Hearts and Minds
The Common Journey of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I / SUMMER OF 1929
CHAPTER II / EASTER 1938
CHAPTER III / CHRISTMAS 1940
CHAPTER IV / FALL OF 1946
CHAPTER V / NOVEMBER 1949
CHAPTER VI / OCTOBER 1954
CHAPTER VII / NEW YEAR’S 1961
CHAPTER VIII / MAY 1968
CHAPTER IX / SPRING OF 1977
CHAPTER X / EXIT WITH LAUGHTER
WORKS BY SARTRE AND BEAUVOIR
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INDEX
Works
by
Sartre
and
Beauvoir
Bibliography
Chapter 1
Summer of 1929
No books, Jean-Paul Sartre had decreed, just long walks and longer talks, even if the boggy hollows of the Limousin uplands were too much chlorophyll, as he joked. Simone de Beauvoir joined him every morning as soon as she could get away from her family, running across still dewy meadows to reach their secret rendezvous. There was so much to talk about—the friends, books, life and, of course, their future. They took long walks, two figures in an August landscape; she tall and gangly; he short and square and with a crossed right eye behind the schoolmaster glasses. He laughed a lot. They were brand-new teachers, the two top graduates of their class. They had worked terribly hard, but still, she said, she was sure her first paycheck would be a practical joke.
All too soon it was time for her return to Meyrignac for lunch while he sat under a hedgerow eating the cheese or gingerbread smuggled out of the Beauvoir kitchen by Simone’s cousin Madeleine who adored anything romantic. In the afternoon they were together again, picking up the discussions started in Paris before the holidays or in a chestnut grove before lunch. She had told her parents they were working on a book, a critical study of Marxism. Her idea had been to butter them up by pandering to their hatred of communism. All too soon the sun plunged into the hills beyond the Auvezère River, sending her back to Meyrignac and him to the Hotel de la Boule d’Or and dinner among the traveling salesmen.
Like him, she was born in Paris—they might have played together in the Luxembourg Gardens, they discovered. Both had spent precocious childhoods in coddled surroundings and both thought a lot of themselves. The difference was the country. Every summer since she had been a little girl she had scratched at earth, played with lumps of clay, polished chestnuts and learned to recognize buttercups, ladybirds, and glowworms at her grandfather’s five-hundred-acre estate. Meyrignac, which had been in the family since the 1830s, had a dammed-up stream with waterlilies and goldfish and a tiny island that could be reached via stepping stones. It had fields, cedars, willows, magnolias, shrubberies and thickets. At Meyrignac and at La Grillière, her uncle’s estate twenty kilometers away, she had always been allowed to run free and to touch everything. Uncle Maurice’s park was bigger and wilder but also monotonous and it surrounded a sinister turreted château that looked much older than it really was. Uncle Maurice, a member of the local gentry, had married Papa’s sister, Helene.
Jean-Paul had an eccentric grandfather. Charles Schweitzer was a handsome language teacher with a passion for the sublime, who in old age looked so much like God Almighty that repentant parishioners in a dimly lit church once took him for an apparition. Charles spent his life turning little events into great circumstances that his pudgy and cynical wife reduced to insignificance with a raising of her eyebrows. The Schweitzers were Alsatians and Protestants. Charles’ brother had become a Lutheran minister who in turn had begotten a minister, Albert, who was now a doctor-missionary in darkest Africa. Charles had become a teacher and coauthor of a Deutsches Lesebuch, used in German classes in all schools in France, and the father of two sons and a daughter. The elder son had settled into civil service and the younger had been a teacher of German until he died, still a bachelor, with a revolver under his pillow and twenty pairs of worn-out shoes in his trunks. Anne-Marie Schweitzer was gifted and pretty, but the family thought it distinguished to leave her gifts undeveloped. She had met Jean-Baptiste Sartre at Cherbourg, a young naval officer already wasting away with tropical fever. They had been married two years when he died and Anne-Marie had returned to her parents with her baby. Charles Schweitzer had found his son-in-law’s untimely death insolent and blamed his daughter for not having foreseen or forestalled it. He had applied for retirement but without a word of reproach went back to teaching to support Anne-Marie and her infant son. Chilled with gratitude she had given herself unstintingly, keeping house for her parents and becoming an adolescent again, asking for permission to go out.
There was so much to talk about. The friends were René Maheu, who had introduced Simone to Sartre, and Paul Nizan, Sartre’s best friend, who was already married and, with his wife, Henriette, believed in sexual freedom. It was Maheu who had nicknamed Simone Le Castor (Beaver) because, he said, beavers like company and have a constructive bent.1 Maheu was also married. He never brought his wife to the Sorbonne and disappeared into a suburban train every evening. To Beaver, he liked to underline the difference between himself and Sartre and Nizan. He was a sensualist, he said, enjoying works of art, nature and women; they heaped scorn on exalted principles and had to find the reason behind everything. Weren’t they the ones who had thrown water bombs at the mundane and vaguely Nietzschean elitist students with shouts of “Thus pissed Zarathustra!”? Nizan, who was always biting his nails and wore steel-rimmed glasses, was up on artistic fashion and introduced the others to James Joyce and the new American novel. He belonged to various literary circles, had joined the Communist Party and lived with his in-laws in a smart apartment where his and Henriette’s studio was decorated with a portrait of Lenin, cubist posters and a reproduction of Botticelli’s Venus. Most important, Nizan had had a book published.
