[...]
Then Lycée C. Sée. Lunch with Sorokine, who was charming because she’d decided to give me back my freedom. But she was also scared stiff I might not use it properly, and as soon as I made any plans her face expressed the wildest panic. I told her I’’d just as soon she took my freedom away again — and now she’s all anxious, since she can’t resolve the following dilemma: either she exacts promises, and then feels I’m keeping them out of duty; or else she doesn’t demand anything, but then she’s consumed by fear. She was charming, and made me read her views on Grand Meaulnes which she regards as an odious book, hating the hero because he must be so boring — which is astute. Also, her views on ‘the opacity of fictional characters’ — where she was saying some really intelligent things. She’s estimable and pleasing.
[...]
I had a talk with C. Audry. Apparently Wahl’s maintaining that L’ lmaginaire can appear as a thesis even after its publication, and that there has been a precedent with some other fellow who’d been called up. Perhaps that’s the explanation of the little mystery.265 She’s still as hilarious as ever. Her husband, not finding her sufficiently affectionate, is sending her to a psychoanalyst who claims to practise existential psychoanalysis — though he’s actually just an Adlerian. This fellow explains to her that she’s a sphinx, who enjoys asking men impossible questions in order subsequently to drive them away (there’s some truth in this, she says); also that she has a dreadful instinct for domination — proved by the fact that one of her childhood memories is a spider in its web; also that her cerebrality kills her sexuality. She’s no longer getting on with Minder at all, and is thinking of leaving him. There aren’t any scenes, it’s more of a dreary business — long evenings without a word, desperate boredom. She explains quite seriously how they don’t like Breughel in the same way.
After that, I came back to write to you. I’m expecting Bienenfeld at my place, but I shan’t be up to indulging in any reprehensible embraces — I’ll feign some feminine ailment.
My dear little one, my love, I’m really hoping for some letters from you. I’d love you to type one from time to time — it’s a beautiful sight. I’m all imbued with tenderness for your little flesh-and-blood person and your dear face. Goodbye for now, little all-beloved.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Saturday 16 March [1940]
First read Fart 2
My sweet little one
I’m jolly glum today — not gloomy, more depressed. It has a lot to do with lack of sleep — since I haven’t slept enough for two nights now — and even more to do with the annoyance of waiting. In a little while, there’ll doubtless be a letter and I’ll be able to make a firm decision for tomorrow, but it’s a nerve-racking situation. What saves me from gloom is the certainty of seeing you in a fortnight: that’s now the pole towards which I’m oriented, so that the fortnight itself will at worst be only a great blank, terminated at the far end by that happiness. This is what stops me feeling enmired. Afterwards there’ll be your constant presence — and I’ll know peace of mind, my little one. Luckily, too, I’m quite taken up by my work, which is altogether easy and charming and productive now that I have this prepared canvas. That too gives these holidays a meaning. There’ll be 50 new pages, at the very least.
There’s still one shadow, which is dough. Not yours, mine — since the Kos. sisters have taken the lot off me, or almost. They’ve spent almost as much as in a full month. And I’ve still got to pay 100 F. for typing paper and 100 F. for books for you, so that with 100 F. travel expenses I’ll be left with just 300 F. to live on. So I’ll have to appeal to That Lady. I’ll ask for 500 F., and send you a bit of that. But where shall I ask for it to be sent? I don’t know where I’m going. It’s the same with your letters: I’m certain to have problems and not get them all — it’s hateful.
[...]
I find it altogether poetic to think that you’ve gone back to your old quarters,266 and it’s there no doubt that you’ll receive this letter. Goodbye for now, my sweet little all-beloved.
Part 2
My sweet little one — here I am, as happy as can be! By some miracle or other I’ve had two letters from Bost dated Friday, and I can go to the very spot where he is — and has found a lodging. I’m really pleased, and am leaving tomorrow morning. Write and send the books to Charmont, Poste Restante, Marne. I’ve told them to forward your other letters, so I’ll have them on Tuesday, I think. My love, you’ve written me such a sweet, entertaining long letter — o little busybody, with your spilt beer-bottles! I’ll come back to it tomorrow. I’ll write on the train and in buffets — and from Charmont itself — and tell you all about how we’re fixed up. I’m delighted.
I’ve sent you the books. I’ve been a bit stingy because I’m so hard up, but I think there’ll be plenty. I’d really love to reread the whole first part of your novel. Till tomorrow. Your letter genuinely moved me — you love me so well, my little one, and in a way that brings you to me. I kiss you quite passionately.
Your charming Beaver
I’m not too sure what’s up with Wanda. She was flourishing yesterday, but the other day Kos. told me — in a voice of such deep conviction that I was astounded — ‘She’s not happy at present.’ Keep me informed.
In a fortnight, at this hour, I’ll be on your arm. I love you with a grand passion, my beloved.
