Kos. has seen Sorokine and seems to have taken to her greatly. I think it’s sincere, actually — she sees her as a little girl presenting no danger. She’s none too keen on Bienenfeld, but Wanda — who met her — said Bienenfeld appeared an ‘elegant young lady’. Bienenfeld found Wanda ugly. It was only a brief encounter on the stairs — they didn’t even say hello — and I was rather embarrassed.
My sweet little one, can you give me the exact address of Mme Pierre?193 The name of the village where she is? Do you think she might put me up for one night — from Saturday to Sunday — if need be, or find me a room? Could she write me a letter of invitation, which I could produce? That would be perfect. Do this as soon as possible, please, in case Bost makes up his mind. He seems really to want to see me — ever since I went out there, so that he feels I’m closer than before to his present life. Thank you. Don’t forget, please.
In a minute I’ll go and shut myself in the lavatory to reread your letters in peace. Bienenfeld keeps telling me: ‘Hurry up!’ — she’s tiresome. She loves you passionately, yet it’s a struggle to make her write to you every day. ‘Let’s write short letters,’ she says, while I plead: ‘We mustn’t neglect him, let’s write long letters.’ Goodbye, my dear love. Tomorrow evening it’ll be over. Then, after that, I’ll have a time full of work and peace — I can feel it and it makes me happy. I’ll be all at one with you, all dutiful and happy. My beloved, you love me so dearly, and I love you so dearly. I kiss you all over your face, my dear life
Your charming Beaver
* Meyerson had given her an essay to write on resentment — which had delighted her.
Le Select
[Paris]
Sunday 12 November [1939]
My love
At last I can write to you at my leisure, which gives me fantastic pleasure. It’s 6 o’clock and I’ve just put Bienenfeld on the train. I really liked her today, since she couldn’t have been more rational and charming — and also because I was going to leave her, so it all seemed less burdensome. But yesterday there was a big scene. As I told you, I was very much on edge when I was writing to you — and she was too. We left the Dôme, and she began to reproach me for not wanting to leave you to her for 6 days during your leave. Flushing with anger, I told her I couldn’t understand how she envisaged our relations; that she seemed to see the threesome as an exact tripartite division, which astonished me. She told me she did indeed reckon in future to cut our lives into thirds — and, for example, during the holidays spend one month with me, óne with you, and leave one month for us. I said she was mistaken — that things wouldn’t be like that — and for a moment there was a real, sharp quarrel. I said if we were to proceed in that way, then the result of her arrival in my life would be that, instead of the three months I used to have with you, I’d be given one month of you, one of her, and one empty month — which really would be too injurious. She defended herself fiercely. We went up to my room, and she said she could see I loved her less than you. I said that I loved her just as much, but had more need of you — and, when pressed, that if I had to go exclusively with one or other, I’d go with you. She sobbed, but then calmed down, and we continued the discussion in a gentler vein. I explained my life with you to her, and that those ten years hadn’t been idyllic; that there’d been separations, difficulties of every kind, etc. (exaggerating enormously); and that though this didn’t constitute a stock of happiness on which to rest, it had nevertheless ‘situated’ me differently from her with respect to you. That our relations (yours and mine) didn’t have the youth and ardour of those we enjoyed with her; but that it was necessary precisely to make up for that by their duration. That I had many fewer years than she ahead of me in which to be happy — that I’d be old while she was still young. Lastly, that our situations of life and with respect to you were so different, that dividing our lives into three equal parts would be a false kind of justice. She was quite struck by these arguments. She also remembered that until August she’d seen the threesome as a base made up of you and me, with a projecting point that was her, rather than as something perfectly symmetrical. She acknowledged that she’d formerly had a respect for our relations which she has now lost. It cheered her up to think she’d actually been of my opinion.