Sartre had been writing since he was ten—stories, poems, essays, epigrams, puns, ballads and a novel—and he never stopped telling girls he met that they should also write. Only by creating works of the imagination could anyone escape from contingent life, he said. Art and literature were absolutes, which didn’t mean he had any intention of becoming a professional man of letters. He detested literary movements and hierarchies and couldn’t really reconcile himself to become a career person with faculty colleagues and college presidents.
There were many things Sartre didn’t want to become. He would never be a family man, he would never marry, never settle down and never clutter up his life with possessions. He would travel instead and accumulate experiences that would benefit his writing. In theory, Simone admired dangerous living, lost souls and all excesses, but for her graduation had meant liberation, moving away from home. For her, life would begin in October.
She had never felt she was a “born” writer, but at fifteen, when writing in a girl friend’s scrapbook about the future, she had scribbled that she wished to become a famous author. At eighteen she had written the first pages of a novel—about an eighteen-year-old girl whose obsessive concern was to defend herself against other people’s inquisitiveness. When they had all crammed together in the Nizans’ studio, Sartre had made fun of her parochial-school vocabulary, although he, too, admitted he was really seeking “salvation” in literature.
What Simone liked about Sartre was that he never stopped thinking, never took anything for granted and that on the subject that interested her above all others—herself—he tried to understand her in the light of her own set of values and attitudes. He told her she should hold on to her personal freedom, should remain curious and open and really do something about wanting to write. Only two and a half years older than she, Sartre impressed her by his maturity. Her cousin Jacques had been her first adolescent crush, Maheu had been the first man to make compliments on her figure. Sartre was the first man who was like her, only much more so, someone who wanted the same things as she, but who had more self-assurance than she could muster.
There were differences of course. Simone thought it was a miracle that she had managed to break free from her narrow upbringing and looked toward the future with excitement; Sartre detested adult life. At twenty-four, he didn’t particularly look forward to military service and the necessity of teaching for a living, but all this didn’t prevent him from saying that people should create their own lives and that freedom had to be the essence of his future. As a tolerable solution to the question of earning a living, he was applying for a French lectureship in Tokyo for the fall of 1931 when he would be through with the army. If accepted, he would have to spend two years in Japan, but the payoff would be that he could get similar appointments in other exotic capitals.
And he liked women. He found them less comical than men and had no intention of depriving himself of their company. The first time Simone had seen him at the Sorbonne, he had been talking with a great gawk of a student. Before that he had been engaged to and was still the admirer of Simone-Camille Sans, a sensuous would-be actress everybody at the teachers’ college had talked about. Together with Pierre Guille and Maheu he was also the platonic admirer of Madame Morel, a storied Argentinian lady of the exotic age of forty, whose son Guille and Sartre had tutored for his baccalauréat. While Simone realized that for a girl with her upbringing marriage was perhaps unavoidable, Sartre positively hated matrimony. What we have, he liked to tell her, was an essential love, which meant they could both experiment with contingent love affairs. They were two of a kind, he told her, their relationship would endure, something she had also felt. But it could not make up entirely for the fleeting riches of encounters with others. The question was of course how to avoid such emotions as regret and jealousy.
Maheu had been jealous of her friendship with Sartre and Nizan and had demanded preferential treatment. When they had all crammed together, they had often piled into Nizan’s little car and spent the afternoon at the Porte d’Orléans amusement park playing pinball machines and mini-football, and stopping for beer at a sidewalk café on the way back. When the question of their all going out together had come up one evening, Maheu had insisted on taking her to the movies alone. But Maheu had agreed that Sartre could spend the evening of the Fourteenth of July with them. After watching the fireworks on the lawn of the Cité Universitaire, Sartre had invited them all to a night of bar crawling on Montparnasse. Out in the streets at 2 A.M., Maheu had ostentatiously taken her arm. Maheu had said that if he flunked, he would take a grade-school teaching job in the provinces. Maheu did fail and left Paris without saying goodbye to anyone. In a short note to Sartre, he added, “Give Beaver my best wishes for her happiness.”
There was so much to talk about. On the fourth day, however, as they sat on the edge of a meadow, Simone suddenly saw her parents trooping toward them. As they came closer, she could see her father wearing a resolute but somewhat embarrassed expression under his straw boater. Sartre sprang to his feet and Simone introduced her friend to her parents. Monsieur de Beauvoir was brief and to the point. Politely, he asked Sartre to leave the area. People were gossiping, he said; besides, it was hoped to get Simone’s cousin married and the way Simone kept seeing a strange young man all day and every day could only harm Madeleine’s reputation.
