Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943; a memoir. 9780838676103, 0838676103

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Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943 A Memoir

Ad ele Breav’ youston pustic LIBRARY FM

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Saint-Exupery in

America, 1942-1943 A

Memoir

ADELE BREAUX Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, renowned French pilot and best-selling author, was something of a mystery man during his

stay in the United States. Guest of the U.S. Government during the war years 1942-1943, he was at Washington’s beck and call and few people knew him or even knew where he lived and wrote. It would seem something of a miracle to a young

high school

teacher,

who

had lived in France and hence spoke the language idiomatically as well as correctly, that a literary idol of hers should have chosen Northport, Long Island, scene of her new position, for a sanctuary, and should employ her services as teacher of practical English during his short residence. Adele Breaux, quiet, shy, and sensitive young woman that she was, has never forgotten her early feelings of trepidation and inadequacy, and her later ones of relief and gratitude at her acceptance by the dedicated Frenchman. She records them honestly in casting

this memorable and valuable new light on the life and person of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

Miss Breaux also records the background of the French author—a Count who had a fine feeling for democracy,

(Continued on back flap)

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2023 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/saintexuperyinam0000brea

Saimt-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943 A Memoir

WORKS

TRANSLATED

FROM

THE

SPANISH

BY ADELE

BREAUX

The Stowaway (El Ultimo Grumete de la Baquedano) by Francisco Coloane Cururo, Sheep Dog (Cururo) by Francisco Coloane Tales of Tierra del Fuego by Francisco Coloane Autobiography (Autobiografia) by Arturo Torres-Rioseco

The Old King of Le Petit Prince

Courtesy Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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Saint-Exu ipery

in America,

1942-1943

A Memoir

Adele Breaux

Rutherford e Madisone Teanec i Fairleigh Dickinson University Pres

HOUSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY © 1971 by Associated University Presses, Inc. Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 70-99322

Associated University Presses, Inc. Cranbury, New Jersey 08512

Excerpts from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s “Letter to a Hostage,” translated by John Rodker and appearing in Part IV of Modern French Short Stories, John Lehman, ed., are reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation. Copyright. All rights reserved. Excerpts from Wind, Sand and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, translated by Lewis Galantiére, copyright, 1939, by Antoine de SaintExupéry; copyright, 1967, by Lewis Galantiére are reprinted by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., and William Heinemann Ltd.

RULYS4O9863 HyM

ISBN: 0-8386-7610-3 Printed in the United States of America

To

Morris Saxe,

who finds inspiration in flying. A profound teacher, he has given inspiration to many.

Contents

Introduction Saint-Exupéry’s Northport Residence, the Bevin House—a

Historic Mansion

11

1 2

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in 1942 Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil

AS O48

3 4 5

Afternoon Tea A Dinner With Consuelo The Little Prince

51 60 73

6

Linking Episodes

86

7 8

Points of View The Final Lesson

99 yy

9 10

The

Saint-Exupérys

York City Aftermath Epilogue

at Beekman

Place, New

11 Appendix: Dates of the English Lessons and Visits Index

128 144 15.2

160 163

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Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943 A Memoir

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Introduction DD a a a ee

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Saint-Exupery’s Northport

Residence, the Bevin House—a Etistoric Mansion

One evening when I was at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Bevin, long after Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s disappearance in 1944, in the room which had served as dining-room for the Saint-Exupérys, Mr. Bevin related briefly the story of his background on Eaton’s Neck. The land had received its name from Governor Eaton of New Haven, who bought it from the Matinnecock Indians in 1646. Before the Revolution, the peninsula, Eaton’s Neck, became one of five Royal Manors on Long Island. John Sloss Hobart, probably the most

influential Long Island leader for American independence, 11

12 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

was its owner. Eventually the land fell into parcels belonging to farmers and two influential families. Mr. Bevin’s grandfather, Cornelius H. De Lamater, owner of a large iron foundry in New York City, fol-

lowed an urge one day to get into the open country. He took passage on one of the Long Island Sound boats and got off at a completely isolated and heavily wooded peninsula. It was a beautiful June day without a ripple on the water. In his wandering over the land, he met only one farmer. The trees, the peace, and the beauty possessed him and he felt a longing to own the land as a place to live. He began by purchasing the holding with an old farmhouse in 1862. With his great wealth he was able to engage an architect to plan an adequate house with a fireplace in each room. The plans also called for a large barn with a section of storerooms for safely housing from curious eyes all designs and papers of great importance. The original farmhouse was torn down. The new mansion, dating from around 1867, was built on a bank far from the boat landing, bordering part of the inland harbor separated from the Sound by a narrow neck of land called Asharoken. The property was then dominated by the present house.

Care was

taken

not to disturb

the

magnificent elms, oaks, and evergreens on either side of the house, which had always belonged to the land. The mansion was completely isolated except for a clearing made the width of the dwelling, which allowed for a sweeping vista eastward across the Sound. During SaintExupéry’s occupancy in 1942, the immediate surroundings of the house were the same as when the house was built. Before he began the building, Mr. De Lamater took

Introduction / 13

as a partner one of the greatest engineers in American history, John Ericsson, who had been born in Sweden. As the latter became a close family friend, he too lived in the new mansion and the property was called Vermland after his original home. At the time of the Civil War, Ericsson designed the Monitor, which was in some degree responsible for the winning of the war by the North. All the engines, boilers, turret machinery, inside fittings, and outer plates were built in the De Lamater foundry in New York City, and

De

Lamater’s

men

were

on

board,

running

the new

machinery with naval officers in command when the Monitor met the Merrimac in 1862. When the ship had been

completed, all designs, blue prints, and papers relating to the Monitor were stored in one of the barn’s special rooms. Later a fire of mysterious origin destroyed the entire barn. By this time Mr. De Lamater had acquired most of the peninsula, for ever since 1862 he had been buying it parcel by parcel from the smaller farmers. Paths and lanes were laid out so that the family and guests could walk or ride through the extensive woods. At the end of his story Mr. Bevin remarked with a smile that we were in the oldest living room of the house, a place of special warmth. At this time the house was as beautiful inside as out, and gave the impression of an abode for welcoming friends, even as in its beginning. Now, in 1970, nearly all the great trees that had almost surrounded the home have been cut down. The magnificent elms died of blight; other trees had to make room for several houses standing on the bank facing the town’s inner harbor. (Another house is being constructed

in front of the old mid-Victorian dwelling.) Something

14 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

of the peculiarly tranquil atmosphere lent by the many tall, luxuriant trees has disappeared with them. The lovely tree-lined narrow road will soon be widened. The mansion, no longer isolated, no longer alone at the end of the road, has lost its former imposing appearance and its view across the Sound. Today that vista includes a colony of houses

built along the narrow

neck of land,

Asharoken, where once only reeds and low beach plum bushes grew in the sands.

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Antoine de Saint-Exu ppery

in 1942

At the very time that Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was an idol of the American public because of the overwhelming popularity of Wind, Sand and Stars—both a Book of the Month Club selection and a best seller, he was busy creating The Little Prince in the isolated historic mansion known as the Bevin House, at Northport on the north shore of Long Island. Probably only his publishers and

the War

Department were definitely informed of this

address. During this period, by sheer accident, I became Saint-Exupéry’s teacher of English. APishd,

TIT

ely:

It was the depth of the depression. The Long Island

ti

16 / Saint-Exupéry

train from New

in America, 1942-1943

York

slowed down

as the conductor

called out “Northport.” This was my stop, the place where, out of absolute necessity and no choice, I was to

earn my living as a foreign-language teacher. With hundreds of thousands of teachers unemployed, to secure a position was almost a miraculous event, especially in my field, since foreign languages were not then considered important. I had studied many languages with exceptional care as tools of the trade for an operatic career. The great depression, aided by my timidity, canceled every hope of making a start in that direction. The months of study in Chicago, Paris, and New York had to become a part of the past. With economy, I might be able to wedge in the occasional rare pleasure of attending a concert on an income of $148 per month. The train stopped before a suburban station resembling a bungalow, whose long, red sloping roof hunched over beige walls. Near it waited one of those top-heavy green vehicles, the kind of bus found only in the country. It rolled out of the station grounds, lurched past a police booth and taxi stand, then moved rapidly down a road lined with luxuriant trees. Almost immediately we were going by a cemetery. Its unstirring stillness, its indefinable, lonely, hovering quiet, would be the keynote for many years of my living in Northport. The artery of the village, Main Street, lined with stately trees—some of them the last remnants of a pine forest—curved down to the harbor. The last long block, bare of beauty, held the business life, but some citizen of vision had created a small park at the edge of the water. Across the harbor loomed wooded slopes, partially encircling the land to the left. At some distance on the right, below more wooded slopes, a narrow strip of

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in 1942 / 17

beach, called Asharoken, separated Long Island Sound from the inland harbor. To yachtsmen, Northport meant the finest sheltered harbor on the north shore, perhaps the best natural harbor in which to anchor during a spell of bad weather. To a small distinguished professional group with offices in New York City, Northport meant a secluded residential section of privacy and space—the narrow stretch of land, Asharoken Beach. To a long-famous banking family, it meant a goodly sized estate. The village of Northport was another world. From May to October small craft and yachts dotted the surface of the sheltered harbor, but for the rest of the year Northport’s ingrained caste system ruled community life. It was said that the original Northporters resembled their famous Blue Point oysters; their shells opened with difficulty. Within this village another, an even more restricted world existed. The exquisitely designed and well-proportioned school house, set back on wide grounds with embellishing landscaping, formed an island apart from village life, a closed fortress with invisible walls. The individual could not wander outside of its confines. In those days the teachers were no part of the town life. They could worship in the churches and then return to boarding houses. The majority of the teaching force, with few exceptions, were conscientious hard-working women whose positions represented a step upward economically and culturally from backgrounds comprising farms, mills, small stores, and life in very small towns. Additional study or research depended on individual taste. As in most

foreign countries,

the teachers’

salaries

re-

mained stationary. In Northport janitors were paid more

18 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

than the teachers, for whom twelve hundred dollars per year was considered adequate, even very good.

THE

BOOK

Wind, Sand and Stars From the fall of 1933 until after World War II, the

tenor of life was always the same. Mediocrity was then the ideal level of the school. Brilliant pupils carefully hid their gifts; it made them unpopular. The teaching force got up early, endeavored to spark an interest, tried to control the unruly, did endless chores of police duty, went home with bundles of papers to correct, and then to bed in order to start fresh another such day. To me, a teacher and an outsider, Northport represented a barren desert of loneliness. At the end of a wearing day, depressed and wondering if all the years to come would follow the same pattern, I picked up rather indifferently the current Reader’s Digest and leafed it through until my eyes caught two French names—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and his translator, L. Galantiere. Curious because of my own background, I read the explanatory paragraph and learned that Saint-Exupéry was even then considered a pioneer aviator, a world-famous pilot particularly familiar with the desert. In this second World War he had escaped with the remnants of his squadron to North Africa and later the American government had granted him permission to remain in the United States for the duration of the war. I began reading the aviator’s personal exciting adventures and his reactions in a translation smooth enough to have been the original language. Very soon the interwoven philosophy invaded my consciousness.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

in 1942 / 19

Duty was the writer’s religion, which he called the acceptance of responsibility. ‘““To be a man is, precisely, to be responsible.

. . . It is to feel, when setting one’s stone,

that one is contributing to the building of the world.’’* While flying under the stars, night released all tensions and his mind. For him it was a spiritual experience. “I am plunging into the night. I am navigating. I have on my side only the stars. . . . I should be enclosed as in the precincts of a temple—enclosed in the temple of night for the accomplishment of secret rites and absorption in inviolable contemplation.” ** When it came to men, and he included humble individuals, a deep understanding lifted them to a universal level. Saint-Exupéry, the man, showed keen perception, and revealed idealism, integrity, and appreciation of traditions, and, above all, a respect for the discipline of self. Wind, Sand and Stars was unusual; it included diverse

elements—beauty, adventure, and philosophy. What person could read it and not question the underlying value of his own work, affirm faith in living, and feel the need

of some type of meditation? For me, this book was manna in the wilderness. My morale was restored. Immediately I ordered a copy for future rereading. Some time later I learned that Saint-Exupéry was of aristocratic background with the title of Count, which he preferred not to use; also that he chose his friends from all walks of life. THE

MAN

Some months later The French Review announced that * Antoine

de

Saint-Exupéry,

Galantiére, illustrated edition Inc., 1940), p. 60.

