I’m writing to you from a ravishing spot, the Lac des Settons in the Morvan. L. is still sleeping behind me, I have my desk in front of the open window, you can see the water through the pines and the weather is sensationally beautiful But I’ll start from Monday, after I left you, At 8 I met up with L., who’d just learnt from the F[rance]-D[imanche] printers that Preuves514 was publishing a vicious article attacking him, but hadn’t been able to get hold of a copy. Apparently Rivarol and Aspect de la France have crudely insulted him too, not to speak of the Dauphiné Libéré. We decided to go to the cinema. What could we see? We tried Animal Crackers,515 but left after ten minutes; it wasn’t just bad, it was unbearable. We decided to have dinner, and found seats on the first floor at the St Moritz, At once we realized that the occupants of the next table — whom we couldn’t see very well, as we were sitting sideways on to them, but who could easily feast their eyes on us — were Frangoise Giroud, Servan-Schreiber and a third party.516 It made us rather ill at ease. After that we went to see M. Ripois, which is an excellent film — a strange film, because of the gap between the novel and the screenplay and between M. Ripois and Gerard Philipe — but an excellent film precisely for that reason. Queneau’s dialogue is marvellous, so is Philipe. We promptly felt like going to London next week or the one after — it depends on Évelyne,517 but I think we’ll go for four days in any case.
Tuesday: Bibliotheque Nationale in the morning, where I noted down some sensational admissions by Jules Romains.518 A gloomy session with my sister and De Roulet at the May Salon. Her idea was to prove to me that the other painters of her age are as bad as she is — which is almost true. To cap it all I met Laure Garcin, who has managed to make herself unrecognizable — but to no avail. Then I saw Olga, who was nice but we had nothing to say to one another. And I took Bost out to dinner at Montfort-l’Amaury. We met L. at midnight at the Falstaff. Bost didn’t want to go to bed and he had us walking round Paris till 3 in the morning.
Wednesday: hard day with Violette Leduc. She’d just got out of bed, where she’d retired with a 39-degree temperature after her conversation with Lemarchand. The doctor told her that was what had brought it on. I took her to lunch at the Bois, then for a walk at Bagatalle, and comforted her as best I could. The taxi scene literally outrages people: Queneau, Lemarchand, Y. Levy — I have the impression it wounds them directly as males. She’d really like to try and publish the book without cuts.519
In the evening, we went to Évelyne’s, Jacques520 was there with Dianna, getting on well together and very nice. Évelyne was in bed, ravishing — and so happy because of her film plans in Germany: it would be a fantastically good thing. I don’t know yet if she’ll have the operation tomorrow or on Monday, I’m going to phone her. At all events, you can rely on us to look after her. L. told us a lovely story about a sexual orgy involving the B.s. and the T.s. (veterans of earlier partner-swapping sessions with Paul Éluard, and with Denise D. too). The B. woman told Mama and Mony521 the whole story, with a wealth of details even Violette Leduc wouldn’t dare describe. All cloaked in the most frenzied spiritualism. B. didn’t join in the orgy, but he encouraged his wife — and ended up being unfaithful too. He promptly realized he wasn’t impotent, and abandoned his quest for God.
So yesterday we set off for the Morvan, after settling the money matters with Cau and Évelyne. It was Ascension Day, so it was difficult getting out of Paris. But we eventually found ourselves on fresh, green little roads and it was very agreeable. At 6 in the evening there was still quite a throng on the bar, but gradually everybody left and we remained alone in this hotel, where we’re going to spend two or three days. We’ve brought what we need to work — tons of books — and I think we’ll get some work done.
That’s it basically, dear little yourself. Have a good time and do get some sleep, won’t you? And try to remember everything faithfully, so that you can tell us it all properly when you get back. I suppose the weather’s fine in Moscow, which is lucky.
I kiss you with all my soul, sweet little one, and implore you to take good care of yourself.
Your charming Beaver
The last issue of T.M. is out. It’s excellent. The next one will be very good too.
[Paris]
Tuesday [1 June 1954]
Dear little yourself
No letter from you — nobody has one. Everybody’s a bit downcast, but hoping you’re having a good time. Yesterday in Combat there was a short item: ‘Malenkov and Jean-Paul Sartre on Red Square’. It looked good. Two days before in Le Monde, Jouve was letting it be known that you hadn’t warned the Embassy about your visit, but that if you thought it a good idea to drop in you’d still be received with the consideration due to any French citizen. He seemed to be hopping mad. I’m reading the Schapiro book522 to get myself into the atmosphere — there are some very entertaining things in it. But I’d prefer a letter. L.’s waiting avidly for one, because of the stamp — I promised to make him a present of it.
Did you get my first letter? And the wire? I saw Évelyne yesterday when I got back to Paris. She’d had a lot of pain in the kidneys from her colon bacilli, and she had bronchitis and a temperature of 39 degrees — which is not serious, I don’t think, but tiresome. She’d received your flowers, and was surrounded by her whole family and Fifi, but looked very tired. L. and I will be staying in Paris this week, and he’ll try and see the doctor tomorrow to get some accurate information about her condition. I’ll go back there this afternoon.