Sartre, who happened to be wearing an aggressive red shirt, replied that he would certainly not leave the area a minute sooner than he intended. Georges de Beauvoir was a small man who hated arguments and bad manners and the standoff at the edge of the meadow remained civilized. Mortified, Simone followed her parents back to Meyrignac, but her father didn’t return to the attack and Sartre stayed another week at the Boule d’Or. He and Simone merely arranged more secret meeting places in a chestnut grove. After he left they wrote each other every day. In October they would begin their future.
Simone was born on January 8, 1908, on Boulevard Raspail in an apartment above the Rotonde café. Georges and Françoise de Beauvoir—he thirty, she twenty-one—were happy with their firstborn. They were a genteel couple, far from wealthy but trying to keep up the appearances of a noble, if obscure name. Blue-eyed Georges de Beauvoir was the grandson of a tax inspector who had amassed sufficient wealth to allow even his youngest son to live on a private income, although Georges’ father took up a civil service career in Paris and eventually retired as the head of his department. Brought up in moderate opulence, Georges was the youngest of three children. He was his mother’s favorite and his teachers’ pet. He disliked sports and violence of any kind and won academic prizes year after year at the Collège Stanislas. His mother’s death when he was thirteen touched him deeply and, Simone de Beauvoir was to write in Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, from then on “he stopped trying.”2
The Beauvoirs were halfway between aristocracy and haute bourgeoisie and could not bring themselves to allow young Georges to take up the career he loved most passionately—acting. Instead, he studied law, for its dramatic possibilities. His name, family connections, certain childhood friends and those he associated with as a young man convinced him he belonged to the aristocracy. He appreciated social graces, style, wit and the free-and-easy self-assurance of the rich. He dressed to the teeth, took elocution lessons and, to imitate actors, sported neither beard nor mustache. He passed his exams but didn’t bother to present himself to the bar. Instead he registered at the Court of Appeals and became the secretary to a well-established lawyer.
Suspended somewhere between aristocratic loftiness and bourgeois earnestness, Georges de Beauvoir attached little importance to the careers that were open to him. Clerking for the lawyer during the daytime, he became at night and during vacations an amateur actor, performing at charities in fashionable drawing rooms and resort hotels while slowly eating his way through his legacy and through a substantial cash payment that his brother Gaston gave him in return for renouncing all claims to Meyrignac. He devoted all his leisure to comedy and mime, took a special delight in makeup, kept up with stage gossip, idolized great actors, had actors as intimate friends, read prodigiously about the theater and on the very eve of his marriage acted in a play.
His wife came from a rich and devout provincial family. Born in Verdun, Françoise was the eldest of three children. Her father was a banker; her mother had been brought up by nuns and she herself attended a convent school. Her parents were reserved and she spent a pallid childhood and adolescence devoted to school and religious duties. At twenty, she was a brooding but beautiful girl, who without enthusiasm consented to meet Georges de Beauvoir. His vitality and charm overwhelmed her and in her eyes he would always enjoy the greatest prestige. The transition to married life was not without difficulties. Transported to a milieu where her convent morality was barely respected, she dreaded criticism and, to avoid it, took pains to be like everybody else. “In all matters, she accepted my father’s ideas without ever appearing to find any difficulty in reconciling them with her religion,” Simone would write.3 “My father was constantly astonished by the paradoxes of the human heart, by the playful tricks of heredity, and by the strangeness of dreams; I never saw my mother astonished by anything.”
When Simone was two and a half, the Beauvoirs had a second daughter, Hélène, who was instantly and for good nicknamed Poupette (little doll). The two sisters spent their early years between Louise, their nursemaid, and their young mother, who took up the responsibilities of motherhood with Christian devotion. She chose her daughters’ private school, supervised their reading and learned English and Latin to follow their progress. She took them to mass, said prayers with them morning and evening; she read works of piety, regularly received holy communion, but lost her temper too easily, even if the warmth of her affection made up for her unpredictability. Corporal punishment was rare, but she could shatter her daughters’ self-confidence with a phrase she often used: “It’s ridiculous.” One metaphysical difficulty in Simone’s young life was the fact that her father never went to mass. Feeling herself deeply penetrated by the presence of God, but taught by her mother that Papa was always right, her father’s agnosticism would have been a shock if it wasn’t for the fact that her mother found his attitude quite natural. “The consequence was that I grew accustomed to the idea that my intellectual life—embodied by my father—and my spiritual life—expressed by my mother—were two radically different fields of experience which had absolutely nothing in common. Sanctity and intelligence belonged to two quite different spheres … My situation resembled that of my father in his childhood and youth: he had found himself suspended between the airy skepticism of my grandfather and the bourgeois earnestness of my grandmother. In my own case, too, my father’s individualism and pagan ethical standards were in complete contrast to the rigidly moral conventionalism of my mother’s teaching. This imbalance, which made my life a kind of endless debate, is the main reason why I became an intellectual.”4
Her father’s interest in her increased as she grew up. He took great pains with her handwriting and spelling and during holidays dictated tricky passages to her, usually from Victor Hugo. No one she knew was as funny, as interesting and as brilliant as he; no one else had read so many books, or knew so much poetry by heart, or could argue with such passion. Always the life and soul of parties and family gatherings, he treated her as a fully developed person while her mother was more indulgent and found it natural that she should be a silly little girl now and then. “I was flattered most by praise from my father,” she would remember, “but if he complained because I had made a mess in his study, or if he cried, ‘How stupid these children are!’ I took such censure lightly because he obviously attached little importance to the way it was said. On the other hand any reproach made by my mother, or even her slightest frown was a threat to my security. Without her approval, I no longer felt I had any right to live.”5
For Poupette, life was more complicated. Although great pains were taken to treat both girls with scrupulous fairness, Simone enjoyed certain advantages. Poupette, who looked like her father, was hurt and perplexed and often sat crying in her little chair. She was accused of being sulky and clung to Simone with absolute devotion, grateful for her bigger sister’s approval. Poupette was to grow up prettier than Simone and to possess more of the social grace her father appreciated so much in young girls.