** Tbid., p. 183.

Wind,

Sand

and

Stars,

(New York: Harcourt, Brace

trans. Lewis and World,

20 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

the well-known writer and aviator Antoine de SaintExupéry would address in French the members of the American Association of Teachers of French in the Metropolitan area at New York University on a given Saturday morning at ten-thirty. The magazine never before or afterwards held for me such welcome news! I would be able to see a great man and writer and absorb all that he would have to say! That Saturday I got up very early to make the one train that would permit me to arrive well ahead of time for choosing the most advantageous seat. Indeed, I was the first person to enter the hall. When I looked about the bare, ugly auditorium,

the center

of the fifth row

from the narrow stage seemed sufficiently far away for me to stare at the speaker without self-consciousness and yet near enough to catch every word. The narrow platform held the usual table, a few chairs, and the Ameri-

can flag. By the time the lecture hour arrived, every seat in the hall had been taken. Soon a few dignitaries and a very tall figure with military bearing walked onto the stage. Could this six-foot-tall, athletic-appearing man,

so trim

and straight, be a Frenchman? Most of them are of average height and, rather early in life, their physiques betray their appreciation of the French cuisine. Following some preliminary words by the Chancellor, this tall man was introduced as the well-known writer SaintExupéry, recently a captain in the French Air Force. Saint-Exupéry acknowledged the introduction graciously. He then whispered to the chairman, who brought forward a chair, and, astonishingly, placed it sideways. Saint-Exupéry sat down. He did not face his audience, nor attempt it, but rather fixed his gaze on the opposite

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in 1942 / 21

wall of the stage. One leg with its heel touching the floor was extended stiffly in front of him. If his face was expressive, as is characteristic of many Latins, only a few

people on the extreme left had the privilege of noticing. Obviously he was not used to public speaking. One expected to hear a ringing voice of command; instead out

came the rather low, quiet voice of conversation. It did not carry well. In a few minutes he became involved in techniques of flying and war terms, of which the vocabulary, at least to me, was unfamiliar. The speaker’s Spartan, impersonal air and his manner of speaking held nothing to remind one of the warmth of understanding and the flowing language of his nationally known book. I began to wonder if this distinguished man was having an attack of stage fright. Perhaps several hundred questioning, concentrated faces were more of a nervous strain

to him than a thunder storm breaking loose around his plane. There

remained,

at any

rate,

the outward

man

to

observe. He was past his first youth but did not yet seem in the realm of the middle-aged; he gave the impression of too much physical vigor. His round Celtic head in itself was not handsome; it even seemed small in proportion to his height. He had straight brown hair cut rather close to his head. A disfiguring scar practically divided his forehead above dark brown eyes. The nose, clean-cut and narrow, not long, was good in profile, his mouth well shaped. His whole appearance—his height, his build, his impeccable dress, and his dignity—created a pleasing effect. I had the satisfaction of seeing the outside of Saint-Exupéry. I would never forget it.

In the early fall, in compliance with a request from my

22 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

superintendent, who wished Spanish introduced into the curriculum, I enrolled in graduate Spanish classes for the entire Saturday at Columbia University. As all book-

stores were closed after class hours, I was in desperate need of a Spanish dictionary in order to prepare for the first assignment. It occurred to me that a French-born resident, Véronique Auger of Asharoken Beach, who had once lived in Mexico, might have one. The next day, Sunday, accompanied by a mutual friend, I drove out of the

village to Véronique’s home. Following my explanation, she agreed to a short loan. I was about to leave when she called out with great seriousness, ‘‘How about offering to exchange English for Spanish lessons? Why not go to the Bevin House and ask for Madame de SaintExupéry? You know, she is Spanish in background, came from Guatemala. She appeared here one day and asked me to help her with English but I’ve just got too much tordo,; In my astonishment I did not answer quickly enough. Seeming surprised, she continued, ‘‘Surely you’ve heard of her husband! He’s the author of the best seller, Wind, Sand and Stars... . Oh, you have! Well, go along then!” “What is the Bevin House? How do I get there?” ‘You mean to say you don’t know that landmark? It’s that big white house in the trees over there on the peninsula. You get a glimpse of it now and then between the houses on Asharoken Beach. You'll recognize it. Now go to the end of this beach road. On the left you'll see a sign with large letters, marked PRIVATE. Follow that! It ends at the house.”’ I turned to the friend with me. “I'd like to go there now but only if you will accompany me. A Frenchman

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

in 1942 / 23

is likely to resent the presence of one unknown woman knocking at his door to ask questions; two will meet his idea of propriety.”’ It was a beautiful, pleasantly warm day near the end of September. The noonday sunlight, glancing on the Sound, changed every geometrically shaped ripple into a sparkling jewel. The dazzling water looked completely unreal; even the jaunt seemed unreal, its final purpose absolutely unreal. But the beauty of the expanse of sky and water made me realize how much I had been longing to view open country. To grow up in sight of mountains, forests, and water creates a kind of need. Then, every detail of nature leaves an indelible imprint. This was a period when no one used a car to see beauty. Gasoline was only for the strictest necessity. Very shortly we came to the PRIVATE sign. Feeling like a trespasser, I turned into the narrow Bevin Road. The lane, winding through thick underbrush and tall trees, emerged suddenly on the curve near the house entrance. The day was very still. No leaves rustled. The bees sounded loud in the undisturbed air as we stepped onto the veranda.

As there was

neither knocker

nor bell, I

knocked on the strong oak door. By now I was beginning to feel an intruder and was a bit nervous. The quiet became intensified while we waited. Without warning, the door opened and a stout, medium-sized gentleman with a very bushy moustache stood in front of me. I had seen pictures of him. He was Pierre Monteux, the famous conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Instinctively I used French, asking pardon for the intrusion and requesting to speak with Madame de SaintExupéry. Politely and impersonally he replied, ‘She is

24 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

not here just now. . . . No, I do not know when she expects to return.” As he finished speaking, a tall figure suddenly appeared at his side. He had been silently coming forward, aware of the intrusion of a French-speaking person in that secluded section. His eyes were opened wide in wonder and curiosity. Standing there in a soft white shirt and dark brown trousers, he looked relaxed and approachable. I could hardly believe my eyes. Saint-Exupéry! I had not expected to see him: I supposed a servant would open the door. In pleasure and excitement, I blurted out, still in French, ‘““Oh, Monsieur, I recognize you. Permit me to

say that I admire your book Wind, Sand and Stars. I found it very interesting. Moreover the English translation is beautiful. One can almost imagine that you wrote it in English.” The look of curiosity was replaced by one of concentration. His eyes narrowed. He appeared to be hearing something of importance to him. He became reserved, alert and completely objective. He asked quietly, “You say the English is good?” “It is more than good; it is excellent. The language is clear, exquisite in places and there are no traces of a foreign language structure. It adds to the serious statements

of the book. Afterwards,

I wanted

to read the

original but the large bookstores state that there are no French copies in New York City.” “No. There are no copies in French in this country.” ile looked up and away for a moment as if remembering something. “I am pleased at what you say.’ Then chang-

ing to an authoritative tone, he commanded,

me why you came to my house!”

‘Now tell

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in 1942 / 25

‘First, allow me to present my friend Mrs. Brett, the

editor of one of the village newspapers. She does not speak French.” He nodded pleasantly in her direction, then continued to stare at me commandingly. I explained. He relaxed and answered at ease. ‘Look, Mademoiselle,

my wife speaks English fluently. She doesn’t need any lessons. I’m the one who does. Perhaps she might help you with Spanish. You will have to consult her.’ He paused a second. ‘“‘Why don’t you come and have tea with her on Tuesday afternoon? She’ll be here then. See what arrangements can be made. Phone ahead of time to make sure. Now kindly explain to this lady that I cannot speak English and will she excuse me.” Both gentlemen bowed graciously to us and saying, ‘Au

revoir,

Madame

et Mademoiselle,”

turned

about

and disappeared into the house. I left the place in a state of excitement and wonder.

It took conversation all the way back to the village to restore ordinary calm. It had all the magic of a fairy tale. When I thought of the setting, it seemed appropriate that Saint-Exupéry should live in a secluded house resembling many French residences of a past century. The Bevin House, although Victorian, had long French windows opening onto the veranda; its roof was mansard, a

throwback in design to Louis XIV’s most important architect. The three-storied white mansion for about a century had been standing alone on a slightly high rounding of the peninsula, heavily wooded except for a clearing

directly in front of the house made at the time of its construction around 1867, a clearing which permitted a view over the Sound to distant Old Field Point. The isolation, the great trees, and the banks sloping down to

26 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

the water gave the house increased stateliness and distinction. It had the air of belonging to another era. It was Northport’s great house on historic land.

THE

WIFE

The following Tuesday I was so excited that I could hardly wait for the last minutes of the school day. I hastened home by the shortcut and all but leaped up the stairs to the telephone. Yes, Madame de Saint-Exupéry was expecting to see me about four o’clock. It was another perfect day, with small sparkling ripples on the Sound and with that quality of penetrating freshness in the air peculiar to nearby salt water. Somehow that Tuesday, in my happy anticipation at the prospect of meeting Saint-Exupéry’s wife, whom my imagination pictured as charming, well-bred, rather reserved, doubtlessly intellectual, and probably an idealist also, I took no conscious note of the tall trees and the

luxuriant wildness along the Bevin Road. Dazed with my good fortune, I was riding on a cloud. Seemingly poised, I stepped onto the veranda and knocked gently on the oak door. No answer. I knocked a little harder. Still no response. Uneasy, I waited slightly

longer. Perhaps a knock by hand did enough. I decided to use my knuckles. startling. The door was yanked open Saint-Exupéry. I looked up in surprise. the slightest indication that he had ever

not carry well The effect was by a scowling There was not seen me before

and that he, himself, had suggested that I come

to see

his wife. I concluded he had been disturbed in something

important and spoke humbly, “I’m sorry, Monsieur, that

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in 1942 / 27

I have disturbed you.” As if he had not heard, as if he

did not have time to spare, he quickly turned his back on me, called out loudly and peremptorily ‘Consuelo,” stalked down the hall, and disappeared through a nearby door. The rudeness took me by surprise. This did not coincide with the man who defined the only “true luxury as this warmth of human relations.”’* Surely this reaction did not represent the real person. On his level of society he must have been schooled in all forms of courtesy. Why this? The joyousness vanished; I felt very much an outsider and a stranger as I stood in the somber, quiet hallway near the front door. Soon a small figure in dark blue slacks appeared at the head of the long stairs. Saint-Exupéry had called her Consuelo. The name seemed to fit her, marking a distinct personality independent of her husband’s. She descended with deliberate step like a grande dame in a heavy brocaded gown, who has to guide her train. For a fleeting moment I wondered if she were trying to be impressive. As the beautifully proportioned little figure came nearer, I noticed she was wearing a white cotton blouse trimmed with an embroidered ruffle enhanced by a bright red brooch. As she slowly approached the lower steps, her face was clearly visible. The features were fine, like those of a Dresden porcelain statuette. She reminded me of a perfect figurine meant for display in a costly setting. Her hair, brushed back indifferently, was a dark blond. Physically she presented that type of beauty seen in Greek sculpture. It seemed to take a long time for her to reach the bare, uncarpeted hall floor. Then she spoke. From that * Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 47.

28 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

dainty femininity the voice was startling. It was a voice with the boom of a bass drum coming out of the throat of a delicate bird. Then I remembered having heard educated women from Madrid whose speech was throaty and heavy, practically masculine. There, at the foot of the stairs, she broke into French.

“Tet us go into the dining-room away from the men. They are engrossed in business and don’t want to be disturbed.” She led me down the long dark hall, which divided the front half of the house. A door at the end opened into a well-lighted room running most of the width of the dwelling. A large fireplace with its crackling fire filled the middle of one wall. On the side nearest, a bay window looked out upon wide lawn and great trees hiding the water below. Although the floor was bare and the furniture strictly utilitarian, this dining-room gave the feeling of a room that had always been lived in. Something of warmth, like the fire, was in its atmosphere. She pointed to the chairs before the fire. We sat down. Immediately

she asked brusquely,

‘Just what

do you

want of me?” Before I could answer, she posed another

question. ‘“‘Did you recognize the French conductor Pierre Monteux who opened the door for you last Sunday?” The tone of her voice indicated pride in having a renowned musician as a guest. Again she did not wait for an answer. Here was a personality new to my experience; intuition warned me that I lacked savoir faire. It was like being a wanderer unfamiliar with the language in a foreign country. “Was that the first time you met my husband?” Again not waiting for an answer, she switched to Spanish. I knew then that her husband had explained the reason for my call.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

in 1942 / 29

In her own tongue her manner became easy and friendly. I relaxed. She spoke of her home and something about Guatemala. However I had not heard Spanish for some years; my responses were slow and laborious, which requires great patience on the part of the listener. She must have supposed that I spoke her language far

better. My lack of facility must have jolted her, for she reverted to French with no attempt at hiding her annoyance and stated positively, ‘Spanish is my native tongue. I don’t like it although it is the only language which I speak well. I don’t want to use it. Let’s just speak French!” Suddenly she assumed an air of condescension with the remark, “Of course, you have read my husband’s book, Wind, Sand and Stars. Everybody has! But J don’t like the translation. It is not worthy of my husband. The publishers had no business to print it. They should have tried several other people!” “T have not seen the original but I thought the English very good and a contribution to the art of translating.” With patronizing authority and complete indifference to my possible reactions, she stated with finality, “Well,

you just don’t know!” A further opinion obviously was unacceptable. Interest and curiosity helped me to venture, ‘‘How did you and your husband come out to this rather unknown bit of Long Island?” She laughed. Her face lighted up as she answered with animation, “It was getting hot and stuffy in New York. You know how awful the humidity is—no way to get a breath of fresh air even outside of the building. We faced Central Park but we seemed to get the heat and noise from the street all the same.” She paused and became

30 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

more serious. ‘Tonio said to me, ‘Try and find a place in the country! The real country and not some stylish colony! Find a house where I can write without interruptions. Be sure it is outside of any town! It must be quiet with no near neighbors to drop in and yet not too far away from New York City!’ So, I began questioning everyone and visiting agents. A few mentioned Northport as perhaps the kind of place I was looking for. One day I came out here and this house seemed to be the answer. And it is! Tonio says it is the place he likes best in the whole United States and that he has never had a better location for writing.” “How long have you been here?” “Since the beginning of the summer, and we'll be here a while longer. We have the apartment in town but my husband prefers to stay in Northport in spite of his frequent trips.” I was curious about the “frequent trips” but decided against asking about them because I could not shake off a fear of displeasing her. However, after the briefest of pauses she explained “the frequent trips.” ““My husband has the American government’s permission to remain in

this country during the duration of the war but they asked him to be a consultant for the War Department in Washington and he is on constant call. He has to leave everything and go there when summoned.” ‘How do you pass the time in the country ?” “I do painting—oh, not the old stuff. I’m enrolled in classes at the Art Students League of New York. I don’t

know anyone and so I like to go rather often to the city. Here I take walks but it gets tiresome. There’s nothing but woods and more woods about this place.” ‘How did you ever happen to leave Guatemala?”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

in 1942 / 31

“I wanted a life completely different from what my country offered. First of all, I wanted an education. My people sent me to Mexico City to attend the University. I majored in French because I liked the language.’”’ Here she stopped to look at me for understanding. ‘You know how it is when one is young. Studying is confining and keeps a student tied down. You can’t go anywhere if you really study. And Latins always have lots of parties and get-togethers and then there are all the local fiestas. I preferred going out with the groups and so I had less and less time for doing lessons.”” With an air of complete justification, ‘Really I didn’t have time to open any books! Of course the French exams didn’t go as they should; I was a complete failure. Then I decided that the easiest way to learn a language is to go and live where it is spoken. So—I took off for Paris and lived there. “One night, ten years ago, when I was twenty-three, I was eating dinner at a restaurant with some friends. All of a sudden the clatter and the talking stopped. Everything became quiet. I looked around and saw that a few military officers had entered. Someone whispered in my ear, ‘There is the great aviator Saint-Exupéry! You know he is also a count.’ Believe me, he was absolutely stunning! He was the center of all eyes. It was breathtaking.” She was not looking at me but her face was aglow; she

was reliving those moments. “The place was different just because he had entered. Paris was at his feet! You should have seen him!” An inner light had been turned on; Consuelo

became

radiant as her words

renewed

a

vision. Surely she must have fallen in love with him then. Suddenly the glory left her face. Somehow the light went out and after a pause she finished very quietly, almost impersonally, ‘Later a mutual friend introduced us.”