As for me I’m doing fine, despite having caught a cold on the Lac des Settons. We spent three good days — Friday, Saturday and Sunday — walking in the Morvan and Burgundy. We worked in the mornings (I’d brought along an entire library), then went walking until nightfall. I saw Vezelay, Autun and Dijon again, and heaps of little towns, lakes and minor roads. On the Sunday afternoon, as we were passing another car, a big pebble was flung up against our windscreen and it was unbelievable — in a fraction of a second the whole windscreen was covered with a close network which spread by chain reaction, with a tiny and utterly ravishing sound, till we couldn’t see a thing except through a disc that remained intact just at the level of the driver’s eyes. That’s how ‘Securit’ glass breaks and it’s quite amazing. Everything stays in place, even though reduced to powder. The disc is expressly designed so that the driver won’t be blinded in the event of breakage. We drove like that as far as Dijon, not really quite sure what to do — especially as it was Sunday. Eventually a garage-mechanic advised us simply to break the windscreen out. We picked it out piece by piece, as if we were crumbling a cake. But it was a bit chilly driving after that. We went for our jaunt all the same, in good schizoid fashion. The only painful moment was twilight, when thousands of midges swarmed down on to me in lieu of the windscreen. And the next day — yesterday, Monday — as we drove back to Paris very fast, insects were hitting me on the forehead like stones. (L., as driver, was somewhat protected by a piece of mica.) To cap it all there was a bit of rain. But even so we made it back by around 2 o’clock.
I had lunch with mother and sister, then took sister out for a drink. More dreadful than ever. Not a word about my trip or about you. She spent an hour describing the schemes people get up to in Paris to launch a painter. She’s distraught because she has had wretched reviews (’The critics seem to think it’s just a show like any other! Oh! people don’t have any courage ...’), and also because she hasn’t sold anything, except one picture compulsorily to the State. But she won’t admit that. Even to Mama she says she has sold 4 pictures. Greuze is displaying four ‘Sold’ tickets. The fact that there are no sales mustn’t be admitted to anyone. She says: ‘I thought Milan would have been harder to conquer than Paris!’ And the real disaster is that they’re definitely holding themselves ready to go to Greece if we should go! Lionel has left, but she’s staying till Friday and I’m seeing her this evening.
Well, yesterday afternoon I went to see Évelyne, then in the evening we took Michelle out. We didn
’t do much, because L. had to spend an hour — from 9 to 10 — at the Cirque d’Hiver, as one of the Bouglione brothers had died. I had a couple of drinks in a bar with Michelle, then we had dinner at the Coupole. It was very nice, she seemed in good form.
Hard day today. I’ve just spent four hours with Olga; I’m off in a minute to the clinic; and this evening I’m going out with my sister. Well, tomorrow I’ll be getting back to work, which I always really enjoy. The weather’s turning a bit finer again this afternoon.
I’ll add a few words when I leave the clinic, to give you news of Évelyne. I’ve given Wanda her dough, told Michelle to ask Cau again for some, and told Cau to give her some — everything’s working out nicely. I had your mother on the phone this morning (after I’d been to see Cau), she seemed in good form. Your whole little world is doing fine in fact. Bye for now.
Well, I’ve seen Évelyne and she was transformed since yesterday. No more temperature, colour in her cheeks — or almost — and in excellent spirits. It must be said that she’d received your letter and was radiant about it. An envelope from Moscow looks splendid. But it breaks my heart to think how they’ve been tiring you out again. I’m really hoping for a letter myself soon, with more detailed news. Don’t get overtired, dear little yourself.
A big hug and kisses
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Tuesday 8 [June 1954]
Dearest little yourself. I haven’t the heart to write a real, long letter, because I have the impression the letters don’t arrive. All the same, it was a great joy to have the one from you this morning: a long one dated Sunday 30 — the other little one dated Thursday 27 had arrived after 12 days. It really came at the right time this morning, that letter, because I’d had dreadful nightmares during the night, in which I met you somewhere in a chalet with a face made out of big studs and resembling Prévert; I was tearing off a stud and asking: ‘What does that mean?’, and you were saying: That I’m on the other side — I’m paying for the life I’ve led’ — and I realized that you’d a cancer on your face, or God knows what nightmarish thing of the kind. Actually, despite the lack of letters, there was some news of you in the papers: ‘Sartre spoke on Radio Moscow. He is captivated by Soviet kindergartens.’ Above all, there were the two photos of you in France-Soir, on the banks of the Moskowa and coming out of the cathedral. Your guardian angels were visible, and they didn’t look any too enticing. But you seemed young and happy. L. is going to try and get me the originals.
In a nutshell: week spent working on the pseudo-thinkers of the Right (who this week produced: an article by Aron in the Revue de Paris against The Communists and Peace523 — worthless; and the article of a complete nonentity in Preuves, in which he amalgamates the business of the editorial. The Communists and Peace, and L.’s paper — worse than worthless). I’ve also comforted Évelyne, who though suffering acutely from the lack of letters was angelically sweet. I like her a lot. They’ve given her a blood transfusion, and she was really brave and made no fuss. On Sunday they brought her home from the clinic, and she was so happy to find herself back in her beautiful flat that she seems to be getting better twice as fast. Her spirits are high now. Jacques and Dianna are taking care of her very nicely indeed.