When Simone was five and a half, her mother enrolled her in a parochial girls’ school with an alluring name, Le Cours Désir. Simone could already read and write and immediately enjoyed having her own books, homework and schedules. At six, she taught Poupette to read and write, something that gave her a sense of pride in her own efficiency. They were all at Meyrignac that summer when one day in August the general alarm was sounded and it was announced that war had been declared. Orders for the requisitioning of horses and vehicles were nailed to doors and their grandfather’s horses were taken to the county seat of Uzerche. A month later at La Grillière, Simone was helping her mother knit woolen caps for soldiers and with Aunt Hélène went to the railway station to distribute apples to turbaned Indian troops on their way to the front. Georges de Beauvoir had been discharged from the Reserves because of heart trouble, but was called up for active service in the infantry. After his basic training, Simone went with her mother to visit him in his camp near Paris and was impressed by the gravity of his face since he had let his mustache grow. Patriotically, she had trampled to pieces a celluloid doll, “Made in Germany,” which actually belonged to Poupette, and went around sticking Allied flags in flower pots and scribbling Vive la France! everywhere with colored chalk. One part of her school became a temporary hospital and a refugee girl joined her class. In October, her father left for the front, and together with her mother and Poupette, Simone prayed for his safety. She was convinced that God would protect her father especially for her. A new heart attack felled him and he was evacuated to a military hospital, then transferred to a desk job at the War Ministry. He changed uniforms, shaved off his mustache and together with forty million other Frenchmen, the Beauvoirs settled into the war.
Simone learned her catechism from a pale young priest and, dressed in white tulle and with her head covered with a veil of Irish lace, received her first communion. Books helped broaden her horizon although they were carefully chosen for her by her parents. Curious about others, she never dreamed her fate could be different from what it was, and she felt no disappointment at being a girl. With the exception of her cousin Jacques, the boys she knew were in no way remarkable. Six months older than she, Jacques dazzled her with his brilliant compositions, his knowledge and assurance. He treated grownups as if he were their equal and although he usually despised girls made Simone an exception. “Simone is a precocious child,” he declared, words that pleased her immensely.
If the coronary spared Georges de Beauvoir the horrors of the trenches, the war ruined him, swept away his dreams, and destroyed his myths and his hopes. Earning only a soldier’s pay, he was obliged to move his family to a smaller cold-water flat at 71 Rue de Rennes. Thanks to the influence of a distant cousin, he supplemented his income by selling newspaper advertising space. The job bored him and brought in very little money and he began to go out in the evenings to play bridge with friends. The daughters wore their clothes until they were threadbare and after the maid, Louise, found a husband and left, Madame de Beauvoir decided she could do without domestic help.
For the 1917–18 school year a new girl joined Simone’s class at the Cours Désir. She was Elizabeth Mabille—Zaza, to everybody—and she immediately captivated Simone. “The manner in which she spoke to the teachers astounded me; her natural inflections contrasted strongly with the stereotyped expressionless voices of the rest of the pupils. Her conquest of me was complete when, a few days later, she mimicked Mademoiselle Bodet to perfection; everything she had to say was either interesting or amusing.”6 Zaza could play the piano, her handwriting was elegant and puberty didn’t make her lose her good looks. She dressed with affectation and behaved with all the ease of a young lady. She was selective in her interests and between twelve and fifteen ridiculed not only the majority of the people she and Simone knew, but established habits and conventional ideas. Zaza, people said, had personality. Simone was obliged to come to terms with her own timidity and her own subjectivity.
The happiest times for Simone were the summers at Meyrignac, where her family was still welcome. There, her mother was more relaxed than in Paris, her father devoted more time to her and she had her own little room overlooking the woodshed and the carriage house. Grandpapa came down at noon, his chin freshly shaven between his white sideburns, and after a solid lunch, he and his son Georges would sing, joke and retell the family anecdotes. In the afternoon, Simone and Poupette usually went for walks, discovering the world for miles around. On rainy days, they would ransack the drawing-room library for some Fenimore Cooper novel or Mama would prop the scores of grandfather’s favorite airs on the slightly off-key piano and he would join in the choruses with the rest of the family. On starry nights, Simone would go for walks in the garden, smelling the magnolias and keeping an eye open for shooting stars.
