The Mandarins. Simone Beauvoir de

an onlooker, so I can pretty well see what’s in store for you people.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘An impasse.’

      ‘An impasse? What do you mean by that?’

      Suddenly, I found myself anxiously awaiting his reply. We had all been living together in such a tightly sealed circle for so long a time, with no intrusions by outsiders, any witnesses, that this man from without troubled me.

      ‘French intellectuals are facing an impasse. It’s their turn now,’ he added with a kind of satisfaction. ‘Their art, their philosophies can continue to have meaning only within the framework of a certain kind of civilization. And if they want to save that civilization, they’ll have no time or energy left over to give to art or philosophy.’

      ‘This isn’t the first time Robert’s been active in politics,’ I said. ‘And it never before stopped him from writing.’

      ‘Yes, in ’34 Dubreuilh gave a great deal of his time to the struggle against fascism,’ Scriassine said in his suave voice. ‘But to him, that struggle seemed morally reconcilable with literary preoccupations.’ With a slight trace of anger, he added, ‘In France, the pressure of history has never been felt in all its urgency. But in Russia, in Austria, in Germany, it was impossible to escape it. That’s why I, for example, was never able to write.’

      ‘But you have written.’

      ‘Don’t you think I dreamed of writing other kinds of books, too? But it was out of the question.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘To be able to continue taking an interest in things cultural in the face of Stalin and Hitler, you have to have one hell of a humanistic tradition behind you. But, of course,’ he went on, ‘in the country of Diderot, Victor Hugo, Jaurès, it’s easy to believe that culture and politics go hand in hand. Paris has thought of itself as Athens. But Athens no longer exists; it’s dead.’

      ‘As far as feeling the pressure of history is concerned,’ I said, ‘I think Robert could give you a few pointers.’

      ‘I’m not attacking your husband,’ Scriassine said, with a little smile that reduced my heated words to nothing more than an expression of conjugal loyalty. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he continued, ‘I consider Robert Dubreuilh and Thomas Mann to be the two greatest minds of this age. But that’s precisely it; if I predict that he’ll give up literature, it’s only because I have confidence in his lucidity.’

      I shrugged my shoulders. If he was trying to soften me up, he was certainly going about it the wrong way. I detest Thomas Mann.

      ‘Robert will never give up writing,’ I said.

      ‘The remarkable thing in all of Dubreuilh’s works,’ said Scriassine, ‘is that he was able to reconcile high aesthetic standards with revolutionary inspiration. And in his own life, he attained an analogous equilibrium: he was organizing vigilance committees at the same time he was writing novels. But it’s precisely that beautiful equilibrium that’s now becoming impossible.’

      ‘You can count on Robert to devise some new kind of equilibrium,’ I said.

      ‘He’s bound to sacrifice his aesthetic standards,’ Scriassine said. Suddenly his face lit up and he asked in a triumphant voice, ‘Do you know anything about prehistoric times?’

      ‘Not much more than I do about chess.’

      ‘But perhaps you know this: that for a vast period of time the wall paintings and objects found in caves and excavations bear witness to a continuous artistic progress. Abruptly, both drawings and sculptures disappear; there’s an eclipse lasting several centuries which coincides with the development of new techniques. Well, just now we’re at the edge of a new era in which, for different reasons, humanity will have to grapple with all sorts of difficult problems, leaving us no time for the luxury of expressing ourselves artistically.’

      ‘Reasoning by analogy doesn’t prove very much,’ I said.

      ‘All right then, let’s forget that comparison,’ Scriassine said patiently. ‘You’ve probably been too close to this war we’ve gone through to properly understand it. Actually, it was something entirely different from a war – the liquidation of a society, and even of a world, or rather the beginning of their liquidation. The progress that science and engineering have made, the economic changes that have come about, will convulse the earth to such an extent that even our ways of thinking and feeling will be revolutionized. We’ll even have difficulty remembering just who and what we had once been. And among other things art and literature will become nothing more than peripheral divertissements.’

      I shook my head and Scriassine resumed heatedly: ‘Don’t you see? What weight will the message of French writers have when the earth is ruled by either Russia or the United States? No one will understand them any more; very few will even speak their language.’

      ‘From the way you talk, it would seem you’re rather enjoying the prospect,’ I said.

      He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Now isn’t it just like a woman to say a thing like that! They’re simply incapable of being objective.’

      ‘Well, let’s be objective then,’ I said. ‘Objectively, it’s never been proved that the world must become either American or Russian.’

      ‘In the long run, give or take a few years, it’s bound to happen.’ With a gesture of his hand, he stopped me from interrupting him and then gave me one of his charming Slavic smiles. ‘I think I understand you. The liberation is still fresh in your mind. All of you are wading shoulder deep in euphoria. For four years you suffered a great deal and now you think you’ve paid enough. Well, you never can pay enough,’ he said with a sudden harshness. He looked me squarely in the eyes. ‘Do you know there’s a very powerful faction in Washington that would like to see the German campaign continued right up to Moscow? And from their point of view they’re right. American imperialism, like Russian totalitarianism, requires unlimited expansion. In the end, one or the other has to win.’ A note of sadness entered his voice. ‘You think you’re celebrating the German defeat, but what you’re actually witnessing is the beginning of World War Three.’

      ‘Those are your prognostications,’ I said.

      ‘I know Dubreuilh believes in peace and in the possibility of maintaining a free and independent Europe,’ Scriassine said. ‘But even brilliant minds can sometimes be mistaken,’ he added with an indulgent smile. ‘We’ll be annexed by Russia or colonized by America, of that you can be sure.’

      ‘Well, if that’s the case, then there’s no impasse,’ I said gaily. ‘If it’s inevitable, what’s the sense of worrying about it? Those who enjoy writing will just go right on writing.’

      ‘What an idiotic game that would be! To write when there’s no one to read what you’ve written.’

      ‘When everything has gone to hell, there’s nothing to do but to play idiotic games.’

      Scriassine remained silent for a moment and then a half-smile crossed his face. ‘Nevertheless, certain conditions would be less unfavourable than others,’ he said confidently. ‘If Russia wins, there’s no problem: it’s the end of civilization and the end of all of us. But if America should win, the disaster wouldn’t be quite so bad. If we were able to give her certain values while maintaining some of our own ideas, there’d be some hope that future generations would one day re-establish the ties with our own culture and traditions. But to succeed in that would require the total mobilization of all our potential.’

      ‘Don’t tell me that in case of a war you’d hope for an American victory!’ I said.

      ‘No matter what happens, history must inevitably lead to a classless society,’ Scriassine said in reply. ‘It’s a matter of two or three centuries. But for the happiness of those men who’ll be living during the interval, I ardently hope that the revolution takes place in a world dominated by America and not by Russia.’