This morning we rose at 7.30. By 8 there was already a blue sky and blazing sun, and we went to practise near the cable-car. I was scared to death at first, but it came back gradually. At about 10, the cable-car took us up to Plenay at 1600 m. There’s a superb view up there and a scorching sun. We were in seventh heaven. However, a big disappointment awaited us. It hasn’t snowed for ages and the runs are iced over. Except for very expert types who go down the Olympic Run in 3 minutes, nobody attempts them, so that the cable-cars going down at 5 are jam-packed. It’s like at Chamonix — and really depressing. We’re calling fervently for snow. We tried taking Run 19 — the one for beginners where Bourla318 took Sorokine — but after a few snowfields where going down was easy it became impassable, so we climbed back up feeling foolish. We missed the noon cable-car by a whisker, so had lunch in the hotel up on top: a fantastically beautiful hotel — rather like that one on the Col de Voza — but where board and lodging costs 250 F., alas! We had a very good lunch, played a few games of backgammon, then spent the afternoon getting all worked up. Bost’s appalled and thinks we’re useless, but I think it wasn’t so bad for the first day. Tomorrow we’re taking a private lesson, then we’ll try and join a class. We’ve just come in and had a cup of tea. I think it’ll all go swimmingly so far as money’s concerned, even though the lessons are so dear (160 F. for two). If we can take suitable classes instead of private lessons, then we’re saved. Morzine itself’s a bit shut in — not very sunny and with no beautiful ski slopes — but up on top it’s superb. Everything would be perfect if it would only snow, because if we can’t do any runs things will be much less fun.
There, my dear little one. I’ll write again in two days’ time. Do write too. It’s obvious I shan’t do any work here. It’s not that I’m very exhausted, but I totally lack any desire. Anyway, we get in at 5.30 and have dinner at 7, so the time’s all chopped up.
Goodbye, my dear love. This is a really lovely present you’ve given me. I’m so happy and love you with all my might.
Your Beaver
M. Sartre
Hotel de la Louisiane
60 Rue de Seine
Paris 6
[Morzine, Haute-Savoie]
Saturday [23 January 1944]
Most dear little being
I’m enjoying myself more and more. I’m fantastically happy to be here. I’m eating well and sleep ten hours a night, to the point where this morning I woke up at 7 gorged with sleep and read in bed. Bost’s a good companion and the weather’s wonderful, with a magnificent sun.
[...]
I’ve read the D’Holbach with some enjoyment, but that poor Naville’s319 an idiot — like d’Holbach himself. You have a set of people there who thought they were wildly modern, but who seem more outdated than the alchemists of the Middle Ages. I was outraged at several points, especially by that poor wretch Naville, who hasn’t a clue about anything. I’m finding the War of Secession incredibly interesting. There you are, my dear little one, I dream of nothing any more except uphill and downhill christies — and I’d give the Prix Renaudot to be able to do a downhill christie. It seems almost strange to me to think how at the same time our life in Paris is continuing through you. The other night I dreamed, to my great distress, that I was no longer myself: I could no longer manage to recognize myself, because my life was devoid of you. I’m wonderfully well off for money, especially as we don’t splash out on anything — neither cakes nor brioches, just tea at 6, and in the morning after skiing a white wine in the sun at a little bar beside the run. We’re as happy as it’s possible to be. Next year, do come, my dear love, I’d so like to see your diligent little blue silhouette on the slopes. I love you with all my might. I’ll be quite overcome when I see you again. I kiss and hug you with all my might, my dear little absolute, happiness of my life, my other self.
Your charming Beaver
[...]
[Morzine, Haute-Savoie]
Wednesday [27 January 1944]
Most dear little being
The hotel’s in turmoil, and Bost and I are as excited as the rest. An hour ago, at 6.30 in the evening, three fellows from the Maquis came into the hotel with pistols in their hands, asking for a certain Odette — a smart, disagreeable young holidaymaker who eats at the table next to ours, and who was apparently a member of the Gestapo. They grabbed a poor silly young girl who’d struck up a friendship with Odette in the last few days, they made her go up to her room, they examined her papers — very politely — then they came back down to the foyer again, where they drank an aperitif while awaiting Odette. The landlord insisted on offering them the aperitif gratis — all the people in the hotel were full of sympathy for them and they’ve now gone to wait for Odette outside the door. Dinner’s now over, but she hasn’t come back. It was a strange dinner, with all eyes fixed upon that empty table. Apparently everyone in the hotel knew what the girl was up to, as she has already informed on a lot of fellows. We’d noticed how sociable she was with everybody, but it seemed like mere casual flirting. Apart from that, she went to church and looked like a girl from a respectable family. They said they were going to shoot her, and no one — not even her girl friend of a week’s standing — voiced the idea of warning her. Spread this story around, because I’m too lazy to write it all over again to Sorokine.
This afternoon I also saw two Teutons in uniform, solemnly practising their skiing on the slopes — it was quite as surprising as a Moslem woman on a bicycle.