Her awakening to the “facts of life” was slow but her loss of faith was abrupt and lasting. If Cousin Madeleine, who was allowed to read anything, was the person who told Simone and Poupette that men, like her pet dog, had two balls between their legs and explained how children were born, Simone reached puberty and her first period without her mother ever mentioning menstruation. The sisters had long felt that adults concealed something of importance behind deceptive fronts, but when they found out, the disillusionment only served to reduce the prestige of grownups. Simone did not ponder long over pregnancy and childbirth, but came to dread the idea that her mother would find out that she knew and would therefore want to have a talk with her. With puberty came pimples, acne and nervous tics and remarks by her father about her complexion and clumsiness, which only aggravated her misery and bad habits.
The loss of faith came one balmy evening in her little room at Meyrignac. Having said her prayers, she realized with no great surprise that she no longer believed in God. Her father’s agnosticism had prepared her, but she was nevertheless taken aback by her discovery. The greatest writers and the finest thinkers were skeptics and she found it upsetting that it was women who went to church and therefore possessed divine truth when men were so clearly their superiors. She could not reveal her spiritual turmoil to her father since it would embarrass him. For a while she lived a double life, continuing to go to confession while realizing that God could no longer influence her behavior. When she finally told a father confessor that she had lost faith, he asked what mortal sins she had committed. When she protested she hadn’t committed any, he didn’t believe her. She resigned herself to the life of an outcast.
Together with her father, Simone rated writers higher than scholars, philosophers and professors because novels were read by everybody and touched peoples’ imagination and because they brought their authors universal and intimate fame. Also, the most celebrated women had distinguished themselves in literature, and although Georges de Beauvoir considered women’s intelligence should be no more than a social ornament, he admired Colette’s literary style. Simone was also attracted to teaching. Rather than have her own children, she could easily see herself forming other minds and, to be able totally to plan her pupil’s education, wouldn’t mind becoming a governess in a family. Her parents threw up their hands in horror but she contended that educating the young could never be considered a menial job.
As Georges de Beauvoir’s finances slipped and, with the Bolshevik Revolution, he lost shares he held in Russian railway companies, his daughters’ future loomed painfully large on his horizon. To people of his pretensions training a girl for a profession was a sign of defeat. The daughters of his brother, his sister and his friends would be ladies; Simone would not. Approaching fifty and financial uncertainty, he resolved that if nothing else Simone should become a civil servant, earn a government salary and, on retirement, receive a pension.
Librarianship was considered a possibility, but Simone preferred philosophy because she had seen an illustrated article about a woman who had taken her doctorate in philosophy and had adopted a young niece, thereby reconciling her intellectual life with the demands of feminine sensibility. The number of women who had such degrees could be counted on one hand and Simone wanted to be one of these pioneers. From a practical point of view, the only career open to her with a degree in philosophy was teaching. Simone did not object to that, nor did her father, provided she didn’t give private tuition in pupils’ homes but taught in a lycée, or college. This solution was to Simone’s taste and her mother talked to her teachers about the decision. The ladies at the Cours Désir had given their lives to combating secular education and abhorred state colleges. They told Mme. de Beauvoir that the study of philosophy would corrupt the soul and that after one year at the Sorbonne Simone would have lost her faith and good character. Her father backed off slightly. Instead of philosophy, Simone could major in literature, but no daughter of his should become a private tutor, whatever the saintly ladies at the Cours Désir said. In July 1924, Simone passed her exams and in September, shortly before her grandfather and her Uncle Gaston died, sat down in a lecture hall together with boys for the first time. With some trepidation the Mabille family allowed Zaza to follow French literature classes with Simone.
The literature professor was Robert Garric, an ardent Catholic who had assured Monsieur Mabille that a young girl could indeed take a degree without losing her soul. Garric was just over thirty, had thinning blond hair and was founder and director of Les Equipes Sociales, a noble postwar experiment in bringing culture to the underprivileged. In a few years, the Social Teams movement had spread all over France, with ten thousand members, including two hundred teachers. Simone’s cousin Jacques was a member and an admirer of Garric who felt the cultural segregation of bourgeois and working-class youths as a personal mutilation.
Simone found Garric’s lectures spellbinding and, through Jacques, joined the students-for-the-underprivileged action program. She heard Garric speak in chic Neuilly homes about everyone’s right to culture and how social progress was possible only if class hatred was overcome. His ideas were not at variance with her own, yet seemed to strike her as absolutely new. In Garric, she had met someone who, instead of submitting to fate, had chosen a way of life that had meaning and was governed by its own overriding necessity. She was shocked when Zaza didn’t share her hero worship.