All this was doubtless pretty harsh to tell her, and in cold blood I’d not have done so; but I’m glad I did, because she was in the process of taking us down too dangerous a path. She really could have reproached us, moreover, with not having made things clear. I spoke in my own name only, insisting what’s more on the fact that you loved us both equally, and it was I alone who made a distinction — one not of feeling, actually, but of need, metaphysics and ethics. It was agreed that we wouldn’t bother you with these disputes, and she won’t mention them to you — so don’t allude to them. But I did say I believed you also thought those ten years of life in common had given me rights over you of a kind no one else could have — that you thought you owed yourself to me first. Speak along the same lines when the opportunity arises, stressing that idea of ‘being situated’ which convinced her. She’s amusing, actually, since she says things like the following: ‘But I feel anguished precisely because you’re older than I am — I must take advantage of you before you’re too old!’ And she wonders what’U become of her ‘afterwards’, when we’re too old. She told me she loved us exactly the same, and wouldn’t be able to choose between leaving one of us or the other. That you were gayer, more sensual, coarser, and with an indescribable character deriving from the fact that you’re a male. In my case, it’s more serious, purer, more religious. I explained to her at great length that she must theorize her life rather than us; that you and I theorized our lives, and if she adopted that viewpoint her life with us — allowing for all the restrictions I’d imposed — would perhaps strike her as less simply idyllic than she was hoping, but rich and beautiful for all that. She was convinced, and told me today that she found this new viewpoint rather hard, but seductive — because more complex. You can’t imagine how relieved I am to have warned her like this. For she must be taken seriously, you know. She’ll insist on every promise made to her being kept. But she no longer strikes me as dangerous in the way she was before. What’s more, my relations with her seemed infinitely more genuine today, and have become quite precious to me again. I thought perhaps you’d rebuke me — and, to tell the truth, it was for no good reason but out of annoyance and agitation that I began that outburst. But, after this day spent with her, I’m satisfied. It has wrenched her abruptly out of her disordered fits and brought her back to reflection, good will and above all a sense of reality - and she was infinitely more engaging.
Yesterday from 7 to 10 we talked in my room, then ate at the Select and went to bed: a pathetic, passionate night. I felt quite sickened by passion — like foie gras, and poor quality into the bargain — and was afraid of today’s day. Quite to the contrary, however, she was very pleasing. We rose late, had lunch at the Milk Bar, then went for a long walk to Montmartre. The weather was mild and melancholy. Lots of nightclubs are still partly open — from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. — while lots of others are dead. We had a drink at Montmartre’s red cafe, then strolled here, there and everywhere. The Maison Rouge lives on, but was empty - the Escadrille too. We talked about her work, her life, her future, and our relations — and I rediscovered a bit of that truth there used to be in our relations with her, and at the same time rediscovered a great deal of affection for her. Above all, there was something very touching about the way she thought she was going to undergo an intellectual reformation, down there in Rennes, and reflect upon the situation — also about all that diligence of hers. She was interested, and although she found what I told her pretty painful, she was glad to have a field of mental activity to which she could apply herself. I told her to be sure and write to me how it all worked out in her mind. We returned to Montparnasse, I put her on the train and now I’m writing to you. [...] I’ve reread your two letters of yesterday at leisure, my b
eloved. I love you — and how strongly I feel your love! I’ll get another tomorrow, perhaps two. Do let me know what you think about everything I tell you. Goodbye, my little beloved husband, most dear little being. I kiss you most passionately
Your charming Beaver
I’ve had a charming letter from That Lady, to whom I’ll write tomorrow.
La Coupole
102 Bd du Montparnasse
[Paris]
Monday 13 November [1939]
My love
Here are two long letters from you — dated Thursday and Friday. I’m quite moved that you should speak to me so tenderly, and be so full of precautions and delicacy regarding Bienenfeld and Wanda. It’s so charming of you, my love, to have included with your official letter a long note for my eyes only, and to have sought to forestall and disarm anything that might be disagreeable to me. I love you — we’re as one. I’m so overwhelmed by your love that I feel an agonizing happiness within — you know, one of those moments of happiness that would make up for a whole year of gloom and tears. I have no words to tell you how much I love your little photo with the anemometer. I’ve never had such a good one. I looked at it after reading your first letter and was quite overcome by suddenly seeing that dear, lovely mug of yours after reading your tender words. I’m happy, my sweet little one.