Café de I’Industrie
Saint-Dizier (Haute-Marne)
St Dizier, Sunday 17 March [1940]
My sweet little beloved one
What has happened is the last straw — I’ve taken the wrong train! I arrived at the Gare de I’Est with my mind still clouded with sleep, and fixed on the idea that I was going to take the same little 7.50 train that had taken you to Nancy — and that I took subsequently myself, when I went to see Emma. I knew the platform, I walked towards it like a blind woman, I barely glanced at the destination board saying 7.50 with a list of places in the Est, and I found a seat. Then, just as the train was starting to move, I saw another train next to ours that was leaving at the same time — and carrying a sign saying Nancy. My heart in my mouth, I questioned my travelling companions in horror. They confirmed me in my despair: we were speeding towards Troyes and Chaumont, 100 km away from the other line. I was in the wildest panic and on the verge of tears, especially since I had no means of warning Bost.
[...]
I spent the first hours of the journey in the restaurant-car, where I brooded darkly while trying to read the last ‘Empreinte’, Is it Possible? — but it’s a frightful let-down, all just a dream. I got into a fight with the ticket-inspector, who wanted me to catch a stopping-train from Troyes that would have taken 7 hours. Instead I went to Chaumont, from where a stopping-train carried me in 1½ hrs to this frightful St Dizier. I’m now going to write to Bienenfeld, but am incapable of injecting any passion into the letter. I’ll enjoy writing to Sorokine a bit more. If I find any paper without a heading, I’ll do Kos. and Poupette too. That’s all, my little one — tomorrow you’ll get the continuation of these misadventures. I’ve reread your pleasing, tender letter again — and I love you, my little one. It’s true that I’m very sensitive at the moment, and those little images of you often bring tears to my eyes. In a fortnight we’ll be together, my love. I need you so much. I love you so intensely, my little one — can you still feel that, through all these nervy letters? I kiss your beloved little face.
Your charming Beaver
[Charmont (Marne)]
Monday 18 March [1940]
Most dear little being
You should first know, just to reassure you, that my ills have come to an end. It’s 9 p.m. and I’m writing from Emma’s, 267 so I did finally find her. But Heavens! they weren’t to be sneezed at, and yesterday evening at the least provocation I’d have fallen into hysterics. That was quite an escapade, my little one!
[...]
So here I am, ensconced in a room of no great charm but quite
spacious, with a huge bed, a tiny dressing-table, and a big round table on which I’ve already spread out my books and papers. There’s a kitchen and dining-room next door, with a stove that provides a bit of warmth and where the good lady and Emma do the cooking. On the other side there’s a minute room where the old lady sleeps, so she has to cross ours when she gets up in the morning or goes to bed at night — but that’s a minor inconvenience. Anyway she’s going off for two days. Emma feels quite hunted, of course. She won’t let me poke my nose outside — though when the weather’s fine I’ll slip out into the countryside all the same. She does all the shopping herself and won’t even allow me to lean out of the window, since it looks onto the street. Actually, the country looks rather bleak anyway so far as walking’s concerned, and what with all my books and my novel I’m quite tempted by this detainee’s existence — and am enjoying it too. Emma left me at 8 and came back at 9, then again at 10.15 to return at 11 with all the shopping done — her work doesn’t take up too much of her time.
Apparently it would be better if you were to write c/o Madame Barreau — Rue Basse — Charmont (CHARMONT), Marne, and mark it F.M. with a little circle round it — that way I wouldn’t have to call in at the Poste Restante. But I’ll call in there anyway till Thursday.
Goodbye, my little one. I’ll tell you in detail all about my life here, which is going to be really nice and peaceful now. I’m going to have a good holiday and in 12 days I’ll be seeing you, my love. I’m so happy, we shan’t be separated much from now on. Goodbye, little being, my little all. I kiss you quite passionately.
Your charming Beaver
[Nettancourt (Meuse)]
Tuesday 19 March [1940]
1. The first part of this letter was
written while waiting for the
gendarmes — and in distress
2. The situation is now brighter -
and almost satisfactory
3. Even very satisfactory
My sweet little one
I’m on a losing streak! I feel gloomy and sick at heart, and don’t yet know how it’s going to pan out — I still have a very faint hope, but a dirty trick has been played on me. I’ll tell you all about it, but in a novelistic rather than an explanatory mode, since events unfolded in a way that was as novelistic as it was brutal. Let me first tell you, however, that the certainty of seeing you in 8 or 10 days has been of indescribable assistance — and is helping me to endure my very bitter disappointment pretty cheerfully.
Well, yesterday when I wrote to you at about 11 everything was fine. Little Bost arrived — altogether amiable — a bottle of Moulin a Vent in his arms; rillettes, eggs and sardines in his pockets. We cut some wood, made a fire in the kitchen and had a merry lunch in the dining-room. In actual fact, you see, for 4.50 F. a day we’d got a bedroom plus kitchen and dining-room. We made plans for these ten days of conjugal life — and were thinking even of giving an at-home or two, with boozing. We parted, and I decided to go for a country walk. I left in bright sunlight — clutching the beautiful Pléiade Shakespeare — but did a bare 3 kilometers. Viewed on foot, that countryside’s decidedly short of appeal, so I resolved to stop and find a suitable spot for siesta and reading. Spotting a little lake where two soldiers were boating, I slipped along the verge through a marshy wood, sinking up to my ankles in the mud, till I found a little dry spot. There I rolled my coat into a ball for a pillow and began to doze, while making plans for walks, reading and work during the following days. My spirits were buoyant — it was my first moment of security and happiness. But that wasn’t to last for long.