Simone’s relationship with her father became difficult. He attached extreme importance to her diplomas and encouraged her to accumulate them. This insistence convinced her he was proud of having a brainy daughter, but the contrary was true. After a casual look at her favorite and newly discovered authors—André Gide, Jean Cocteau, Henry de Montherlant and Paul Claudel—he pronounced them pretentious and decadent and was indignant with Jacques for having lent their books to her. She felt her father harbored a deep resentment against her as he took to making violent scenes about the sacrifices his daughters imposed upon him. He was annoyed when Simone attacked certain traditions or tried to skip the dinners which several times a year reunited the whole family. She couldn’t accept his concept of marriage and he couldn’t see what love and friendship had in common. “I couldn’t accept that if one of the partners should be unfaithful to the other, if they didn’t get along together, they should separate,” she was to remember late in life. “I was not a feminist to the extent of caring about politics, but in my opinion men and women had the right to be considered equal and I demanded that they should have reciprocal benefits and privileges. My father’s attitude ‘toward the fair sex’ wounded me deeply. Taken as a whole, the frivolity of bourgeois love affairs and adulteries made me sick.” Her upbringing had persuaded her that the interests of the bourgeoisie were closely linked with the interest of humanity as a whole, but when she tried to enlist the support of her family in the pursuit of truths that would be valid for everyone, her father and mother turned against her. Her mother regarded her with suspicion; her father accused her of renouncing the values of her class. When Simone told her mother that for some time she had no longer believed in God, her mother attempted to prove God’s existence, then, with a helpless gesture and her eyes full of tears, suddenly stopped. Simone was sorry to hurt her, but felt relieved to be able to live without false pretenses.
Simone passed her literature exams with distinction—and congratulations from Garric—and spent the summer of her eighteenth year at Meyrignac feeling miserable and lonely. She had started a diary and the first chapter of a novel and now wrote her first complete work, the story of a futile escape. The heroine was eighteen and spending a holiday with her family in a country house where she was awaiting the arrival of her fiancé. Suddenly, she discovered the “something else” in life. A genius musician made her see art, sincerity and disquiet. She felt she had been living a lie and a strange, feverish longing overtook her. The musician went away, and from her upstairs room she saw her fiancé arrive. She hesitated but her courage failed her and she went downstairs to greet her future husband.
Jacques became her hope. He was now a good-looking youth, independent and already in charge of his family’s stained-glass manufacturing business. To Simone, he was both a somewhat remote elder brother and someone she felt she could reasonably fall in love with. He treated her as “good old Sim” and responded to her needs for affectionate understanding with a mixture of cozy sarcasm and sincere concern. To a desperate letter she sent him from Meyrignac that summer he responded that if she were more human she would shock her parents less. His advice touched her although she didn’t feel she was deliberately trying to shock her family. But Jacques failed too many exams, spent too much time with fashionable friends in fashionable bars and on two occasions told her he loathed himself to prevent her disillusionment in him. The next year she saw little of him, but his visit on her nineteenth birthday made her fantasize about marriage. For Jacques, however, marriage was an end in itself. She could not imagine herself accepting an end to anything.
Zaza remained Simone’s only friend, although Monsieur Mabille’s sudden appointment to an executive position with the Citroën car company imposed such a heavy social schedule on Zaza that the two friends only saw each other on Sunday mornings. More vexing, Zaza’s mother discouraged the friendship, for fear that her daughter would become too intellectual to find a husband. Simone’s circle of friends broadened when, at nineteen and a half, she entered the École Normale, the teachers’ college of the Sorbonne, which trained for higher education professorates. While she found most of her fellow students uninteresting, she got to know Pierre Nodier, an older student with serious blue eyes who never spoke to anyone except a little thin-faced dark girl. Nodier belonged to a group who founded the magazine L’Esprit, and he was her first contact with left-wing intellectuals. He believed philosophy could never be separated from revolutionary aspirations although he felt economics played only a secondary role to spiritual progression. Simone asked him a lot of questions, but her political ideas remained hazy. Several of the students were socialists, but she suspected the communists were as dogmatic as Jesuits. At the end of the term, Nodier told her he had found a teaching post in Australia and, together with the skinny dark girl, disappeared forever.
Simone was introduced to pacifism—she had never imagined that her father’s jingoist patriotism wasn’t shared by all Frenchmen—signed a petition for the reprieve of Sacco and Vanzetti in America, and made a fleeting acquaintance with Simone Weil. The future Christian philosopher always strolled around the Sorbonne courtyard in a bizarre getup. She was very concerned about famine in China. When the two Simones got into a conversation, Weil said the only important thing was revolution, which would feed all starving people, and Beauvoir retorted that the problem was not so much making people happy as finding the reason for their existence. “It’s easy to see you’ve never gone hungry,” La Weil snapped. In the philosophy exams, Weil was No. 1, Beauvoir No. 2.
More important was her friendship with an uncomplicated student of independent means who was also trying to emancipate himself from a long Catholic upbringing. Jean Pradelle had a limpid, pretty face and a knack for listening to people with a handsome meditative air. When Simone told him about her qualms, he disapproved of her uncompromising attitudes—and she of his readiness to accept the bourgeois life laid out for him. They became fast friends and when he walked her home one day and they bumped into her mother in the Rue de Rennes, he was formally introduced. To Simone’s surprise, her mother rather liked him. Like Jacques, however, Pradelle seemed to be a little afraid of her and for a while she wondered whether men ever married women like her.