Apart from this, I’ve really nothing to tell. Yesterday I had your Wednesday letter and that cheered me up for the whole day. It was snowing and I’ve got a frightful cold, so I stayed in bed reading all morning. Luckily in the afternoon the snow stopped falling, and we were able to make two descents on marvellously soft runs. This morning there was no sun, but splendid snow, and we made 5 descents in the course of the day, including the Olympic Run twice. Bost’s beginning to ski really well. As for me, I manage well enough for it to be enjoyable. Taking everything into account (and it is in fact precisely a question of accounts), we’re leaving on Tuesday. So I’ll be in Paris on Wednesday morning. I’ll be at the Flore at midday, and if you can miss school I’ll certainly be at the hotel at 8 in the morning. At any rate, leave me a note at the hotel and keep a long day free for me. I’m so happy to be seeing you again that I’m not even sad not to be staying till Thursday.
I had a letter from Sorokine, who loathes The Blood of Others320 but for very silly reasons — essentially because it bores her. This is my last letter, and I’m going to give it to some people who are going back to Paris tomorrow. I hope you’ll get it quite quickly. Till Wednesday, my love. I love you so intensely. I really want to see you again.
Your charming Beaver
[Morzine, Haute-Savoie]
Friday [29 January 1944]
Most dear little being
Well, after taking everything into account again, we’re not leaving till Thursday — especially since I foolishly strained my knee yesterday during my last descent. I had to rest today and probably won’t be skiing tomorrow either, so I’d like to make up for that a bit. It’s on Friday morning, then, that we’ll be meeting — and this time it’s final This is the letter that counts, even if you receive it before the other one.
I told you about Wednesday evening’s adventure. The girl didn’t return and there can be no doubt of her fate. For two meals her table remained empty — with a bottle of Phosphatine awaiting her — but then they replaced her with a bearded gentleman and nobody speaks of her any longer. But that wasn’t all. Yesterday morning the whole resort was in turmoil because the maquisards, coming as they did on Wednesday in a van, had cut the telephone line and burgled the big ski store where we usually leave our own skis to be waxed in the morning. Luckily we’d brought ours in, but there were at least fifty skiers who’d been robbed and they’d taken all the store owners’ money. Actually, the people didn’t really hold it against them — except for the boss’s wife, who’d been gagged
and terrorized. The others, the winter visitors, are so rich that a pair of skis more or less doesn’t matter to them. I didn’t ski well yesterday. I was tired, and the snow was dreadfully bad — heavy and wet. In the afternoon, there was the lady champion of France giving an exhibition. She was agreeable to watch, and all the instructors showed off afterwards with slaloms and dangerous jumps, amid hurrahs and boos. It’s just like one big family: everybody knows each other, watches each other work, and gives each other advice — it’s not unpleasant. In the evening I wanted to do a run all the same, but in that soft snow I had an idiotic fall. I was able to finish the run, however, and even go to the post office, where I got your letter. I truly did write to Youki, my dear little one. Moreover, I’m outraged that they should allow themselves to demand another two scripts from you. Bost is outraged too — but at you: he says you let yourself be treated like a doormat. In the evening my knee swelled up like a melon, so I had to stay in bed this morning. My window was open over a great snowy landscape and I could feel the sun burning me. I wasn’t too glum, because the snow today was frozen and it wasn’t possible to go down any of the runs. A masseur gave me a vigorous massage, and by the afternoon I was able to walk — now it hardly hurts at all. Apparently there were 15 sprains or strains yesterday alone, not to mention the other days.
Goodbye, my love — if you were here I’d be so very happy. Till Friday. I kiss you with all my might.
Your charming Beaver
1945
[Vichy]
Thursday 26 July [1945]
My dear love
You should know at once that I’ve lost nothing of my youth, and that you’ve presented me with a very fine bike. I’ve just spent a splendidly agreeable week. So agreeable, in fact, that today — in this big Vichy cafè where I’ve ended up — I feel a certain vague melancholy.