As it happens, the letter arrived after Bienenfeld’s departure, so I’ll forward the little note for her along with her photo. As I’ve told you, she didn’t ask to see your letters, and I post-dated them — verbally — which made perfect sense.
Yesterday, after writing to you from the Select, I went to the hotel to meet up with Kos. I felt vague, tired, sticky from those days of passion and at the same time touched by that last afternoon and the last images of Bienenfeld, which were charming. I wondered too how Kos. was going to greet me. She was extremely edgy for her part, with a strange expression: a determination not to be hostile, but with something resentful beneath her amiability — it was painful to see. We went to the Select and had a bite to eat while she told me animatedly about her life, and stories about Wanda that W. must have told you. And then her animation dwindled and I could feel her tensing up again. She learnt from the landlady of the hotel, who’s an absolute blabbermouth, that Bienenfeld had slept at the hotel. She told me this in passing, but with annoyance in her voice. Apparently, the morning after that night of the air-raid warning — when Lexia too had slept at the hotel — the good lady gave Wanda a real earful, asking: ‘What on earth are the four of you up to? There were visitors in every room!’ (the 4 being Kos., Wanda, Arlette Menard and I). Kos. added, in a voice tense with anger: ‘It really is a bit much, Wanda getting an earful because of Lexia and Bienenfeld.’ I let her finish her stories, then talked about Bienenfeld (transposing certain facts, since you weren’t part of the picture) — but Kos. listened without the least sympathy and with a pretty frosty expression. We remained at the Select for a while in a glum state, then went out and she relaxed a bit. She told me she was in the dumps because, for several days, she hadn’t written to Bost and she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to start up again. ‘He finds my letters cold,’ she said, ‘but I’m not thinking things about Bost all the time and I can’t make them up.’ And she asked me, with renewed trust: ‘Can you imagine being able to maintain relations over 4 years with someone you see for 10 days a year? What becomes of it? There’s nothing of it left.’ — this with hostility not so much towards the war as towards Bost. But it’s because he reproaches her that she’s paralysed and resentful like that. All the same, here once again I felt a spurt of idiotic pleasure — and the pleasure’s still persisting today. I like to think that Bost is safer in my hands than in Kos.’s, and that in his decent little life I really do have a role she’ll never be capable of filling. What’s more I found it all amusing, because I couldn’t help wondering if it weren’t by contrast with my letters — which are always long and full of observations regarding the war, Bost’s life, etc. — that Bost found Kos.’s empty and cold.
[...]
This is the first day since the war began that — without external assistance — I’ve been immersed in the humdrum and the contingent, as happy as in the days of last year. That’s thanks to you again, my love, to your love and your dear letters — thank you, my sweet little one. How I love your little photo! Do good work of your own at the Écrevisse.194 I kiss you most passionately, my love.
Your charming Beaver
I must reproach you a bit for having quarrelled with the Cerf.
Wanda is thinking of going to see Emma, but she hasn’t yet even got an identity card.
[Paris]
Tuesday 14 November [1939]
Most dear little being
I’m still really happy today. My love, it’s incredible how much good you’ve done me. When I wake up — today, yesterday — I at once think with satisfaction how there’s a whole day of life and work ahead of me, and I feel really joyful. That’s thanks to you, my dear little one — because you’re truly with me, and it’s my life with you I’m still leading. I’m writing to you from the Mahieu. It’s 11, and I’ve just given my lesson at H. IV, then written up my little diary. Those lessons are a bit of a bore: as I’ve told you, they took away twenty of my pupils and then, a week ago, gave me twenty others in exchange — there are only three left from the first batch — so everything has to be started over again. I get the old ones to explain things, and devise hundreds of new methods, but it’s boring just the same.