32 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

Somehow the pause had held an inner significance. Without

warning,

she changed the subject. She eyed

me appraisingly and said “You speak French slowly. Let me give you lessons.”

I was startled. She spoke French rapidly, yes, but it

was not the language of her husband. Hers was a strange mixture of the grammatical and ungrammatical. As she herself had indicated, she had not been a serious student.

As a teacher, I would not dare copy her expression. Furthermore I loved the language so much that I wanted to speak it as correctly as possible within the limitations of using it only in a classroom. The truth about my situation was all that I could turn to. Uneasy, I explained. “Madame, you are right. I do speak French slowly but because

of the State examination

ahead of me,

I must

spend nearly all my free time on studying Spanish as a means of keeping my position. It is always a very difficult examination and the state certificate is obligatory even for the most elementary teaching. I already have the certification in French.” Her snapping eyes and her facial muscles reflected her anger. Her manner changed. It was difficult to understand. Added to this, was it also possible that she had thought I was one of the residents of the expensive homes on Asharoken Beach? Haughtily and condescendingly, as many Latin Americans address their servants, she said emphatically, “I am not interested in Spanish! Let us forget about it! My husband can pay you for English lessons. You can be of use to me some other way.” | We were still sitting in front of the open fire which had begun to shed light into the darkening grayness. | realized it was time to leave and stood up. With cold,

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

in 1942 / 33

authoritative words, she terminated the tea hour. ‘‘Come

back next week on Tuesday at three o’clock! You can begin work then with my husband.” Together we left the dining room and in silence passed through the dark hallway with its high ceiling. At the foot of the stairs, without following the European custom of shaking hands, without saying goodbye, Consuelo turned her back and started mounting the staircase. Alone, I went forward to the door, opened it gently and closed it carefully behind me. In the twilight on the curve, like a friend, my little car waited. Nightfall was beginning. It would be dark before I left the beach road. During the forty minutes or more necessary for the return to the village, my thoughts dwelled upon Consuelo’s changes of manner, her initial friendliness, her blunt opinions without any sign of courtesy, followed by her genial willingness to speak of herself and finally the patronizing hauteur. I had never before met such a complex personality, unpredictable and for me incomprehensible. I suspected I might never be completely at ease in her company. The idealism, the belief in the communication and understanding of human beings, their working together for common weal, the essential core of her husband’s outlook as expressed in his book Wind, Sand and Stars did not seem to be a shared philosophy. Could it be that only Consuelo, her ideas and her living, counted? Perhaps I would know some day.

zy Saint-Exeupery the English Pupil

The following Tuesday I left the village with a renewed lifting of the spirit. This would be an adventure into a new kind of teaching; it also represented release from a fixed atmosphere both in work and surroundings. In spite of twinges of nervousness, I looked forward to the contact with Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Surely I would not leave his presence without carrying away something of value. As I drove

and gold spots of frost tinged hemmed in by shore. Turning 34

down

to Asharoken

Beach,

the first red

of autumn flecked the hillside and a hint the air above the Sound’s dark gray water the darker gray line of the Connecticut into the narrow, wooded Bevin Road, I

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 35

emerged at the end of the lane shortly before three o’clock. Consuelo—to me that name represented her own distinct personality—answered my knock almost immediately and escorted me to the door on the right of the long, high-ceilinged hall. The spaciousness of the house and the height of the ceiling gave a deceptive impression of smallness of the room we entered. An indefinable quality in the atmosphere marked this workroom as the real living room of the spectacular country mansion. Here, as in the dining-room, the furniture was sparse and strictly utilitarian. On the left, before the open fire, the only warm color of the room, stood an old-fashioned settee, designed to discourage prolonged sitting and, in past decades, frequently found in hallways. Opposite the door rose an extremely high uncurtained window* above a sturdy writing table on which stood a tray of tall glasses. One of them still contained a little black coffee. For anyone entering, all this lay in the immediate range of vision. It was impossible for me to take in anything further about the room, for standing in front of the table directly before me towered the aviator, tall, rigidly reserved, and unexpectedly uncompromising in appearance, the epitome of French correctness toward a woman stranger in no way connected with his family. His face, sensitive in spite of the cold mask, exuded an inner ner-

vous impatience. Stiffly, he held out his hand; it was merely a formal gesture of long European habit. So aloof as to seem hostile, and in a tone of voice which

emphasized the irrevocable nature of his statements, he began in very fast French without preliminary: *A few years later this room was remodeled. The tall window was replaced by a bay window corresponding with one above on the second floor. An open archway led into the room in place of the former door.

36 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

“Mademoiselle, I am a very busy man. I am a writer, as you know. I give all my time to this work except when

your government’s Office of War Information calls me to Washington. I have very little time to give to English. I don’t care whether I ever speak it easily. As a matter

of fact, I don’t wish to know it too well; I want no other

language to impinge on my own; I wish to keep my French untouched by any foreign influence. My style must be strictly my own. I wish to keep my expression absolutely free in the atmosphere of pure French. As for English, all I need is to be able to give directions to a taxi driver so that he will understand me, or make my wants known very simply to anyone serving me.” His erect, disciplined, military bearing accentuated his strength of will and determination. He paused a moment but continued to stand without the slightest movement. Then the words tumbled out again, nervously quick, always succinct, and with finality of tone. He was an officer

laying down don’t count Neither do The lack

the rules to a subordinate. “Furthermore, on me to study! I have no time for that. I have time for long or regular lessons.” of cordiality, emphasized by his terse directness, left me bewildered and ill at ease; I had expected the social graciousness of the first meeting, the natural action of one who defined the one real luxury as “this warmth of human relations.”* But I really believed he wanted English within the narrow limits he had defined. It never occurred to me for a moment that he might have changed his mind about wanting lessons. I was convinced from reading his work that he always said what he meant and believed. With polite distance, I answered briefly, “Monsieur, if you wish to learn any English at all, a half* Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 47.

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 37

hour would be the minimum time in which you could accomplish anything, and it ought to be twice a week. Let us say, Tuesday and Thursday, if convenient.” An instantaneous staccato ‘“‘Soit!”” struck my ears. 4 half hour it will be, carrying an undertone of No more! Understand! 1 had never heard such Spartan usage of French or such finality of command. Was this an officer’s customary way of addressing those beneath him in social rank? Always with the same authority, “You will leave your telephone number to be notified of any change of time or day!” Perhaps my tell-tale face showed dismay at his manner, for suddenly his voice contained a little deference. ““At what time could you come?” ‘Not before three in the afternoon at the earliest. I have classes daily until two-thirty.” Again came the clipped “Soit!” Jt stands. “Let us begin!” Remembering his statement about the necessity for a short lesson, I looked at my watch in order to keep track of the exact time. “‘It is now five minutes after three.” He immediately looked at his own watch and stated categorically, “It is now five minutes and twenty-eight seconds after three.’’ Moses, stating the Ten Commandments, could not have represented better the authoritative

Jehovah. At this point, his wife left the room. He now motioned me treme end as far away of my own reserve. He chair by his work-table. me to any social ease.

to the settee and I sat at its exfrom him as possible, a gesture placed himself on the straight Nothing in his manner helped I was aware only of having to

adapt myself to his reserve, his frame of mind, and his demands. During the preceding week I had decided that it would

38 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

be useless to make exact plans for the first lesson. The opening hour would indicate the approach and his individual needs. He had been frank and explicit. It would be up to me to give something practical and useful within his rigidly imposed limitations. There could be no wasted time and certainly these lessons would be far removed from what was technically thought of as learning another language. The educational market would have no book for fulfilling his requirements. All approaches at that stage were primarily for reading purposes. The teaching, with its problems, immediately dominated my consciousness and I became at ease. All personal reactions, timidity, uncertainty, and nervousness slipped away. Curiously, I sensed a corresponding ease underlying Saint-Exupéry’s distance. Some kind of tension had given way. His frigid manner, seeming haughty and hostile, had vanished into a courteous reserve.

‘Do you know any English?” I naturally spoke French, for I remembered his saying he did not speak English. Still reserved, but without the haughty stiffness, he answered directly, “I am familiar with numbers; I can count. Whenever I have to read a sign, I can make out words and meaning after a fashion. I cannot understand people when they talk. Languages do not interest me. Totally against my will, I learned German as a boy. My mother arranged this. She was convinced that I would need to speak German in my career. She had a German

tutor live with us. However, I used the language very

little in my work. As an aviator I picked up some Spanish. I do not use it well.” I made out a list of expressions which might be of frequent use to him, such as, “Please call a taxi! How

much? Where is the telephone? Where is Mr. Brown’s ofice?” and so on.

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 39

‘You understand these ?”’ eSVaesna

“Can you pronounce them?” “Ves!

“T should like to hear you say them.” Apparently with the most complete indifference, he tried them. Without knowing why, all of a sudden, I had the conviction that this man had a horror of being laughed at, that he felt himself vulnerable, and that perhaps for this particular reason he regretted his arrangement. If there was a sign of a smile, it would wound some sensitivity of which I was ignorant. Intuition also suggested that Saint-Exupéry was suspicious of an American woman’s reactions. On reading the list of expressions, he did not care whether he finished a syllable or not. When one word was completely unintelligible, I said with quiet insistence, “Monsieur, please say this word again.” I pronounced the word as a help. Out it came worse than ever. Again, couched in the most formal language I knew, I asked very

quietly and gently, “Would you be so kind as to repeat the word.” With a cool, determined expression, he looked me full

in the face. His dark brown eyes were serious. ‘Look, Mademoiselle, I don’t care how I pronounce.”’ The statement was matter of fact, although tinged with the irritation of an underlying nervousness. Equally matter of fact and completely impersonal, I answered, ‘‘Well, Monsieur, if you are going to use an

English word, it is better to say it correctly. It is quite possible to say a word very different from the one intended.” I remembered the embarrassment of a lovely American girl who had not been taught to distinguish between the

40 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

sounds of péché and péché. To the question of a conventional French woman she gayly replied, “I had a wonderful time with Albert; I sinned with him all afternoon.”

I did not dare say a word about this but I imagined he had heard the equivalent now and then in his own language. Saint-Exupéry accepted my statement without question. Dutifully he repeated the word correctly. He had an acute ear and the gift of imitating sound perfectly. Without warning, he reverted to his authoritative manner. ‘“‘Aren’t you going to give me a book with verbs to learn by heart?” “One learns to speak by using verbs with other words. If you do not wish to study English for itself but only for practical purposes, why learn a group of verbs?” As if quoting from the Scriptures, he announced flatly, ‘““My wife says I should learn verbs—many verbs.”’ Then softening somewhat and explaining a past experience, he added, “I always had to learn endless verbs at school.”’ The teacher within me rebelled at not being able to choose my own procedure but I quickly realized that it would do no good to argue. With that thought I became very much subdued and depressed. I looked at my watch;

the half-hour was over. Automatically I rose to my feet. Saint-Exupéry saw me courteously to the door. On the way home I did not see the trees or autumn’s first spots of color, only the dismal gray of the Sound’s surface. It gave no inspiration.

On the week-end in the city, perhaps to bolster my self-esteem more than anything else, I wanted to brag about

this

unexpected

adventure,

breaking

the

usual

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 41

monotony of my life in the small traditional town of Northport. There was no one who might be more pleased than my friend and medical adviser, Dr. Phebe Du Bois, a woman of deep understanding. She reacted to my story quite differently from what I had expected. She stripped from my consciousness all sense of adventure and underlying egotism by saying with unforgettable seriousness that I had accepted a great responsibility. She further shocked me into a new point of view by adding, “The man who wrote Flight to Arras (Pilote de Guerre) has gone through an experience which has left shock, no matter how normal he seems. Subconsciously he is scarred.

His nerves are frayed, even if he conceals the evidence. You have no right to act or say anything which could make him nervous or give offense. It is up to you to make the lessons a time of quiet and repose. If you cannot manage this, you should not try to teach him.” Then and there, I accepted that the lessons must become a mission of service.