I’d been there for 5 min. when two glossy young officers appeared along the muddy path. They passed me, then — as though thinking better of it — retraced their steps. One asked me: ‘Have you got your papers?’ I took out my pass, pretty cheerfully. ‘It’s not stamped — you’re supposed to have it stamped on arrival.’ I said I thought I had 24 hrs to do it in, but they shook their heads and said I’d better return at once with them. A car was waiting where the path began and I climbed in. They asked me carelessly if I had a husband or boy friend here, and I said no, I was visiting an old aunt — and gave her name. I was feeling a bit uneasy. They showed me into the commandant’s office and sent someone to fetch him urgently — which was very odd. I stayed there with the officers and tried to brazen it out, speaking of the region as if I knew it well. They replied politely. Then the commandant came in. I began my story: ‘I’m staying with a cousin . . .’. ‘No point in lying, you haven’t got any relative here — you saw the woman in question for the first time in your life at 7.15 this morning.’ He outlined everything I’d done since the evening before at Nettancourt. ‘You came here to see a soldier. We know his name — he’s the one who rented the room.’ I said this was quite true, but it wasn’t really a hanging offence; that hundreds of other women were doing the same thing and the authorities closed their eyes to it. ‘We may close our eyes, but not if you oblige us to open them. The higher authorities are very careful, so we’ve even searched your room.’ Giving a start of amazement, I cited my appointment to C. See, declaring that I wasn’t in any way an unworthy citizen of France, otherwise I shouldn’t have been promoted. He relaxed somewhat, and told me: ‘From the civilian point of view, I congratulate you. But from the military point of view that means nothing. We’ve found your writings.’ I smiled again, very urbanely. ‘Oh, so what have you read, then?’ ‘September and October — you’ve even got considerable talent.’ I realized he was talking about your notebooks and my own, and that I was now deep in the mire — since there are all kinds of stuff in them, and I couldn’t tell what had caused all this or anything. I asked what they were going to do with me. Reply: send me back to Paris immediately. My insides quaked at this news (though externally I held up very well the whole time), and as I was left alone with him for a couple of minutes, I pleaded despicably: ‘24 hrs, at least! Just because I’ve got myself caught is no good reason, when so many others are swanning around in broad daylight.’ But he was inflexible: ‘You shouldn’t have got yourself caught. Who ever heard of turning up with a huge suitcase and depositing it at the left-luggage office! And then there’s the War, and France, etc. etc’ I found the idea appalling of leaving under police escort, without having seen Bost again. Yes, in my tired state after the previous day’s journey, truly appalling. I’m sure you can imagine what it was like: all that intent will, then that brief oasis of one morning — and then that brutal wrench. I’ve never had an experience like it, never felt such despair or indignation.
So I pleaded. But he told me: ‘It’s now in the hands of the higher authorities.’ ‘Might I see them?’ ‘You’ll see them.’ ‘Shall I have a chance?’ He shrugged his shoulders: ‘Who knows?’ and left me — while he went for lunch — under the guard of a young sergeant who looked askance at me, firmly resolved not to let himself be seduced by the suspect. I waited for a long while, in a very low state, and then the door opened to admit a young, handsome, smiling, fair-haired lieutenant — divinely handsome and incredibly urbane — who said to me: ‘You’re Mile de Beauvoir, aren’t you? We’ve met, actually — in Marseilles, at Mme Chazotte’s. And then in Caen you invigilated my philosophy baccalaureat — and even gave me a zero.268 I heard your name by chance and interceded on your behalf with the commandant.’ The commandant came back in and told me: ‘Very well! We’ll grant you 24 hrs, that’s all we can do. These gentlemen will go and search your room, and tomorrow you’ll be taken to the police-station.’ I felt a spurt of joy beneath my misery — this was already far better than nothing. I went out escorted by 2 lieutenants — one who’d picked me up and who’s called J., the other whom I’d made mincemeat of in Caen and who’s called C. C. told me the whole story. It was your black notebooks that were at the root of the whole thing. I’d brought them along with my own for Bost, and there were also some pupils’ essays and a heap of wretched forms. The station clerk opened it all up last night and thought: They’re communist tra
cts!’ So he alerted the gendarmes, they followed my trail, and this morning everyone in Ch [armont] was in a high old state, thinking there was a dangerous propagandist loose in the village. They organized a hunt for me, and while I was off walking a car sped after me and quickly ran me to ground. In the meantime, they were carrying out a preliminary search of my room. They took several of your notebooks to the colonel’s HQ, and the commandant called for Lieutenant C., telling him: ‘It’s German or Czech, see if you can make head or tail of it.’ C. opened the notebook, read: ‘Jules Romains, Verdun: the Prelude,’ then began reading your poor little notebooks. They began to realize they’d made a blunder, but my case remained parlous. They summoned my landlady, who said my room had been reserved by a soldier and told them who he was.