I wrote to you from the Coupole, before and after eating a gorgeous pork chop with apple. From 11 till a quarter to 2, I did nothing except write to you and write up my journal, which I’ve brought almost up to date. Now I’ll keep it dutifully, for at least half an hour every day, which will be much more enjoyable. After that I set off for school. The weather was misty, and everything was not so much gloomy as austere. You have the impression the world has grown poorer, so there’s now just one thing for each place and one place for each thing, as in certain Populist streets in Berlin195 — do you remember? — and yet it remains Paris with all its poetry. It’s something like a poetical abstract, all immersed in grey and in autumn. I think that — like Roquentin196 facing the public park — you’d have to live through an entire ‘Wartime-afternoon-in-Paris-in-autumn’, then you’d perhaps feel that very particular nature which I felt yesterday. In front of a leather-goods shop in Rue Vavin there stood a fellow in rags, gaunt, bearded, slightly deranged, who was returning from some kind of ‘other world’: he was neither outraged nor admiring — just pure, boundless astonishment. He talked to himself, glued his nose to the window and talked to the objects within, recoiled, came back. Once he tried to go off, only to come back, caught fast in the snare — and I too was in the snare as I watched him. And it was nothing less than astonishing to see that couple — the shop and the man — and for them to be able to exist together. Metaphysically astonishing, like the coexistence of non-communicating worlds. That gazing consciousness was one absolute, while the shop referred to an other absolute. And it was something so blatant as to be almost shocking — that plurality of absolutes. I crossed the Luxembourg. There are no leaves left on the trees, but the ground’s still covered by a thick russet carpet. In a few days the soil will be bare too, and then it’ll really be winter. After that, in Rue Soufflot, I had the strong impression of Paris in wartime that I’ve described to you. It was a day like those described by Rilke, but in the seriousness of war — simultaneously a halo of misty mystery and a hard glaze. It’s much the same today, but less intense.
[...]
Goodbye, my love — I can’t prevent myself from sacrificing my journal to these letters. I love you so much. I so love talking to you. I’ll see you in 40 days at the latest — I’m happy. How I love that good old mug of yours in the little photo.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Wednesday 15 November [1939]
My love
Something very pl
easant has just happened to me: I’ve had a cheque for 5,000 F. from Gallimard, and he says the statement of your account has not yet been drawn up and I’ll be sent any balance there may be. I’ll send off 4,500 once I’ve got the cheque cashed — by old man Gerassi, probably — since it’s crossed.197 The remainder will help me get through this month, which is a bit tight, because of Bienenfeld, my trip, the Kos. registration fees and 200 F. worth of books I’ll be sending you. I was quite upset to see how impatiently you were longing for books. Listen, I’m sending you Kos.’s Shakespeare without telling her. Read it without damaging it, then send it back to me in a month’s time — or even earlier, if you read it fast — that will save me 200 F., which is not to be sneezed at. I’m also enclosing Cassou’s 48, and in a few days’ time I’ll send you a big parcel. I’ll finish paying off the Bienenfelds out of my December salary, and use my extra hours to pay my taxes. Out of the December money, since I’m sending the Kos. sisters off on the 15th I’ll only have to give them 1,000 F., so that even with Poupette’s rent (350 F.), and the Atelier (250 F.), I’ll have masses of money left over for trips, your leave, etc. Then in January I’ll start the year without a single debt, which makes me really glad. I’ll even be able to bring the Kos. sisters back to Paris as from the first of January.
My sweet little one, your Saturday letter — which I received yesterday - was quite melancholy, and it wrung my heart. My love, your existence is very austere — you’re a true little stoic to keep that nice smiling mug in the photo. You know, as soon as I feel myself touched by melancholy, I take it out of my bag and gaze at it, and my happiness is restored. How gay and charming you are! — I love you forthwith.