The Mandarins. Simone Beauvoir de

quite an appeal in France, around 1930. But let me tell you, in Russia it wasn’t quite so appealing.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re preparing a big surprise for yourselves! The day the Russians occupy France you’ll begin to realize what I mean. Unfortunately, it’ll be too late then.’

      ‘You yourself don’t believe in a Russian occupation,’ I said.

      Scriassine sighed. ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘Let’s be optimists. Let’s admit that Europe has a chance of remaining independent. But we can’t keep her that way except by waging a constant, interminable battle. Working for oneself will be entirely out of the question.’

      I did not attempt to answer him. All that Scriassine wanted was to reduce French writers to silence, and I clearly understood why. There was nothing really convincing in his prophecies, and yet his tragic voice awakened an echo in me. ‘How shall we live?’ The question had been painfully pricking me all evening and for God knows how many days and weeks.

      Scriassine looked at me intently. ‘One of two things can happen. If men like Dubreuilh and Perron look the situation square in the face, they’ll become involved in things that will demand all their time, all their energies. Or if they cheat and obstinately continue to write, their works will be cut off from reality, and deprived of any future; they’ll be like the words of blind people, as distressing as Alexandrine poetry.’

      It’s difficult to engage in a discussion with someone who, while talking of the world and of others, talks constantly of himself. I was unable to speak my mind without hurting him. Nevertheless I said, ‘It’s useless trying to imprison people in dilemmas; life always causes them to break out.’

      ‘Not in this case. Alexandria or Sparta, there’s no other choice. It’s far better to admit a thing like that today than to put it off,’ he said rather gently. ‘Sacrifices are no longer painful when they’re behind you.’

      ‘I’m sure Robert won’t sacrifice anything.’

      ‘We’ll talk about it again a year from now,’ Scriassine said. ‘A year from now he’ll either have deserted politics or he’ll have stopped writing. I don’t think he’ll desert.’

      ‘And he won’t stop writing either.’

      Scriassine’s face grew animated. ‘What would you like to bet? A bottle of champagne?’

      ‘I’m not betting anything at all.’

      He smiled. ‘You’re the same as all women; you need fixed stars in the heavens and milestones on the highways.’

      ‘You know,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders, ‘those fixed stars did quite a lot of dancing around during the last four years.’

      ‘Yes, and nevertheless you’re still convinced that France will always be France, and Robert Dubreuilh, Robert Dubreuilh. If not, you’d be lost.’

      ‘Listen,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Your objectivity begins to seem rather doubtful.’

      ‘I’m forced to follow you on your grounds; you oppose me with nothing but subjective convictions,’ Scriassine said. A smile warmed his inquisitive eyes. ‘You take things very seriously, don’t you?’

      ‘That depends.’

      ‘I was warned about that,’ he said. ‘But I like serious women.’

      ‘Who warned you?’

      With a vague gesture, he indicated every one and no one. ‘People.’

      ‘What did they tell you?’

      ‘That you were distant and austere. But I don’t really think so.’

      I pressed my lips together, hoping it would prevent me from asking further questions. I’ve always been able to avoid being caught by the snare of mirrors. But the glances, the looks, the stares of other people, who can resist that dizzying pit? I dress in black, speak little, write not at all; together, all these things form a certain picture which others see. I’m no one. It’s easy of course to say ‘I am I.’ But who am I? Where find myself? I would have to be on the other side of every door, but when it’s I who knock the others grow silent. Suddenly I felt my face burning; I felt like ripping it off.

      ‘Why don’t you write?’ Scriassine asked.

      ‘There are enough books in the world.’

      ‘That’s not the only reason,’ he said, staring at me through small, prying eyes. ‘The truth is you don’t want to expose yourself.’

      ‘Expose myself to what?’

      ‘On the surface, you seem very sure of yourself, but basically you’re extremely timid. You’re one of those people who pride themselves on not doing things.’

      I interrupted him. ‘Don’t try analysing me; I know every dark recess of myself. I’m a psychiatrist, you know.’

      ‘I know,’ he said smiling. ‘Do you think we could have dinner together one evening? I feel lost in this blacked out Paris; I don’t seem to know anyone any more.’

      Suddenly, I thought, ‘Well, well! At least for him I have legs!’ I took out my note-book; I had no reason for refusing.

      ‘All right, let’s have dinner together,’ I said. ‘Can you make it the third of January?’

      ‘It’s a date. Eight o’clock at the Ritz bar. Does that suit you?’

      ‘Fine.’

      I felt ill at ease. Oh, it isn’t that I cared much what he thought of me. No, not that. When I see my own likeness in the depths of someone else’s consciousness, I always experience a moment of panic. But it doesn’t last very long; I snap right out of it. What did bother me was having glimpsed Robert through eyes that weren’t mine. Had he really reached an impasse? I looked over at him and saw him take Paula by the waist and spin her around; with his other hand, he was drawing God only knows what in the air. Perhaps he was explaining something about the flow of time to her. In any case, they were both laughing; he didn’t give the least impression of being in danger. Were he in danger, he would surely have known it; Robert isn’t often mistaken and he never lies to himself. I went to the bay window and hid myself behind the red draperies. Scriassine had spoken quite a bit of nonsense, but he had posed certain questions I was unable to brush off so easily. During all these weeks, I had fled from questions. We’d been waiting so long for this moment – the liberation, victory – that I wanted to get all I could out of it. There would always be time enough tomorrow to think of the next day. Well, now I had thought of it, and I wondered what Robert thought. His doubts never produced a diminishing of activity, but on the contrary they stimulated him to excesses. Didn’t those long-drawn-out conversations, those letters, those telephone calls, those nocturnal debauches of work cover up a deep disturbance? He never hides anything from me, but sometimes he keeps certain worries temporarily to himself. And besides, I thought remorsefully, tonight he again repeated to Paula, ‘We’re at the crossroads.’ He said it often, and through cowardice I avoided giving those words their true weight. The crossroads. Therefore, in Robert’s eyes, the world was in danger. And he is the world for me. He was in danger! He spoke volubly as we were returning home, arm in arm, through the familiar darkness along the quays. But tonight his voice wasn’t enough to reassure me. He was bursting with what he had seen and heard, and he was very gay; when he has remained shut in for days and nights on end, the least occasion to go out becomes an event. When he spoke of the party, it seemed to me as if I had spent the evening with my eyes blindfolded and my ears stuffed with cotton. He had eyes all around his head and a dozen pairs of ears. I listened to him, but at the same time I continued questioning myself. He was never going to complete that journal he had kept so conscientiously all during the war. Why not? Was that a symptom? Of what?

      ‘Poor, unhappy Paula! It’s a catastrophe for a woman to be loved by a writer,’ Robert was saying. ‘She believed everything Perron told her about herself.’

      I