. It will be an annihilation. Alongside the fullness of a presence, that nothing constituted by an absence is astonishing — why can’t it be a contrary fullness? It’s as though some trick were involved. At present, I feel a kind of gloomy resignation regarding Bost. I asked Kos. what effect it would have on her if he died. She told me that she’d wondered at once about that, and that it would be a great sorrow but not a disaster, because altnough their relations were most agreeable there was nothing essential about them for her. I was glad to hear that. Moreover, I’ve no remorse where she’s concerned and am more and more determined, if Bost does return, not to sacrifice him to her. What most surprises me is the fact that she hasn’t even bothered to have his letters forwarded from Laigle to Paris, and that she doesn’t feel a more specific anxiety. There’s a deep frivolity in her, within even the sincerest and most touchingly tragic feelings. She’s rotten to Wanda too — she hasn’t written her a word. I don’t think they’re getting on very well.