In the fall there are soft days bathed in sunlight when a barely perceptible breeze touches the dense foliage. Serenity has put its stamp on the sky and the lazily drifting clouds. This quality reminded me of the recent words of Dr. Du Bois. As I passed from the beach to the woods where the dogwood’s vivid scarlet accentuated the dark trunks of the protecting oaks and pines, the still atmosphere became a part of my mood. Leaving the car and stepping onto the veranda, I sensed more acutely the serenity of the great old trees that had endured since the beginning of the country, the present serenity of the air, the stillness

42 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

of the harbor water touching the peninsula banks, and the serenity of the old mansion where people had come

and gone. I wondered if I concentrated hard enough to

capture in my mind a bit of this quiet, if I could carry it indoors and keep it while I taught. I could try. It would be my gift in return for what I had received through Saint-Exupéry’s writing. With this thought I became strangely quiet as I knocked on the heavy oak door. Consuelo greeted me immediately as if she had seen me arrive. While escorting me to the door of the writing room, condescendingly she explained in English one of Saint-Exupéry’s attitudes. ‘‘My husband does not like American women. They do not have the proper back-

ground in their training. He finds them without good taste, too friendly and too forward.” This left me indifferent. European men are usually unaware of the frame of mind inculcated among American women, first by their home life, then their education, and

finally by their professional and social contacts, where there is less reserve than in France. Furthermore,

I be-

lieved it such a privilege to be in Saint-Exupéry’s presence that I was determined not to offend his standards of good taste.

She left me and I entered the workroom. Saint-Exupéry stood waiting. He handed me a thin, little volume. It was

an outmoded English grammar, intended for Frenchspeaking people, and published in Great Britain many years previously. It contained many verbs. In an assured manner, still distant but at this point almost informal for him, he said, ““My wife got this for me. Now, Mademoi-

selle, I don’t need the first lessons.” He gave the impression of expecting to do well. “Here, choose one near the middle of the book!” This sounded like a polite com-

Saint-Exupéry,

the English Pupil / 43

mand. His correctness, not too far removed from haughtiness, made me wonder if he was not ill at ease because

of his unfamiliarity with English and hiding his feeling behind an established European facade. Suddenly he noticed that I was still standing. Immediately he unbent to say, ‘Be seated, please!”’ At random I opened the book about where he had suggested. The lesson was called “In the Country,” with a strictly British vocabulary. It is in the little things dealing with daily life that the American and British expression varies. In literature the gap seems nonexistent. Except for the reading paragraph there was little unity or continuity of thought in the remaining exercises of the lesson. After listening to him read the paragraph, which I believed he had already practiced, I asked a few of the questions in one of the sections. Although unrelated in context, they all had some connection with country life. Finally I chose, ““What does the man have?’’, expecting to hear a list of things on the farm.

Slowly, a carefully pronounced word at a time, and with ferocious dignity, Saint-Exupéry stated, ‘The man has an ass.” It was a startling surprise, a bolt from the blue! I was so aware of his sensitivity that I was neither shocked nor amused. My one idea was to spare him a possible embarrassment for I was sure he would resent the idea of using before a woman an expression that could easily be considered vulgar, although only because of the use of the verb ‘“‘has’”’ in his sentence.

I would never dare explain

this. Keeping my eyes glued to the open page, I heard myself saying with impersonal calm, ‘Monsieur,

in this

country we would be more likely to say the man has a mule or a donkey.”

44 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

He willed me to look up. With his brown eyes, abso-

lutely straightforward and demanding, he asked, “Isn't ass a good word? This vocabulary has the expression.” I knew that without deliberation I had to give an answer that made sense and be completely inoffensive. I think my subconscious supplied the answer, because another part of me seemed to be doing the talking. “In literary usage the word, as it is used in this grammar, would sound obsolete in the United States. In my country I have heard it used mainly on Palm Sunday when the priest reads from the Holy Scriptures that Christ rode into Jerusalem seated on an ass.” Just then, without warning, his wife opened the door behind me—saying nothing. Saint-Exupéry stood up, looking at her. In the silence his face changed. He flushed and his eyes became luminous as he gazed and caught an unvoiced message. I felt myself an intruder; I was anxious

to leave. Saint-Exupéry saw me courteously to the door.

As I drove down the slope, now more gold than red, autumn was definitely in the atmosphere. The fall sunlight gave no warmth. By the water, the air was crisp and so clear that the Connecticut shore line seemed nearer than seven miles away. Whenever I stole glances at the Sound, the sand looked cold at the edge of the lush, bright-red poison ivy beds, topped by the beach plum bushes. On the Bevin Road, the frosty nights had brought the autumn colors to the height of their beauty, an almost unreal world. A sensible, intelligent-looking woman, middle-aged, and not belonging to the vicinity, opened the door next time at my knock. She scrutinized me discreetly with the im-

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 45

personal manner of a well-trained domestic while she asked me what I wanted. The inflection of her exquisitely

pronounced English and the tone of her voice reflected the speech of the cultured British living on the Island of Jamaica. She did not look like a servant. Something un-

fortunate had put her into that class. She turned back into the hall, knocked

on the studio

door, and disap-

peared as if fading into the shadows as soon as SaintExupéry came out of the room. At the same time I began hearing the raucous voice of the tiny Consuelo resounding from the drawing room, ‘Send me coal!’’ A moment later, the voice boomed again, “I want coal!’? She needed some assistance. Her voice must have produced too many vibrations in the receiver to be understood. I looked up at the writer’s impersonal face and asked permission to help his wife. At his nod, I

hastened to Consuelo struggling in the big salon and said, “T am accustomed to these people. Please let me place your order.” I then relayed name, address, and suggested

that the secretary consult some previous order to estimate

the amount

of coal needed.

When

I had finished,

Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry turned to me with a command, “T want you to teach me to speak in the telephone the way you do!” In the studio the open fire cast a warm glow into the rigid atmosphere. Saint-Exupéry made a gesture toward the settee, where I obediently took the far corner. To my astonishment, he placed himself in the opposite corner, militarily erect with his stiff leg stretched full length in front of him. Without words, without wasting time, he produced his thin, outmoded British grammar and started reading aloud. He was getting along exceptionally well until he hesitated at the word should. He tried a second

46 / Saint-Exupéry

1942-1943

in America,

time with the air of one determined to master the pronunciation. He did fairly well, although with a certain uncertainty. Just as I reacted toward my school pupils, I smiled encouragement. A black scowl met my glance. Disturbed,

and wondering

how

I had offended,

I sud-

denly realized that because of the war I had had no recent connections with France or French people and had forgotten the requirements of their milieu where the properly brought-up woman

is reserved to the point of

being impersonal and the teacher is always aloof. I must put aside the manner of an American teacher conditioned by an American schoolroom. Obviously this man could not be expected to know our superficial differences and our rules of behavior. To succeed in helping him, I would have to present a cultured Frenchman’s idea of a lady of “bonne éducation,” no informality of speech and particularly no sign of a smile. The ensuing result proved satisfactory; he appeared at ease.

In a few

minutes,

however,

I sat up a bit

straighter. Were my ears hearing correctly? What did he mean by saying “‘the boy’s tiddy?”’ Since his text book seldom gave a connected narrative, it was impossible to imagine what might be appearing in print. At a loss, I ventured,

“Monsieur,

I do

not

understand

that

last

word.” With the accustomed authority of a commanding offcer he looked me squarely in the eye and stated clearly, “I said tiddy quite distinctly, Mademoiselle.” With distant, polite deference, I insisted, “Please, may

I see the book?” Very stiffly, as if unwilling, perhaps nervous at what might be my way of correcting, he passed the book to me.

A glance and I was at ease. Continuing to be impersonal

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 47

but speaking very calmly, ‘“The word is pronounced tidy. Its synonym is orderly. The shorter word is closer to old English; the other word is nearer the French language.” He was mollified. There were no further difficulties about words.

The clear soft weather continued. Driving along the water’s edge brought relaxation to the spirit and the body. To look across an expanse of water after a day indoors is a privilege, and added to this was the drive through the woods. It all seemed closer to my native Oregon and home. When I knocked on the door, Saint-Exupéry, accompanied by a handsome young Dobermann-Pinscher, opened it. When the creature sidled up to be patted, his master ordered him away from me, using a most amazing name. “Monsieur, did you give your dog the name animal?” I caught a penetrating and measuring glance, but his tone of voice was even, frank, and direct. ‘‘No, Hanni-

bal.”” But seeing that I still did not grasp the name he added, ‘“The name of that general who crossed the Alps.” I was so used to the English pronunciation of the name that the French sound meant nothing. ‘Oh, I recognize the name now. I once translated Livy’s story of that crossing.” The dog was prancing around me and paid no attention to his master. Saint-Exupéry burst out scornfully, ‘Ffannibal, you’re a mere courtesan.” I pleaded, ‘‘Don’t you believe animals are discerning? He

senses

that I like and admire

realized that Saint-Exupéry wanted

him.”

However,

only a ‘‘one-man”

I

48 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

dog. It had to be his alone. But that was enough talking

on the veranda. Hannibal was relegated to the back of the house and I was led to the study. The settee on which no one could sit comfortably had disappeared; in its place were two Windsor

chairs. I took one and, but a short

distance away, Saint-Exupéry sat on the other facing me. In some indefinable way he seemed relaxed for the first time, yet he gave the impression of mental concentration. The British book was nowhere in sight. As always, with-

out preliminary, he went straight to the subject without wasting time on social amenities. “T want two things today. What is the English equivalent for est-ce que? Afterwards, explain the negative and then use it until I understand.” He expressed surprise that English had no corresponding expression, but he quickly grasped the art of asking questions. What is usually hard for most foreigners presented practically no difficulty for him. His quickness in perception and ease at learning belonged to the unusual mind.

I then explained the English variations of the negative, which are perhaps the hardest to grasp in any Western language. He had to turn positive sentences into negative expressions until he obviously knew what to do. At that point I began saying negatively anything that came to mind—newspaper headlines, platitudes, daily activities, and finally, at the end of ideas, I said with slight embarrassment, “All children do not love their parents.” Wonder of wonders, his face relaxed. A smile slid over

it, dispelling all the stiffness and aloofness. He unbent and leaned forward slightly with a teasing manner. “Ah, Mademoiselle, do you realize that you have just enunciated an immoral statement?” ‘Immoral statement!” The exaggeration struck me as

Saint-Exupéry, the English Pupil / 49

wildly absurd and immensely funny. I looked up and burst out laughing. At my reaction, Saint-Exupéry, too, laughed hilariously. With the laughing I knew in some mysterious way that I had been accepted as a friend. But in the back of my mind, I suspected he had had some grown-up relative in his childhood who did not understand him and for whom he, as a child, had little affection.

Then Saint-Exupéry elected to read as usual. Out came the hidden grammar. Again words came out pellmell, indifferently pronounced. Even though he did not care, the teacher in me would not accept such poor results from one with a gift for language. He had an acute ear and when he chose to pronounce well, no native speaker could pronounce any better. “Please, Monsieur, repeat the last sentence.” Same results. ‘‘Would you be so kind as to reread the sentence!” There came an inoffensive gesture of annoyance and a wrinkling of his brow. As gently but as firmly as possible I stated, “You keep forgetting something!” He gave me a look that seemed to indicate that he never forgot anything but, as if curiosity were getting the better of him, he dared me, ‘“‘What is that?”

“You forget that I am a teacher.”’ He grinned mischievously, ““You want to tell me that you are mean

and severe?”

Then,

affable, he repeated

the sentence correctly. The room somehow had become quite different. From this day on, there existed a tacit understanding and acceptance. Saint-Exupéry had lost his fear and doubts of me,

the American.

As

for me,

I was

finally aware

of

Saint-Exupéry, the human being and the friend of man, as revealed in his book Wind, Sand and Stars.

It was too soon time to leave. By a gesture Saint-

50 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

Exupéry called attention to the slender little textbook in his hand. With an expression that seemed to convey the idea that we shared the same opinion concerning the book’s worth, he remarked, ‘‘We’ll keep this. At least it

will furnish some ready material for reading aloud.” The book then disappeared into his trouser pocket. This was followed by his ritual of escorting me to the car to open its door and say ‘“‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle.” On the way back to the village the calm of the Sound added its enriching note.

3 Sa

a)

a

a

ae

a

a

ae

Afternoon Tea

ANDRE

MAUROIS

AND

THE

COMMANDANT

It was now the end of October. That day the sky had lost its clearness; it was low, heavy, threatening. The iron-gray water lapped viciously at the sand, biting in where the shore road was most narrow. Over the uneven gravel bed of the Bevin Road hovered the peculiar eeriness produced by an imminent storm. Even the yellowleaved bushes took on the prevailing dullness. At the Bevin House, only heavy, impenetrable gray showed through the trees, while gusts of wind flew across the lawn, shoving here and there the first of the falling leaves.

The study with its bright fire dispelled the gloom. Saint-Exupéry, standing before its glow, turned toward oy!

52 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

me with friendly apology. “Mademoiselle, the lesson will have to be very short. I have guests who had to be received today. No other time would fit their schedule or mine.” Then with an attempt at an impersonal mask which did not conceal his intention of teasing nor his desire to witness

a reaction,

he asked

as a challenge,

“Wouldn’t you like to meet André Maurois?” “Naturally, but it is not necessary just because this was my day to come. Probably I will never see him again except from a distance in a lecture hall. It must be quite boring for a celebrity to have to meet strangers who will never cross his path again. It will not inconvenience me to leave.” He smiled with amusement. “It is going to do him no great harm to meet another person today. My other guest is the Commandant D————. His was the last French ship to escape from the Nazis. He has just recently come from Martinique, where he left his vessel.”’ The lesson was only a polite gesture, for almost immediately we crossed the hall into the salon, a long, stately, high-ceilinged drawing room that was meant for expensive hangings and beautiful furniture. It looked bare, uninviting, even grim, with no draperies, no curtains, and no floor covering. Like most houses for summer rental only, it held strong basic furniture. At the veranda end of the room, furnished with a few straight chairs, stood

a long, dark-wood, rectangular table, monastic in appearance. At the other end of the room,

near the open fire,

loomed several massive easy chairs upholstered in dark material. The space in the center of the room looked

empty and wide; it accentuated the size of the salon. At the far end of the long table stood the two guests, conversing as if deeply engrossed. The tall Commandant,

Afternoon

Tea / 53

a well-built military figure, imposing in his uniform, failed to excite my interest and curiosity. Rather, it was the quiet, less tall André Maurois standing beside him who captured my attention. I was so absorbed in his presence that the name of the Commandant did not register when Saint-Exupéry introduced me to the two gentlemen. Both men politely acknowledged the introduction and then concentrated

on

talking with their

host,

who took his place beside them at the end of the table. I remained

near the other end, fascinated.