I haven’t seen Michelle again, because when I rang on Saturday she wasn’t in Paris.
I rang your mother in Vichy just now, and gave her some news of you. We had one very nice outing with Bost and Olga, and I saw Bost alone one evening too. I’m seeing him again this evening. He’s going to sell his thriller script and make some dough out of it. They seem to be in good shape. Olga still adores Évelyne.
To my very great pleasure, I’ve learned — through an indiscretion of Monique Lange’s — that Queneau has written a 4-page notice on the novel, 524 enthusiastic, in which he says that it’s a ‘masterpiece’, War and Peace and The Princess of Cleves rolled into one, etc. etc. I’m like Poupette writing this — but the fact is, it was the first opinion from outside the family and I was pleased. Cau has been rotten about money, but we managed to pull through anyway thanks to Bost. I’ll tell you the story. He really goes too far. I’d warned him days in advance and again before the deadline, but he left E. without a penny to pay the clinic. I borrowed from Bost, who by a miracle had some. But it was shabby, not to speak of other little tricks.
The Little Subject is an absolute angel. He was as moved as I was when your letter arrived this morning. He dragged me off yesterday to see his parents, but it was really funny, what with those stories about the B.s’ orgy with the T.s in the name of ‘the communion of saints’. He now says coolly: ‘As Paule (or Grenier) knows that I am a communist . . .’ They were heaping shit on you again yesterday at France-Dimanche: ‘Sartre hasn’t noticed there’s no lavatory paper in the USSR’, says Vidal-Lablache. — ‘Obviously he never uses it’, answers Guyot. —
‘Or else he uses thousand-franc notes’, Vidal Lablache adds.
OK. I could go on for a long time about it, but it’s too insubstantial. Tomorrow we’re leaving for London, the Little Subject and I. I’ll have your letters forwarded on, if there are any. I’ll be back on Monday: in other words, certainly before you. Your letter has really cheered me up — you seem so happy. Here, the weather’s dreadful. At present, for example, there’s a storm on. But life isn’t going badly. Everyone’s waiting impatiently for you, me included. I was very moved to see your photos. I kiss you with all my soul, my dear, sweet little beloved.
Your charming Beaver
Envelope:
M. Jean-Paul Sartre
National Hotel
Moscow, USSR
1955
[Marseilles]
Sunday evening [early February 1955]
Dearest little yourself. I haven’t written till now and this will be only a short letter, because the Slave of Hunger and I are really working like slaves — I hope the result will be worth such pains.525 But look, I’d better tell you straight away: I made a mistake about the dates and we’re not coming back for a fortnight. So it’ll be 15 February when you get the article — is that soon enough? Otherwise, it just might be possible to have almost all of it typed here and send it off on the 10th. What do you think?
It was very agreeable hearing your voice on the telephone, especially since you seemed sprightly and in good spirits. Ring from your end as soon as you can, morning or late afternoon. It’s nice here. We’re at the Hôtel Mediterranée, which you know, on the left-hand side of the port: a very large room with two windows, very bright. There are two good desks and they’ve put in neon lamps especially for us. We briefly thought of installing ourselves at the Reserve, on the Corniche. Upon reflection, however, Lanzmann like me is sensitive to the melancholy of having the sea ‘just a stone’s throw away’, and we preferred being surrounded by houses, boats and people. As we spend long hours in our room, we’d feel in exile there — whereas here we’re having the benefit of Marseilles even while we work.
They’ve reconstructed the Old Port in a really shameful way — it’s hideous. But it doesn’t matter, the charm’s still there. And the weather’s pretty fine all the time. Yesterday it was even superb — we could see Martigues in bright sunlight.
We left at 10 in the morning on Wednesday. We passed through Nevers, Moulins, St Étienne and Roanne: do you remember how you and I did that stretch of road by bicycle, and it was such terribly hard work getting over the Col de la République. We stopped at Montélimar at about 9 in the evening. In that way we followed the Rhone valley by daylight and saw the floods: they were starting to go down, but they were impressive all the same — with lots of farms surrounded by water. We couldn’t get through by Avignon. Arrived in Marseilles at 10’clock. For Lanzmann, who barely knew it, it was love at first sight and the spell still hasn’t been broken.
We had lunch in a restaurant on the Old Port, selected our hotel, then immediately got down to work. We work every morning till about 1. After that, excursion — with lunch o
n the way — and work again from 5 to 9. On Friday, we saw Cassis and the calanques; on Saturday, Martigues: today, the Corniche as far as the end of the coast road (which goes a long way now), and N.D. de la Garde, and some odd corners of Marseilles. On Monday, I took time off to go to the cinema to see an appalling English thriller. On the newsreel they had an item about skiing, which said that it’s raining non-stop in the mountains and the snow’s dreadful — so, no regrets. Anyway, it’s a positive delight to be here.
I’m waiting for your letter and telephone call Be funny and be happy, if the two can be combined. A big hug and kisses, my dear Little yourself.