Simone worked hard and in the spring of 1928 toyed with the idea of taking up philology. She found the study of ancient records too boring, however, and gave it up. Her father was disappointed. He would have liked her to have two degrees. It would have been the smart thing to do. To her astonishment, her father did not shunt Poupette into a safe career but let her choose to study art.
Simone wondered whether, instead of philology, she shouldn’t start right away on her agrégation—that difficult, competitive postgraduate examination for university and lycée teaching positions. That would mean she could be finished with the Sorbonne and leave home in eighteen months. She talked to her philosophy dean, Léon Brunschvicg. He said Why not? and advised her to do her thesis on Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz (1646–1716). The philosophy of the Hanoverian thinker-mathematician-diplomat was not easy. For two centuries his fame had rested on his metaphysics while his logical works had remained unpublished and unappreciated until the beginning of the twentieth century. What Professor Brunschvicg wanted was that she write her thesis on Leibniz’s logical doctrine.
She was unhappy again that summer. Meeting Pradelle after the Easter recess, he told her he had taken holy communion and had decided he was still a believer. She felt betrayed. Jacques was on the eve of induction for his military service and told Simone with such romantic fervor about an affair he had had that for the first time she felt favorably disposed toward the idea of illicit love. A night with him on Montparnasse, where he hoisted her onto a tall barstool and ordered her a dry martini, ended with a hysterical reminder that she was still very much under her parents’ sway. Jacques deposited her safely at 71 Rue de Rennes at 2 A.M., but when she got upstairs she was greeted by tears and thunder. Her parents had just come back from Jacques’ home, where they had roused his mother and wailed that they wanted their dishonored daughter back. Simone told them Jacques and she had simply gone for coffee at the Rotonde. Her parents refused to calm down and the scene ended with Simone in tears also. The next day when Simone met her cousin for a last good-bye and he saw her red eyes and heard about her mother’s suspicion, he looked her deep in the eyes and said he respected her too much ever to want to treat her with disrespect. She was touched and went off to study her Leibniz. Jacques would do his army stint in Algeria but would be back in eighteen months.
The life of bars and the glitter and fauna of Boulevard Montparnasse after midnight intrigued Simone and, with Poupette, she went bar crawling. She became a regular at the Jockey Club, learned to drink gin fizz, allowed men to accost her and went to drink with strangers. “Refuse nothing,” was the motto of Gide and the surrealists. When the driver of a car following her one night, leaned out and asked her to go for a spin, she hopped in. When he tried to kiss her, she ran off, followed by a flood of curses. She realized she had got off lightly, but was pleased with herself for having dared a truly “gratuitous” act.
A new friend was Stefanie Avdicovitch, a Polish student of vast experience who had spent the summer as the governess of Zaza’s younger sisters, attended lectures at the Sorbonne and received an allowance from her parents in Lvov. Stépha, as Simone and Zaza called her, was graceful and feminine, spoke with a warbling voice and told Zaza she was naive to believe that young Catholic men were virgins when they married. Stépha had a bright room in a hotel in the Rue Saint Sulpice where she hung reproductions of Cézanne, Renoir, El Greco and drawings of a Spanish painter who lived in the same hotel. Prematurely bald and with a round face, Fernando Gerassi was a Sephardic Jew, born in Constantinople and educated in Berlin. Although penniless, he managed to continue to paint. Simone introduced Stépha and Fernando to Poupette, who was now taking commercial art and attending drawing classes in a studio on Montparnasse. One day Fernando pointed to a sketch of a naked woman on his wall and said Stépha had posed for it. Simone didn’t know where to look and Stépha told him not to say such silly things. He hurriedly admitted it was only a joke. Stépha took great care not to shock Simone while at the same time making gentle attempts at opening her eyes. “But I’m telling you, physical love is very important, especially for men,” Stépha would try. Simone didn’t think she would languish in virginity forever, but she was sure her wedding night should be a white mass.
In January 1929, Simone began her teaching “internship” at the Lycée Janson de Sailly. Her fellow interns were Maurice Merleau-Ponty and Claude Lévi-Strauss. Merleau-Ponty was preparing for his agrégation in philosophy also. Lévi-Strauss wasn’t afraid of being funny in class, expounding with deadpan irony on the folly of human passions. There were days when Simone found it silly to discourse upon the life of the emotions in front of forty teenage boys who obviously couldn’t care less, but on other days she felt she could catch a glimmer of intelligence in certain eyes. She read My Life by Isadora Duncan and daydreamed about her own existence. It wouldn’t be a stormy life, nor even a startling one. All she wanted was to be in love, to write good books, to have children and friends to whom she could dedicate her books. After the Easter recess, she met René Maheu who introduced her to Sartre.
Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre was born June 21, 1905, at 2 Rue Mignard in the 16th arrondissement near the Bois de Boulogne. The year before, in May, Jean-Baptiste Sartre had married Anne-Marie Schweitzer. The courtship had been brief. They had met in Cherbourg, where the thirty-year-old Jean-Baptiste was second lieutenant in the navy and suffering from bouts of intestinal fever contracted during a tour of duty in French Indochina.