Maurois’s biographies had been required reading in my first year at college. Also, later, with great interest I had heard him give talks to French teachers. He was one of the first Frenchmen to lecture widely in the United States and had greatly stimulated student interest. That afternoon he gave me quite a surprise. His manner and his speaking indicated that he felt signally honored at being Saint-Exupéry’s guest. There were nuances which seemed to convey the idea that his host might belong to a more exclusive stratum of French society than he and that he considered Saint-Exupéry the superior writer. I wondered also if this particular invitation to SaintExupéry’s hideout in Northport could have some special personal significance at this time. Maurois belonged to

a prominent industrial family of Rouen, whose members were then being persecuted by the Nazis. Nevertheless, it seemed incomprehensible to me that a writer considered so distinguished by Americans would defer so completely in spirit and manner to another writer. Saint-Exupéry, socially charming and smiling, gave no sign of being aware of the deference. He spoke as if to long-accepted friends. During the first interchange of comments, for one

54 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

brief moment Saint-Exupéry turned his head toward me.

His face seemed impersonal but his eyes looked as if he were questioning himself. I had no idea whether he looked to see if I were truly interested or whether he was concerned over the possibility of my making a social blunder. I was too awed to wish to make any comments;

indeed, I was practically tongue-tied. Furthermore, out of discretion, I was determined to keep still and intended to leave whenever it would seem opportune. While this train of thought was going on, Consuelo came into the room,

followed by the maid, who carried

not a tray but a huge, heavy white ironstone platter laden with thick coffee cups for the tea, that kind of china once found in little old country hotels or on isolated farms. Madame poured the tea. While we stood around the table drinking it, Maurois asked his host how he had become interested in aviation. “Oh, I always wanted to be an aviator from the time I first heard of a plane. Later, while attending the lycée, I resented any of the classes which were not associated with the immediate education of a flier. Most of my friends wanted to be pilots too. We all felt the same way. We knew mathematics was very important, and we willingly spent hours on that subject. How I hated the time lost on other unrelated subjects! My family insisted on my being able to use German fluently. They had a tutor in the house to speak German to me as a part of my educational routine. Parental authority had its way, but I haven’t used the language much. Now that I write, I don’t want the finesse of any other language standing in the way of my native expression. There are subtleties in every language; I want mine purely French.” The conversation remained among the men, who con-

Afternoon

Tea / 55

tinued to stand close together. Consuelo and I were like outsiders listening in. I caught this: “At great speeds, the body is so adjusted to one direction and pressure, that a quick turn or dive, such as is necessary in combat flight in order to avoid disaster in some

form, causes

terrible sensations and pain in the body. One has the feeling that muscles would be torn away were it not for a combination of harness and the will to hold them in place.”

There came some question about his military life aside from flying and he answered, ‘‘An integral part of our training as officers is to be put in charge of a prison. I was commander of one in the north near Lille. Its community was made up of only the most hardened criminals, men with long records, no one of them young in crime. By the time in their careers that they have been sentenced to this prison, they are so molded mentally and physically, so outcast from society, that they can never be anything but incorrigibles. Perhaps because of their depraved mentality and because they were so desperate, these inmates were nicknamed les joyeux. ‘All sentences involved hard labor of some sort. That was the tradition both as punishment and to keep them occupied. There seemed no way to deal with them as human beings. They resisted any approach. It was often a problem to carry out court orders. Here is an example. In the order of the day, a sullen man was brought before me who refused to do the work assigned him. As a matter

of prison rule, I imposed a stiffer job. The next morning he was brought before me again. He had cut off a finger, making it impossible for him to do any hard manual labor. I ordered medical

attention, but also stated that

the sentence should be carried out as soon as the wound

56 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

healed. When the hand was practically in condition for work, he was brought before me again. He had cut off another finger of the same hand. I was deeply disturbed. This was no way to right matters, but for obvious reasons I could not change the sentence. “Everything gets around a prison by some means. My authority, as a representative of the country’s law, had to be upheld; I dared not yield. The prisoner did not yield either. Each time his wound was nearly healed, he

managed to cut off another finger. He ended by completely destroying the use of one hand. “It was a terrible thing to witness. I felt nauseated over the situation but could do nothing about it as prison commander. I came to the conclusion that the minds of les joyeux become so devious, sink so far below normal reactions and attitudes, that there is no way of touching them, no way of getting to the core of their thinking, no way to change an idea, no way of altering their lives. As members of society, they are lost.” He finished on a tone of regret. One felt that this had been a painful experience which still lingered. He further expressed his deep concern about the waste of lives in a reference to a child of laborers on a train. The parents’ faces looked hard and untouched by anything but physical needs. Of the man and woman he had written: “The mystery is that they should become lumps of clay. Into what terrible mold were they forced? What was it that marked them as if they had been put through a monstrous stamping machine?’”’* And of the child, “What an adorable face! . . This is a life full of promise. . . . But there is no gardener for men. This little [one] will be shaped like the rest by the common stamp* Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 304.

Afternoon

ing machine.

Tea/ 57

... What torments me. . . is the sight in

all these men, of Mozart murdered.’’*

Some question was asked about his reaction to Spanish life. “I was stationed in Africa for some time before my work made it necessary for me to be in Spain. I had enjoyed North African music, its type of melody, its tempi, its rhythms. When first in Spain, there were moments when I felt I was in Africa. I never got over the similarity between Spain’s popular music and that of the Arabs. Of course there is a reminder, too, in the archi-

tecture: The conversation was interrupted by a vigorous knocking. Up to this time I was listening avidly, totally oblivious to anything else. In the interruption I began to hear the beating rain. All of a sudden I was aware of a storm. In the direction of the knocking a form was flattened against one of the long front windows. Sheets of water flowed down and around the figure as the wind blew the heavy rain against the panes of glass. I became aware of the identity of the unexpected guest. It was the French-born citizen of the chateau on the beach road, Véronique, who had lent me the needed Spanish dictionary. Consuelo left to open the front door. She returned with her neighbor, disheveled in shapeless wet slacks and sopping shoes but otherwise at ease. ‘“‘Gentlemen! I beg your pardon for interrupting. I was out walking and got caught in the downpour. This house was nearer than mine.” She then gave me a nod. The new guest needed drying out. Consuelo led her to the fireplace, where she chose a small seat with her back to the fire from which she could watch proceedings. *Ibid., pp. 304-5.

58 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

Consuelo brought her tea and invited the gentlemen to come and sit down also by the open fire. Maurois approached and took one of the armchairs, but before the other two could be seated, the tall Commandant

com-

between, a silent fixture like the furniture. Maurois

was

municated something to Saint-Exupéry and the two disappeared. This put an end to the spellbound listening. It was a great disappointment for, instinctively, I felt I might never hear more about Saint-Exupéry’s past experiences. Consuelo and Véronique faced Maurois. I was in most gracious to his hostess, but what he might have added in the way of conversation, information, or ideas was lost, for the two women pelted him with remarks. If one asked questions, the other supplied an answer. In a very short time Véronique dominated the talking with her positive and determined personality. The listener became anxious to make contact with silence. Maurois’s face had assumed a well-bred mask; he was

courteous but withdrawn. Apparently he was listening. During this interval the rain continued to pelt the front windows. Walking would be most unpleasant. Interrupting momentarily, I turned to Véronique and offered to drive her home, as I would have to be leaving shortly. She refused. In a few minutes the maid knocked on the nearby door and said that Mr. Maurois was needed. Very suavely he begged to be excused. He, too, disappeared. Now the room seemed empty and abandoned. We

three women

sat in front of the fire, each with

her own thoughts and having nothing to say for a few moments. Finally Véronique could contain herself no longer and burst out indignantly, ‘“Isn’t that just like

Afternoon

Tea / 59

men! They’re always selfish and think only of themselves and what they want!” Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry sat a bit forlorn. For her the “tea” must have been a failure with the arrival of two unexpected women companions. In the colorless voice of one who could have known many similar disappointments, she remarked quietly, “One always gets left alone.” Outside it was getting darker and darker. I would have to drive cautiously, since only parking lights were allowed on shore roads during the war period. It provided an excellent reason for leaving and I made use of it. Neither woman rose from her chair as I said goodbye. From the quiet somber hall I made my way to the study where I had left my coat. For some inexplicable reason I presumed that the room would be empty, and entered without knocking. There were the three men

huddled close together with their backs to the fire and whiskey glasses in their hands. Their animated faces glowed with camaraderie; obviously they were enjoying each other. Surprised at seeing them, I apologized for the intrusion. Saint-Exupéry replied simply, ‘‘We just had to get out of there.’ He rose to help me on with my

coat and, in spite of the weather,

saw

me

to the

door of my car. The rain had now become a gentle drizzle. The return trip would be less difficult than I had anticipated. In any case I was more at ease behind the wheel than in adjusting to the diversified personalities. I had lived too much ‘‘en famille” and in a school room. But the afternoon had been exciting in its revelation of an unknown world. I mulled over the information in the darkness and knew I had been privileged.

4 a>

a

0-0

A Dinner With Consuelo

HER

FLIGHT

FROM

NAZI

FRANCE

The following Thursday I had been home only a few minutes when the telephone rang. It was Saint-Exupéry. “Mademoiselle, there can be no lesson today. I have been called to Washington and will leave in a few moments. Would you be so kind as to come and have dinner with my wife this evening? She does not like to eat alone.... Kindly arrive about seven!” Late twilight on the beach brought no aesthetic charm as I drove slowly on the narrow, winding road. No headlights were used along the coast during war time as long as any daylight remained. Homes looked deserted and inhospitable. All windows had to be sealed with black material

and then covered

with thick, dark

conceal the warmth and light within. 60

shades

to

A Dinner

With

Consuelo / 61

I was at the door of the Bevin House before all the light had faded out of the day. The place appeared aloof. Its natural isolation was accentuated by the somber dusk. The protecting trees on the edge of the bank were black against the indefinite gray preceding nightfall. It was lonely and I longed to get indoors. I knocked intermittently for what seemed a long time. Finally a smiling Consuelo let me in. As soon as my coat was disposed of in the hall closet, she said in English “Let’s go into the dining room! I like that room best. That’s where I spend my time.”’ She led the way to the two chairs on either side of a small table, placed comfortably near the welcome glow of the fireplace. ‘‘Let’s sit here and talk!” In direct contrast to the outdoors, Consuelo was in a

wonderful mood. No one could have been more cordial. She looked animated and excited. Then, totally un-Latin, where the real subject of conversation is approached after remarks on the weather, one’s well-being, and some

trivial observations, she went directly to what was on her mind, with the impetuous eagerness of a child who can hardly wait to impart its news. There was also a pleased expectancy. I had never seen this before. Wondering, I waited, not sure of what to say or do. The waiting was short. “You know, Miss, you speak French slowly. You do something before you say words. I don’t believe you know French as well as I do. I told this to my husband. I told him, too, thatI offered to give you lessons and you turned me down. I told him I was sure you didn’t want to have

lessons from me. You know what he said?” She paused dramatically and I grew uneasy. “He said, ‘Mademoiselle

speaks French slowly but you will never speak it so correctly or so beautifully even on your dying day!’”

62 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

This revelation made me speechless. I could say noth-

ing. I was bewildered with surprise. My first thought was, “How could he say that to her?” I cherished the compliment but I was also embarrassed and uncertain of what I ought to say. However, my hostess seemed oblivious to what I might be thinking, and without waiting for a comment she continued: ‘My husband says that you may have been born in the United States and educated here, but, you are a European and not an American woman. You know, Miss,

he thinks American women do not show delicacy. He says their personalities are too dominant. Tonio finds them forward and aggressive. You know, Miss, in his position, he meets lots and lots of American women and pretty important ones too. He says they embarrass him. They do not show the good taste of the cultured European lady.” Within me I was sure he misinterpreted some of the American cordiality, but on the other hand, what did I know of the trials of a celebrity resisting social publicity. “He says it is too bad that you are living in this little country town and not in France. He said that in his country, the people who know would recognize your culture and make a place for you in their society even though you have no money.” I wondered. Do teachers in France, particularly women without family or connections, have the opportunity to meet people outside of their immediate profession any more than here? Possibly, if the town is very small. Did the aviator really know? At any rate, all this stunned me into keeping complete silence. Seemingly it passed unnoticed. Engrossed, Consuelo continued. “Here's something else, too! The last time my husband

talked with his publishers, he told them he was having

A Dinner

With

Consuelo / 63

English lessons at last. They had been after him to study English. They were shocked that he was working with a country school teacher. They said you had no professional standing or you wouldn’t be a teacher in Northport. They don’t believe you know the best methods. They said my husband should let them get someone really good—the

best New York City has to offer—someone with a reputation. Well, Tonio floored them. He said you may be a country school teacher but that you are an intelligent woman. He will work with you or no one.” By this time, I was practically in a state of shock. So much at once! Teachers seldom receive commendation from immediate superiors. Consuelo’s information overwhelmed me by its quality, quantity, and unexpectedness. With her outgoing and friendly attitude, this seemed an auspicious time to satisfy my desire to know her maiden name and perhaps more about her. ‘“‘What was your name before you were married?” “Consuelo S———— y Sanderval.” We were using English, but she pronounced the first part of her name in French. The sound in my ears had little relationship to the ordinary run of Spanish names. I asked her to repeat her name and again she repeated it Frenchwise. It merely remained an odd sound to my ears; I could not even guess how to spell that sound.