Well, I caught my train last Wednesday morning, had no trouble finding a seat and made an uneventful journey by that little stopping train as far as Tours, where I arrived exactly on time: at 1.30. There, everything started off well. My bicycle was waiting obediently for me at the station, and so was Vitold — with his new Portuguese shirt,321 an eight-day beard that made him look like a true half-starved Russian, and a broad smile. He took me to lunch — a very bad one — and didn’t seem too bothered by the idea that Badel322 wasn’t planning to audition until 15 October. On the other hand, he was shattered by the fact that within the space of two days he’d lost a superb trench-coat and a pair of sandals; also by the fact that his inner tube was riddled with punctures. We wandered all round Tours, in overpowering heat, trying to get the wretched object repaired. Tours was even more gloomy than on that day we went there with Bost.323 But I was poetic, because Tours is full of tender memories connected with you, and because I was glad to have met up with Vitold again — he has a certain ‘presence’, as people say, which charms me at once. So we wandered about till 7, when I suggested going to St Avertin. He took me there on the luggage-rack of my bicycle. We had dinner at the water’s edge, did some drinking, and went boating on the Cher — it was charming. Next morning his tyre had been repaired, so we left for Loches, then proceeded to the banks of the Creuse and the Plateau de Millevaches — all very pretty scenery. On the Plateau de Millevaches, Vitold had a lengthy bout of irresoluteness, lasting for more than two hours, the outcome of which — after a plethora of cables and letters — was a decision to go to Vichy and see his mother. So we planned a route accordingly — pretty much the same one you and I followed, that time we had to get from the Limousin to the Massif Central. Altogether, we rode like that for a week. He’s a splendid travelling companion, is Vitold. In the first place, he’s an ace cyclist: he can do 250 km. in a day and climb any hill at 15 km. an hour, so he never gets tired of riding and gives me a shove on the hills. What’s more, he has the patience of an angel, and he repairs everything skilfully and with a smile. We’d usually rise late, ride a bit in the morning, lunch as well as we could — never very well, but never very badly, with plenty of wine which is never in short supply in these parts — then we’d go bathing and sunbathing by the side of some stream, chat till evening, and get some more riding in before (and sometimes after) dinner. Then we’d spend charming evenings drinking and chatting. Once we slept outdoors, to indulge a whim on the part of Vitold who wanted to sample the open-air life, but we were rather cold. Another time we slept on benches in a cafè. The rest of the time we had rooms with twin beds, or a double bed — honi soit qui mal y pense. I spent an enjoyable time with him. He has a thoroughly agreeable way of appreciating people and things; of loving life and loving himself. He adores himself — he’s a true Russian — and I used to find it charming to look at him looking at himself anxiously in mirrors, to see whether he’d put on weight. Yesterday evening at Riom we spent a very poetic evening, because a film club was putting on a festival of American comedies: there was Charlie Chaplin in the army, a Harold Lloyd, a quite charming old Laurel (without Hardy), and some cartoons: coming across this was quite a surprise. And then this morning we lit out for Vichy. He’s staying there until the morning of the day after tomorrow, and I’m going to stay there too in order to work on my play, about which he has made a lot of very pertinent comments and which I must get into shape before we separate. So I’m going to spend this afternoon and the whole day tomorrow working in this ridiculous town. Then he’ll go back to Paris, to get ready for the rehearsals; he’s not likely to get started before the 5th or 6th, so I’ll return on the morning of the 8th, as agreed, in order to see you. I haven’t yet decided where to spend those two solitary days. I’ll add a P.S. to tell you where to write to me, as soon as I’ve made my plans. I’ve easily found places to eat and sleep here, and the cafès have good drinks — but how dreary and ugly it is! Incidentally, Vitold told me (don’t repeat this to your mother324) how he once worked for a Vichy druggist and, one year when the Célestins spring had dried up, he used to go after dark with a tarpaulin-covered lorry and pour tons and tons of acid into the spring. I realize now that a glass of water may be enough to polish a man off, the day some druggist has overdone things a bit.
My own little one, I’m really bothered by having no news of you — either I’ll go to Limoges after all, or I’ll have the letter forwarded. Did you have an enjoyable time too in the Midi?325 You’re still there as I write, but I can’t picture your life at all. I’d so like to spend a long while alone with you, and do agreeable things with you. I thought of you with love on the roads. There are lots of places I passed through which we’d passed through together, and I was really moved by seeing them again.
Goodbye, my dear love. I’ll go and wander round this filthy town a bit more, then work. I’m rather distraught, because something that was very agreeable is coming to an end. Also (making all due allowances) Vichy really is — like Washington326 — the ideal kind of gloomy town for such little travails of the heart.
I’ll add a P.S. this evening. I hug and kiss you.
Your charming Beaver
Having found guidebooks and maps, I’ve taken some decisions. I’ll be at St Étienne on the 30th, and return there 4 or 5 days later. Write me a little letter there.
27 July [1945]
I’m adding a little postscript, since I didn’t mail the letter yesterday. I feel very sprightly today, for — as I have a well-formed character — I find it enjoyable now to set off on a little journey all alone. Yesterday I found some guidebooks and maps, and I worked out a route in the direction of the Cévennes. Yesterday afternoon I worked. And after dinner I went with Vitold to one of the bistros on the banks of the Allier. We spent a delightful evening — I really like him very much, he touches me. There were lights under the green canopy and boats on the water, I wonder if you used to frequent that kind of place when you were in Vichy? I dined badly and slept well in the bleak hotel I managed to pick out near the station. And I’ve worked all day. I finished everything I meant to finish. Then I wrote a few letters. I’m going to see Vitold agai
n in a little while, to bid him farewell. But now I’m pleased to be on my own again. I want to read and work a bit — perhaps dream about another play, for example. Goodbye, my dear love. In about ten days I’ll be seeing you again. I’ll kiss you properly. When I woke this morning, after a night’s sleep without thinking of you, I suddenly remembered that you existed and joy flooded into my heart.