The whole thing was pathetic. Jean-Paul was barely born before he and his father began to waste away. When the baby was a few months old, Jean-Baptiste’s condition was such that he, his wife and infant son moved to a farm near Thiviers, south of Limoges, so that Jean-Baptiste’s father could cure him. Inexperienced and without advice, the twenty-year-old Anne-Marie cared for her husband as best she could. Her milk dried up and it seemed the baby would die of an inflammation of the intestines. Dr. Aymard Sartre did his best for his son and his grandson. Little Jean-Paul was put out to nurse with a healthy farmer’s wife but the enteritis persisted. Meanwhile, Jean-Baptiste’s intestinal fever worsened.
Dr. Sartre was a taciturn country doctor who visited his patients in the Dordogne Valley in a buckboard. After medical school, he had married Marie-Marguerite Chavois, the daughter of a rich landowner from Périgord, and set up practice on the dreary main street of Thiviers opposite the pharmacist. The day after the wedding, he had discovered that his father-in-law was penniless. Outraged, he did not speak to Marie-Marguerite for forty years. At the table, he expressed himself by signs, but he shared her bed and, from time to time, made her pregnant. She had given him two sons and a daughter. Jean-Baptiste was the eldest of these children of silence. Late in life his sister had married a cavalry officer who went mad and his younger brother retired early from the military to his parents’ home, developed a stammer and shot himself.
On September 17, 1906, Jean-Baptiste died in his bewildered young wife’s arms. After the funeral, Anne-Marie said good-bye to the Sartres and, with her baby, returned to her parents—Charles (or Karl, according to moods) and Louise Schweitzer. Fifty years later, Jean-Paul would write in The Words, his autobiography that didn’t go beyond his childhood,7 how his grandmother kept repeating that Jean-Baptiste had shirked his duties while his grandfather, proud of the Schweitzers’ longevity, would not hear of anyone dying at thirty-two and eventually forgot all about his son-in-law. “Even now I am surprised at how little I know about him,” Sartre would write. “Yet he loved, he wanted to live, he saw himself dying; that is enough to make a whole human being. But no one in my family was able to make me curious about the man. For several years, I was able to see over my bed the photograph of a little officer with frank open eyes, a round baldish head and a thick mustache. The picture disappeared when my mother remarried.”
Charles Schweitzer was sixty-two when his widowed daughter returned with her infant son to his home in Meudon, on the western outskirts of Paris. A teacher who had earned his Ph.D. with a thesis on the medieval poet Hans Sachs and had become a pioneer in direct-language methods, Schweitzer had applied for retirement. To support his daughter and bring up his grandson, he remained a teacher until he was forced to retire at sixty-seven, then moved to Paris and founded The Institute for Living Languages. Until the age of twelve, Poulou—as his mother affectionately called him—spent his life in a vast apartment at 1 Rue Le Goff, a tiny Latin Quarter street near the Sorbonne, “between an old man and two women.”
Schweitzer, who tyrannized his wife and daughter and constantly pestered his grown sons, took to grandfatherhood with a vengeance. “In the struggle between generations, children and old people often join forces,” Sartre would write about his early years in his grandfather’s benevolent shadow, admired and meditated upon, doted over, and taught to make grownup remarks. “I was extremely worried about my grandmother. It pained me to note that she didn’t admire me sufficiently. In point of fact, Louise had seen through me. She openly found fault with me for the hamming with which she didn’t dare reproach her husband. I was a buffoon, a clown, a humbug; she ordered me to stop ‘smirking and smiling.’ I was all the more indignant in that I suspected her of belittling my grandfather too. I would answer back; she would demand an apology. Sure of being backed up, I would refuse. My grandfather would seize the opportunity to show his weakness; he would side with me against his wife, who would stand up, outraged, and go lock herself up in her room. My mother, anxiously fearing my grandmother’s rancor, would speak in a low voice and humbly lay the blame on my grandfather, who would shrug and withdraw to his study. Finally, she would beg me to ask my grandmother to forgive me. I enjoyed my power.”8
Poulou could read at four. Adventures were in books, not in the Luxembourg Gardens across Boulevard St. Michel. He climbed perilously on chairs to reach the upper shelves of his grandfather’s library, picked volumes at random, art books which his grandfather’s students had given him as New Year’s gifts, major French and German classics, and, especially, the big Larousse Encyclopedia. “With difficulty I would put a volume on my grandfather’s blotter and open it,” he would remember. “Men and animals were there in person; the engravings were their bodies, the texts were their souls, their individual particularities. Outside, one would encounter rough approximations of archetypes that never reached perfection. The monkeys in the zoo were less monkey, people in the Luxembourg Gardens were less people. In Platonic fashion, I went from knowledge to its object. I found more reality in ideas than in things. It was in books that I encountered the universe—assimilated, classified, labeled, thought out yet still formidable; and I confused the disorder of my bookish experiences with the random course of actual events, which explains why it took me thirty years to shake off my idealism.”
Madame BovaryThe Last of the Mohicans