Then I saw that she was highly amused at my bewilderment. Immediately I lost my sense of ease and the courage to ask her to spell it for me. At this moment dinner was announced. The table conversation turned to trivialities and I took my cues from Consuelo. After dinner we sat down again at the small table. Abruptly Consuelo ordered, “Here’s paper and a pencil. I’m going to dictate. You write what I say!” There was no mention of her subject or what she

64 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

1942-1943

expected to do. She began out of nowhere. The first statement, a group of words, was no topic sentence to give a hint. She gave the impression of feeling her way toward some sort of introduction and choosing unfamiliar

language. To me, no definite idea was apparent. I was aware only of unrelated broken and unfinished sentences. She did not seem to realize that she never completed a thought and yet she was very sure of herself. When most of the sheet was filled, she stopped and, with an authority like that of her husband, commanded, “Read

what I said!” It was a jumble of words. “That’s no good! I don’t believe you know how to take dictation! I need someone who is properly trained. Let’s do something else!” My own unspoken belief was that she was untrained in writing as a means of expression. All of a sudden she changed again and became confidential. ““You know, Miss, J want to write a book. I mean to write one, too! I told this to Tonio. He didn’t

like it. He said that if I ever did, I had to sign my work under my own name, Consuelo S———— y Sanderval. He got real angry and excited. He absolutely forbade me to use his family name, Saint-Exupéry. He threatened. He said he would go to the publishers himself and insist on this. He said he would have his name stand

only for his own writing. He tried to tell me that it is the custom for women writers to use their family names. I should follow the rules. Well, no matter what he says,

I will write a book!” There came a discreet knock and the servant, with a

lady’s cultured voice, announced a caller. The Frenchborn neighbor, attractive in a dress, was shown in. Ap-

Bevin Road at the beginnin g of winter

Courtesy George A. Knowles

Bevin House in winter. It looks today as it did in 1942. Courtesy Alain Blanchet

RN

RS

a)

Saint-Exupéry

in 1935.

Courtesy French Embassy, Haiti

The chateau at Saint-Maurice

where Saint-ExupéryVg grew

up Courtesy George Borglum

Young Antoine with his mother in front of the chateau at Saint-M aurice

A Dinner

With

parently she, too, had been invited. Another

Consuelo / 65

chair was

pulled up to the little table and we faced the fire to settle down to visiting, mostly questions and answers of no great importance. I was no match for the other two in the matter of breaking in to make comments. The conversation became a dialogue. The neighbor veered to some question about the war period in France and I received the impression that the subject was painful in some way because our hostess’s face froze and her exuberance was stilled. Even Véronique was stilled, as if embarrassed by Consuelo’s peculiar silence. In the pause that followed, I broke in. ‘‘Madame, when the invasion of France was imminent,

Monsieur de Saint-Exupéry flew with squadron to North Africa and then did you manage to leave Europe and States ?” Consuelo looked up, became very her story.

the remains of his sailed here. How get to the United serious and began

“Well, back in France, as soon as my husband knew

that the Nazis would soon be in Paris and take over the country, he sent me a special message. I should get his car, pack it carefully as quickly as possible and then head for the Spanish border. I should waste no time and go as fast as I could. Well, I did what he said. When I decided that everything was taken care of, I went back into my place to make sure I had all my papers in my purse. When I came outside again, Tonio had unexpectedly shown up.” Véronique, like a flash, darted a question. “From where did he come?” Consuelo hesitated as if caught unaware, then looked at her neighbor and said with finality, “I don’t know.

66 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

He just arrived with some

1942-1943

sort of truck. That’s aa

Then she turned her face toward me to ask, “Do you

know what I saw?” She paused dramatically. Some catastrophe was coming. “What do you suppose?’’ Another pause. “All my expensive dresses were lying around in the dirty street! Absolutely ruined! I could never put them on again! My husband had thrown them there! While I was indoors, he had taken out almost everything I had put in the car! He was busy filling the space with bidons of gasoline, piling one on top of another. “Of course I started yelling about it. He didn’t even stop; he didn’t even

look at me.

He

just said,

‘Look

here! This is war! You won’t have any need of these clothes. But you are going to need lots of gas! You’ve got a long road ahead and you won’t be able to buy gas for love or money. There won’t be any!’ ‘He just kept on working and paid no attention to me. Where the bidons of gas came from, I don’t know. They got there with him and I didn’t see him come. Finally he said, “The car is ready. You had better get started. Now, let me see that you have all your papers in order and enough money.’ He examined them. They were OK. Then he gave me a list of friends of his who might be able to help me in a pinch. At the end, he took a piece of paper and said, ‘Here’s the name of a mechanic who used to work for me. He may be on your route. He will give you some gas if he has any at all.

Now, I’m going to rejoin what remains of my squadron. We will try to make North Africa.’ “I got about two thirds of the way to the Spanish border when I saw that my gas supply was running low. I had emptied every bidon. It was almost night. On the edge of a town I entered a small garage and asked for

A Dinner

With

Consuelo / 67

some gasoline. The man said, ‘No gas!’ I told him then that I would pay him whatever he asked; I was willing to spend the money. He still said, ‘No gas!’ Then I asked for the owner. He answered angrily that he was both mechanic and owner. I began begging. What could a woman, all alone in a strange town, do to help herself? He kept repeating, ‘No gas!’ Finally he said, ‘I’ve only got a little left. God knows when anyone will be able to get more. I can’t afford to sell you any!’ Now I was completely desperate. I just had to get to Spain. I kept on pleading. Somehow I managed to get him to give me a few cans of gasoline. ‘All along the way toward the south I had been passing abandoned cars. I felt sort of sorry for the people who

had to leave them but I wasn’t worried about myself. But the next morning, when I began seeing them again, I felt different. I began worrying. There they were—all sorts of cars and trucks—empty, left along the side of the highway. It frightened me terribly. I began to pray. If only my car and the gas would hold out long enough! “TI was pretty far south but not near the border by a long shot. The gas tank was getting lower and lower. The car wouldn’t go a terrible lot farther. Believe me, I was upset! “By this time I had passed through a village and was out in the country again. No one around to help. Then I

spotted a chateau off in the distance, maybe nine or ten miles away. I prayed that the car would get that far, but it stopped in a little while. There was nothing to do but walk the remaining miles, perhaps seven or eight. “J didn’t dare carry much all that distance. I tried to choose what was most important but along the route I

threw half of it away. I was very tired and my feet

68 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

were sore. I wasn’t used to that much walking. I just dragged my feet along—looking at the chateau. I was all in when I finally got there. I fell down in front of the door and had to be carried in. “I stayed at the chateau a few days to get rested. Then my hosts found a way for me to get to Marseille. It was the best place for getting away as long as one had all the necessary papers.” ‘Wasn't it safer to stay at the chateau? Why didn’t you remain?” My streak of French prudence could not understand such recklessness without necessity. It worried me. For a very few seconds, Consuelo looked disturbed. She picked out her words slowly. ““Why, Miss, in wartime food is scarce. There never is quite enough of everything and then, still less when it must be shared with an un-

expected person. I couldn’t go on taking what these people needed

for themselves.

Besides,

I wanted

to move

on.

They found ways for me to make it to Marseille.” After a pause she looked at me with eyes filled with the memories of past miseries. As if seeking something to be shared, she asked, ‘““Have you ever been in the Marseille railroad station? ...No?...

Well, it’s one

of the biggest in France. It may be big, but inside it’s uncomfortable and dreary like all the other railroad stations in France. The outside fools people. There are many impressive steps leading up to a showy facade, but inside it’s a big, empty hangar. In peace times you don’t think about this. People are always coming and going, but in this war period, the station was dead like a mausoleum. It was a terrible place. Day after day the same people hung around—waiting their turn to get away. The rich waited in the hotels and paid fabulous

A Dinner

With

Consuelo / 69

prices. But, even with exorbitant prices, the hotels were so jammed that sometimes the rich couldn’t get rooms. ‘The rest of us stayed in that big ugly station. The benches were around the walls and there weren’t enough to go around, either. Sometimes you stood up for hours. You spent all your time spying for a seat. Somebody would be forced to get up once in awhile. Well, if you were quick enough, if you could shove hard enough, you had some luck. I was small and could often squeeze past others and slip into a seat while a larger person was turning around to sit down. But, you know, even with the chance to have a seat, you didn’t get rested. People were wedged together. You couldn’t budge the least bit without bumping the person on either side in some way. After a lot of hours in the same position, you got stiff all over and began aching. “This was at the beginning of the mad rush away from France, when even in a city like Marseille all was disorganized; everything was off schedule those first weeks. When the trains were finally called, everyone ran as fast as he could. My legs were too short. I never made it fast enough. You see they allowed only so many on the coaches. I never once had a chance to get on a train! “Then the time limit stamped on my papers expired and I had to begin all over again. It was very discouraging. I got more and more tired. It was just waiting— waiting—waiting ! “T finally found out a way to get some natural sleep— some sleep lying down. Of course you paid for it but not like in the hotels. At midnight the prostitutes stopped working. With luck, one could rent her bed until six the next morning when she had to go to work again. Oh, it

70 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

wasn’t very nice. No one tried to be clean. Those mat-

tresses were filthy, full of soiled places. But you were so exhausted, so grateful to stretch out, that you dropped gladly, completely dressed and with your coat on, into her place as soon as she was ready to leave. I would close my eyes, go to sleep, and six o’clock seemed the next moment! “In Paris, if I had known

been sick to my stomach

about this, I would have

and I’m sure I would

have

vomited, but here, all I could think of was the chance

to sleep lying down. “It was always dangerous in the dark at night. Robberies went on all the time. There were no street lights. The blackness was a protection for the hold-ups. I wasn’t afraid and I was lucky for a long time. But one night, when I left the station and turned into one of the streets,

a man, hidden by the darkness, suddenly jumped out in front of me. In my bones I felt he meant to kill me. I could feel he was desperate. I threw my purse down in the street near

him

and

screamed,

‘Don’t

kill me!

There’s all my money! Take it! Take it! But, please, please, leave me my papers!’ ‘He stooped down and felt for the purse. Then he took out all the money and shoved it into his pocket. I saw him disappear down the street in the darkness. “I knelt down and picked up my purse and my papers. I turned around and went back into the station. It was winter time. The station was cold and damp. Now I couldn’t buy anything to eat. I found a seat and sat as long as I could. After a few days I had a bad cold. Then I got a fever. I must have gone out of my head because I never knew how I ever left the station. “One day, when I opened my eyes, there was a nursing-

A Dinner

With

Consuelo / 71

sister leaning over me. I was in bed in a hospital. Little by little I got better and I began to realize I could never pay for the care, even a part of it. What was I to do? Where were my papers? I began to worry. “The nun must have noticed, because she said, with-

out my asking, that my papers were safe. She also told me that the Mother Superior had seen that I was married to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. So, she got in touch with an uncle of my husband. He lived near Marseille. When I was well enough to leave the hospital, he came and got me and paid my bill. I stayed at his home until I was strong enough to travel. Then he helped me to get away. That’s how I got to America!”’ She ended her story. Almost immediately all visible traces of the terrible experience seemed to slide away into the past. Her face lost its intentness but perhaps the lack of a healthy glow in her skin was connected with that winter in Marseille. I relapsed into silence while the two friends talked. The story from one who had participated in the fear, the discomfort, and the hunger made a far greater impression on me than the newspaper articles on battles and numbers of tanks and planes destroyed, but always with an emphasis on the number of enemy killed. Except for stories of Nazi atrocities, in which all Germans

seemed

to be involved, according to the papers, the personal stories of individuals and towns had little place. The American mainly knew suffering only through his family, with the news of a soldier or a sailor who had died in combat. Perhaps as a woman I was primarily interested in what the individual in a war-infested country had to endure. Consuelo’s husband, after his first active part in World

72 / Saint-Exupéry

War

II before

in America, 1942-1943

the American

entrance,

wrote,

“a war

is won by him who rots last—but in the end both rot together.”* Neither of the Saint-Exupérys presented a favorable picture. By now I was obliged to take my leave because of the next day’s work. Although my car would probably be the only one on the road, the ride back would take longer than usual in a completely black night. The parking lights permitted a driver to see barely a foot ahead and the darkness hid all the turns and curves of the road while it skirted the shoreline.

* Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 294.

) 0D

a

a

0

a

ee

The Little Prince

SAINT-EXUPERY’S

WORK

METHODS

All signs of good weather had finally disappeared. It was the sort of gray, dampish, penetrating cold which proclaims an interlude between glowing autumn and winter. The water, lapping the sand on Asharoken Beach, only accentuated the raw atmosphere. When I turned into the Bevin Road, lingering clusters of leaves hung from the tall oak trees, but a new

element had been added.

The inner harbor water was visible beyond the thickness of trunks and branches with their patches of tobaccobrown foliage. The low-lying bushes, stripped of leaves, were no longer barriers along the shore. The battleship gray of the sky and the muddy gray of the water beneath were dismal. 73

74 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

At my knock the middle-aged housekeeper let me in,

then immediately tapped on the studio door, which she opened at the sound of “Entrez!” Saint-Exupéry, who had been seated near the open fire, rose to his feet. He seemed extremely tall whenever he stood. The military bearing with his habitual mask of reserve heightened the effect. This day the monastically bare room, where everything had a given place, was different. Sheets of onionskin paper haphazardly covered the worktable at the base of the tall, uncurtained window. Some were daubed

and streaked with spots of varying colors; others represented figures and caricatures of personalities. A glass of tinted water and an open paint box with brushes stood at one end of the table. Just below it, a wastebasket overflowed with loosely wedged-in paper. On the floor around the writing table lay crumpled sheets of the same paper. This part of the room curiously illustrated SaintExupéry’s idea that intelligent disorder marks the presence of a personality. Observing my obvious curiosity, Saint-Exupéry looked amused. All of a sudden the mask of reserve disappeared and with an open smile he asked very simply, ‘‘Would you like to see what I have been doing?” He walked closer to the table. “As you observe, I have discarded a great deal. Some things here are acceptable. Some I am still considering. Examine what you wish!” Efere and there were penciled sketches of personalities, blocked in with water color, with just enough exaggeration of facial expression and dress to convey a definite idea. I picked up several pictures of a slender little boy with a scarf flowing about his neck as if to protect a

delicate throat. Poses of this child against a variety of

The Little Prince / 75

backgrounds predominated. Something in the posture, something in the grace of the scarf and the flow of the costume, even the carriage of the little figure reminded me of Consuelo. Something of his wife was present, a deep inescapable imprint of what he admired in her appearance. Were these sketches of a desired child, perhaps once dreamed about? These conjectures vanished as Saint Exupery, without waiting for me to make a comment, came nearer and began explaining. “This is really ridiculous because I don’t know anything about drawing or painting. I am doing a story about a little prince. My publishers have persuaded me that it will go over better if I do the illustrations myself, even if they are simple. Like that of most people, my training goes back to childhood days in school. I assure you that my talent never attracted attention. I was like any other child, doing more or less what he is told. I don’t even remember if I liked it. But now the dabbling is amusing. I reject a drawing because the lines do not bring out what I want. Sometimes the color strikes a wrong note and I throw the sheet away.” He leaned down and began searching among the papers on one end of the table. Finding the desired water color, he handed it to me saying, “Here! See this old king in his dotage. His sky-blue cloak was not right for him, nor his ruddy face for his years.” At this point he picked

up another water color without having to search. ‘Look! In this second picture his skin color is better and I gave him a white cloak.” As he handed it to me, he looked

down with his face softened by a gentle smile. Then, as if sharing a love of fairy tales, he added with an amused, knowing expression, ‘Kings always wear erminers

76 / Saint-Exupéry

I was

in America, 1942-1943

still holding the water

color of the monarch

with the sky-blue cloak. Daub marks, the gold of the

stars on other pictures, had been tried out on other parts of the paper. “But, I like this first one too. What is to become

of

ele Succinctly, “The wastebasket.” eMayalehaverit a. “It is yours, if you like him.” “Of course I like him: There is something in the drawing of what a child thinks a king should be and the adult’s stamp of a tired, sorry figure.” A smile of pleasure lighted up Saint-Exupéry’s face. Replacing on the table the picture of the king in the ermine robe, he lingered thoughtfully a moment and then picked up another water color, which he held at arm’s length before my eyes. It revealed three strange brown bulbs sprouting luscious green foliage, joined together to form a triangle. With an air of complete satisfaction but with a humorous smile, he announced proudly, “This is my baobab!” I emitted a noncommittal “Oh.” I had learned for the first time of the existence of the word and the tree only while reading ‘“Tartarin de Tarascon.”

Did a baobab really look like that? In my ignorance, I remained unimpressed. As it did not seem complimentary to question the artist, whose expression indicated a remarkable feat, the problem of reproducing a baobab on paper remained undisclosed. Putting it down rather slowly, but always with his pleased eyes fixed on his masterpiece, he said, “You may have any of the other rejected drawings that please

you. As you see, the wastebasket is full.”

“Thank you, I am very happy to be the owner of this

The Little Prince / 77

one.” At the moment I thought it would be presumptuous to take more. While glancing over the pictures on the table, I wondered how he managed to get his work done, for he was frequently away in Washington at the War Office and often in New York City. ‘When do you do your work, Monsieur ?” “Mostly at night. I prefer to write then. Since the day often has its round of business, conferences, and other matters, and there are always social obligations, I usually begin around eleven o’clock, or even later, with

a tray full of tall glasses of strong black coffee within reach. It is quiet at this time of day. No visits, no phone calls, no interruptions. I can concentrate. I write through the night without being aware of fatigue or sleepiness. I never have the slightest idea as to just when sleep overpowers me. Evidently I put my head down on my arm to think out a situation, and in the late morning I

wake up in that position.” Perceiving my great interest, he continued speaking. “It is the only way for me to accomplish anything. Once started, I am obsessed by the writing. I have to do it. I believe in it. I think it is as interesting to others as to myself. However, when it is really finished, I am sure it is no good. I am no longer a competent judge.’’ Momentarily stopping, he looked down at me very thoughtfully. We were still standing. My ears could hardly take in what he next said, ““Why don’t you try to write, Mademoiselle ?”’ “T don’t believe I have that gift. You have no idea of how slowly words and expressions come to me.” With

the utmost

seriousness

he answered,

‘“That

is

no criterion. No one could be slower than I am. I write

78 / Saint-Exupéry

in America,

by hand and choose

1942-1943

thin paper

because

I use

so many

sheets to say very little. I keep on filling page after page until I come to an end. Then there is the inevitable boiling down. I often use a dictaphone in the shortening process. The typist takes it down but this is never the

end. My work is usually revised from five to seven times before I consider the writing acceptable. When I believe I have finished, I get my friends to read parts of it and tell their reactions.

Most

of the time, there is further

revision.” At this moment Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry entered and her husband immediately suggested that we have a drink together and would I like some whiskey. When I answered that I drank only wine, neither was sure that there was any in the house. Then looking at his wife, “Tet us ask Mademoiselle to dine with us tonight as we

are eating early. Our guest has to leave fairly soon to make his train back to the city.” The lesson which followed was very brief, for soon it was time to enter the dining-room. Saint-Exupéry, sitting slightly sidewise, occupied a length of the table in his habitual position with the stiff leg stretched out. The handsome dog, Hannibal, lay quietly and devotedly at the foot of his chair. The house guest and Consuelo

faced Saint-Exupéry while I occupied an end. As was my custom, I kept silent and listened but to my astonishment here was a time when social banalities took over. The food was epicurean. Suddenly Saint-Exupéry turned toward me to say, “Your name, of course, is French. Where did your father originate ?” This and his following questions appeared normal to me. I had never known any French family that did not inquire at some time about one’s background. The French

The Little Prince / 79

seem to have to know these facts as a part of accepting a person. The astonishing thing was to have such questions at a rather impersonal meal. This was scarcely finished when a taxi horn sounded. Immediately the guest left the dining room with the hostess. It was now my turn to leave but I had so enjoyed the delicious meal that I asked Saint-Exupéry’s permission to enter the kitchen to compliment the cook. His face lighted up with such a pleased and even rather astonished smile that I decided that he believed each person, regardless of station in life, should receive his due for work well

done. I walked to the door through which the servant had been coming and going. It was my first glimpse into the type of kitchen belonging to mansions of a past century. It was a very large, well-lighted room, where a fireplace had once been used for preparing meals. Now a sizable electric stove was centrally placed, with a long worktable nearby. Many years previously the original kitchen had been on the basement floor, just under the present kitchen. As I approached, the cook looked up questioningly, but when I spoke, her face lost momentarily its trained

mask and relaxed into a warm smile. On the way home along the beach road, I paid no attention to the somber, dark Sound. On the seat, beside

me, was my water color of the king in his dotage.

The

following Thursday,

again at the Bevin

House,

the maid admitted me to the studio where Saint-Exupéry was standing before his table, apparently gazing out of the high, uncurtained window at the trees beyond. On hearing my footsteps, he quickly turned around and said

80 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

with his customary directness, which never wasted words

nor time, “I don’t feel like doing any English today. Please do something else for me!” Immediately he turned back to his table, this time strewn with typewritten papers. Fingering them carefully, he selected some stapled pages. Waiting for him, I sensed that something had gone wrong. He was nervous with suppressed irritation, so marked that the air seemed alive with unpleasant currents of electricity. I retreated behind a wall of intense quiet. Having chosen his papers, he turned about. “I would like you to read some of Le Petit Prince, which I have written in this house.” After a slight pause, ““My story is somewhat of a fantasy. By the way, there is a wonderful fantasy in English! Have you read Mary Poppins?” SIN ey

“You should. It is the best children’s story I have ever read. It is full of charm and quite appealing to grownups. I liked it so well that I read it several times. I consider it a real classic.” While he was speaking he looked depressed, tired, almost as if he were not feeling well. Then he noticed that I was still standing and he added quickly, ‘Here, be comfortable!” He walked to the farther side of the room and pulled forward a wicker chaise longue in front of empty book shelves that climbed from the uncarpeted floor almost to the ceiling. Practically staring down at me from an upper shelf lay a battered, shabby, brown suitcase looking ready for the junk yard. He always looked so immaculate, it was hard to believe he would be seen with such an object. I did not dare ask about it but later Consuelo told me that it contained

The Little Prince / 81

an unfinished novel and that her husband carried the manuscript with him wherever he went. He would not consider leaving it in the house for even one night. This became his posthumous work. He arranged the chair, made me sit down, and proceeded to adjust a floor lamp to best advantage. Suddenly his tired face lighted up with animation. “I had some trouble in persuading my publishers that the story could end with the little prince’s death. They believe no story for children should end that way. I disagree with them. Children accept all natural things and adjust without harmful disturbances. The adults are the ones who give them wrong attitudes, who distort their notions of the natural. I don’t believe that death has to be morbid. No child is going to be upset by the going of the little prince. It’s just a part of things as they are! Now read for yourself.” He spoke like a person bent on explaining his beliefs, for him unchangeable truths. Finally his rapid words revealing his ideas had brushed away the obvious film of his fatigue and discouragement. Saint-Exupéry sat again at his table but without any attempt to occupy himself. Immensely flattered and consumed with curiosity, I began to read with interest. While I was chuckling over his boa constrictor that looked like a hat, and his observations

about grown-ups, he interrupted me to say, “I really did draw something like that in a similar situation as aArcoud, Aside from chuckling over his boa tale, I was struck by his creating immediately an intimacy with children through something they would accept as a matter of course in the world of make-believe. It was amusing to find him accenting the idea, as if it were a secret between

82 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

him and small readers, that grown-ups just do not understand—they have to have complicated explanations. I noticed, too, that his language was explicit and that he

used words beyond what most American educators consider the necessarily restricted vocabulary for a given age group.

But then, for many years the French

have

believed that children accept new and even long words, for they usually ask questions about what they do not understand and assimilate with facility. Soon I discovered that behind the facade for amusing children lay material for those who had lived long enough to be aware of individuals considered important, whose ideas and philosophy are far from ideal. However, the children would see only the funny, incongruous aspects. On the other hand, in a subtle way the adult reader would be amused, perhaps even comforted by shared opinions. After reading a statement about who is acceptable in society, I asked, “Did you get this impression from observing rich and successful Americans? It sounds like thats? “No, I meant that nowadays a bank account largely determines anyone’s importance and position in society in every corner of the globe.” In the publication that particular sentence was omitted. As I read the first part, I felt that, like his previous

books, this was peculiarly intimate writing, although in a different vein. He had more fully revealed himself, the man known by his family—his impatience at being interrupted in his work, his recognition of the unimportance of many accepted attitudes, and his lovable understanding of a sensitive child. Looking up I asked, Is this not a story you wrote for the little boy you once

were and who was not fully understood?”

The Little Prince / 83

A smile came as an answer, but it was an enigmatic smile within his reserve and seemed to contain a statement to himself of which I was to be left unaware. Still smiling, he stood up and turned his face toward the window as though thinking further, even seeing a friend in the distance. It was for a moment or more as if I were not in the room. When his thoughts returned to the room, I had finished the first lot of stapled pages. As I handed them to him, the idea suddenly emerged that I could turn this narrative into an English which would catch the flavor of the remarks made for small ears. Much practice in retelling fairy tales, even fabricating many, for small brothers gave me this confidence. Furthermore, a few days before Saint-Exupéry had suggested that I try writing. This sort of thing I was sure I could

do. Consequently, without embarrassment, I looked up to ask, ‘““Monsieur, would you be willing to allow me to translate your story?” An invisible curtain came down over his face, blotting out all expression. The mask was there. I realized then

that he felt caught in a difficult situation. Although his words flowed easily, he seemed to be choosing them carefully as if not to offend in any way. ‘Mademoiselle, I am sorry that I have nothing to say about the translation. My publishers made the decision some time past after having considered a number of people. Only recently I met the translator who is ready to begin her work.” Whatever other words he may have added, I did not hear because I understood,

now with

embarrassment, that of course the publishers would want a well-known name of a writer or translator and I had put Saint-Exupéry to some pains to explain without being too explicit. With no further words I accepted the idea as a fact. He turned away to look for another set of

84 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1 943

stapled pages upon his littered table. He then passed me the final section of the story. Quiet reigned until I had finished reading. In enthu-

siastic excitement I forgot all about being reserved and still. The reading had unleashed my tongue. Words toppled out. ‘All the time you were writing this story, you were sharing truths discovered for yourself, even some disillusionments. You seem to be smiling most of the time and poking fun at types of people you don’t like too well, but there’s haunting sadness too. Something is out

of reach, something never kept, or perhaps never attained!” I had not been looking at Saint-Exupéry. My eyes were fixed on the wall nearby while I tried to organize my reactions and express them clearly. I finished with, “Yes,

the going of the little prince is beautiful, not at all morbid, and yet it is sad..Any child will accept his disappearance but will still feel sadness at the separation.” I paused and then added slowly, “I suppose that, too, is a part of things as they are.” All of a sudden I was startled by my reckless flow of words; I realized that I had stepped completely out of my shell. Had I offended his idea of good taste? Perhaps I had even spoiled the relationship. I felt I had to explain my impetuous audacity. “Monsieur, you don’t know me very well, but I know you from reading your books and having absorbed your ideas. Your last two books are much like a series of wonderful letters to understanding friends!” At this he smiled with a knowing expression but still said nothing. I plunged a little further. ‘From Pilote de Guerre (Flight to Arras) I gtther that this house may

The Little Prince / 85

remind you in some ways of your childhood home. It has the hall down the center with rooms on either side and a long staircase. This house also has a mansard roof. It resembles many large French houses I have seen.” Very quietly, almost as if revealing something of great personal importance to him, he replied, ‘“This has been

a haven for writing—the best place I have ever had anywhere in my life. Now, Mademoiselle, I must go on with my work. Thank you for reading the manuscript.” Saying no more, he helped me with my coat and saw me to the little gray car. On the road back my eyes were fixed on the cement pavement but my mind was reliving the afternoon’s proceedings, an unlooked-for honor, imperishable as a memory. It was the insight into a great

man, fundamentally simple and direct, so dedicated to his gift that it was

the essence

of his being and the

master of his life. Later I found again in the book which had meant so much, his definition of a house—to us

“home.”* Saint-Exupéry meant the chateau of his childhood but the words were applicable to the Bevin House, which he had found a haven for writing.

* “The

marvel

of a house

is not that it shelters

or warms

a man,

nor

that its walls belong to him. ... [Rather it] form[s] deep in the heart that obscure range from whichf” as waters from a spring, are born dreams.” Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 110.

6 >

>

0-0

a

(a

a)

a)

a

Oe

Linking Episodes

Saturday evening I was astonished to hear Saint-Exupéry’s voice on the phone. “If you have no scruples would you consider teaching me tomorrow around one o'clock?” “I shall be glad to come and without scruples.” Sunday. The Sound’s rare tranquil blue and the limpid cold air promised nearby winter. Along the uneven Bevin Road, an occasional scarlet leaf against a dark trunk hung precariously from its branch. Consuelo opened the door at my knock and immediately called out, ‘““The English teacher is here!’’ She opened the study door and I walked in. Saint-Exupéry was standing before his tall window looking at a police car that had driven in behind mine and was now disappearing. The writer turned around grinning. “The police do really patrol here. I had been told 86

Linking Episodes/ 87

that all nonresident cars are checked in this particular area but I never believed the statement until now.” After another glance outdoors, “Your car has a familiar outives: “Yes, it is a copy of a Renault in feminine colors.” “It is satisfactory?” “Oh yes, especially now when citizens may have so little gasoline. I like to drive. Do you?” His voice came out cool and emphatic. ‘Not at all! Driving is slow. It is close to the monotonous. Even when I’ve driven at 90 miles per hour I have experienced no particular reaction. But in a plane the speed alone is exciting and brings a sense of power. There is nothing in the world comparable to piloting a plane.” For a very few seconds his eyes took on a faraway expression as if his thoughts were following what he had written. “I know nothing, nothing in the world, equal to the wonder of nightfall in the air. . . . Earth and sky begin to merge into each other. The earth rises and seems to spread like a mist. The first stars tremble as if shimmering in green water. Hours must pass before their glimmer hardens into the frozen glitter of diamonds.”’* But wherever

his mind

roamed,

he stopped

it, cleanly

and suddenly. He looked down and said quietly, ‘‘Shall I read first?” Following the usual routine, he looked at me to ask, “Do you know anything about Claudel?” “Yes, if you mean the former ambassador to this country and the distinguished Catholic writer.” “Today I shall be having as guests his younger son with his Egyptian wife. They are due now at any time. The young man is very intelligent and also very sensitive. * Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 184.

88 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

He has made a remarkable adaptation to a game leg.” This statement made me wonder how long SaintExupéry had taken to adjust to his own game leg. He managed to act as if it were of no consequence whatsoever. Did he judge the young Claudel by himself? He continued, “His wife is a well-educated young woman and charming. He met her while his father was a member of the French Embassy in Cairo.” He had hardly finished speaking when a taxi drove up. Excusing himself, Saint-Exupéry went to the door to receive his guests, where he was joined by Consuelo. With the ending of greetings and while coats were being removed, I heard a young man’s voice say, ‘““We had been hoping to see you before this in the city.” Very smoothly and matter of factly, Saint-Exupéry explained, ‘“This has been our summer home. It turned out to be an ideal place for prolonged writing. We shall be here a little longer, at least until the cold weather sets in.” “I saw in the paper that you are going to speak at New York University. Will it be soon?” ‘Yes, quite soon.” Saint-Exupéry answered simply but his voice betrayed a sense of pride and honor in having been invited to speak. He was totally unaware of what his presence represented to the university and its French department. He did not seem to realize the extent of student excitement and reaction. Claudel continued, ‘‘Are outsiders permitted to attend? We should like to hear you.” ‘There will be no difficulty. You have only to go to

the hall mentioned. But before that time I shall get in

touch with you.” At this point everyone

entered the room

and I was

Linking Episodes/ 89

introduced. With the closing of the door, a heavy sheet of water-color paper portraying a primitive type of design stood out against the reverse side of the door to which it had been attached. It showed a tall man painted in beautiful sophisticated bluish-green tones, with long rectangles for legs and arms, and a wider rectangle for a body surmounted by a small sphere as a head. The young Claudel asked, “Is this one of your painting pastimes?” Obviously he was a close friend to be able to ask personal questions so easily and have them answered so frankly. Saint-Exupéry started to laugh gently with amusement. “Not at all. This is my wife’s portrait of me. At least it resembles me in length.’’ He sounded as if pleased with her efforts. ‘‘She is studying at the Art Students League of New York on 57th Street in New York City. It seems to be a well-known organization. Anyway, she is interested in art and spends a great deal of time there.” Consuelo hastily interjected, ‘Don’t judge by this! It’s only a basic study for future work.” She excused herself and left. She betrayed the air of a wife who means to see that in kitchen and dining-room all is absolutely right for special dinner guests. Saint-Exupéry motioned the young Claudel to a chair on the right of the fireplace and took a seat beside him. The lovely wife and I sat on the other side of the fire. The young man had been examining the room quite discreetly. Now he said, “So this is where you do your writing.” “Yes. The room is fortunately away from the running of the house. I hear nothing and am seldom disturbed. The place lends itself to long, concentrated work.” Claudel’s curiosity regarding his host was not yet satis-

90 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

fied. “I was told that you spend almost as much time in Washington as in New York City and that you work for the American government. May I ask if the work is exacting ?” I wondered how Saint-Exupéry would answer such a question and not divulge top secret information, but he replied without hesitation, revealing only his personal inconvenience and attitude. However, he did glance in

my direction to notice whether I was following their conversation. The latter was purely impersonal and he went on talking. “In a peculiar sense, yes,

I am called to Washington

without notice. I must drop my own work and take the first train possible that same day. My business is to identify sections of Africa and the Sahara by looking at photographs taken recently from planes. My long experience as a flier over North Africa would seem to place me in a position to recognize areas, but, in the case of the desert, the topography changes very little from one end to the other. The majority of pictures which I scan reveal nothing but an isolated heap of this or that in the midst of sand. It is rather useless work but I often spend two or three days at it with the hope of seeing something identifiable. I find it difficult to explain my frequent lack of success to the officials. They do not comprehend the desert’s never-ending miles of sameness.” “I was interested in your experiences in Spain. Did you like the country itself? How did it affect you?” “Yes, I liked it. Curiously I was constantly reminded of the Arabs and North Africa, first and always by its popular music and then by the predominant architecture.” As if by mutual quick consent, the two men turned to more personal matters and lowered their voices. The

Linking Episodes/ 91

beautiful Egyptian with regular features and luxuriant brown curly hair, remained silent although her intelligent eyes seemed to follow everything. She made no move to take part in the conversation.

I, too, remained

silent.

When Latin men are plunged into a special discussion among themselves, the women close at hand keep still. Obviously this was a conversation meant only for the two men; it was time to take my leave. As I drove slowly back along the road weaving through the woods, I thought about the distinguished personalities coming and going to this dwelling. The Bevin House and

its land, dating back to the earliest history of this country in the New

World,

had become

a French

Mecca

in an

out-of-the-way location on Long Island. Remembering the occasional meetings, and the privilege of listening to some of these personages engaged in conversation with Saint-

Exupéry, would add to that bread by which one lives. Saint-Exupéry had always invited me to remain and meet his guests in such a casual and natural manner that

it was made living, being

a long time before I realized that he had probably a deliberate attempt to add interest to my way of perhaps because of a tug of duty toward a human whose needs he sensed.

Lesson day again. As Consuelo had telephoned briefly to ask me

to arrive

much

later than

usual,

I started

through the village at five o’clock, when the evening papers from New York had arrived. It seemed a good occasion to stop and purchase one. Then later I would be able to fill in the details of the radio announcements of the day’s news headlines. Down by the beach the Sound, with its steel-gray water under the dark gray sky of the

92 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

disappearing twilight, announced the beginning of winter. The Bevin Road, too, looked dreary, with its covering

of the last faded leaves brought down by the previous day’s strong wind. When I entered Saint-Exupéry’s writing room, he was already standing, facing the door. He noticed immediately the newspaper in my hand. “Fave you glanced over the news?” “No, Monsieur. Would you like to have the paper?” ‘For a moment, yes.” He opened the journal, scanned the headlines on the front page, and found a column. Pointing to it, he said in the impersonal manner of a commanding officer, which brooks no negative, ‘‘Please read this to me in French!” Looking quickly at the article indicated, I saw that it dealt entirely with war news. Embarrassed, I confessed, “Monsieur, I am not familiar with war terms or its tech-

nical language. I may not be able to do this very well.” “That is not important now. I need the gist of the news. Give me what you can!” He was so offhand in his manner of speaking that I took courage and to my surprise found I could translate the article into French as fast as I read it in English. When I had finished he said quietly, “You could be of value to your country. Have you ever thought of using

your French in connection with the war?” “Yes, I took a WAC examination at the request of a Manhattan officer because they were having trouble finding an American who speaks French easily and who is familiar with French people. I passed the written exami-

nation but was rejected because of a scar on my back.” He made no comment and we worked on English. At

its finish, he asked me to keep the same hour and bring

Linking Episodes/ 93

another newspaper on my next visit. Then he remarked, “Next Thursday is a great American holiday. We have been invited out and no doubt you have your own special plans. Are you ever in Manhattan on Saturdays?” “Indeed yes. I attend two university classes.” “Without undue inconvenience could you give me a lesson near two o’clock at my apartment on Saturday? I shall have to be in the city the rest of this week.” With this he wrote the address of one of the big buildings on 59th Street, the phone number, the apartment number, and the floor.

On Saturday, between classes, I went there with great curiosity. It was a huge impersonal beehive with an expensive entrance. Somewhat awed, I took the elevator and got out on a rather spacious, brown, wood-paneled corridor having what seemed a large number of identical doors grouped around their special elevator. A few moments after I rang, a nervously keyed-up and irritablelooking Saint-Exupéry, his tie loosened and shirt-collar open, came to the door. The moment he caught sight of me, his face first showed surprise and then contrition. The words came very fast. “Oh Mademoiselle, I am full of remorse that I neglected to notify you. I am busy, terribly busy! For hours I have been working with my secretary, trying to get some work finished. I cannot afford to take out any time whatsoever. Please excuse me! I sincerely hope that you gave up no other engagement to come here!”

Naturally I accepted that his first obligation was to his writing. I also accepted his concern at inconveniencing me as something to be expected from the author of Wind, Sand and Stars. My loss of time was negligible. The return by subway to Columbia University was a matter

94 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1 942-1943

of only a few minutes. Once again on the sidewalk, I noted that an isolated house in the country was much better adapted to writing than a building overlooking Circle, with its incessant bustle and the whir

Columbus

of cars entering and leaving Central Park. The war had no appreciable effect upon New York City trafic.

THE

NEW

YORK

TIMES

ARTICLE

The following Tuesday, when it was about time to leave for the Bevin House, I was experiencing the usual pleasurable anticipation and wondering what unexpected thing could happen when the telephone rang. It was Consuelo who addressed me in English. “Miss, my husband is in the city and will not be here until late. He said to tell you to wait till Thursday and to make it at 5:30. O.K?” She paused, then eager words came flowing. “Did you see my husband’s article in last Sunday’s New York Times?’* Her voice showed excitement. “The paper paid him several thousand dollars for it. Imagine that! And just listen to this! They employed well-known translators, four of them, and gave each one

two hundred dollars for turning it into English. Then they chose the translation which most resembled my husband’s style and presented his ideas best.” After a very short pause she said quietly, ““My husband said he’d like to know what the American teacher thought of it.” Anything I could say was inadequate, but believing I

had to express an opinion, I plunged. “The article is a

pouring-out of his heart as well as his mind for his coun-

try. As usual he puts the accent on responsibility and *“An

Open

Letter

to Frenchmen

Everywhere”

Nov.

29, 1942.

Linking Episodes/ 95

duty, this time to France, which needs all her men. The appeal is moving, explicit, and even poetic. But how could he write otherwise? He knows only too well what is happening in France. I admired the article greatly.” She made no comment on this but I had expected none. She continued on another subject. ‘“We were invited to a huge cocktail party given at the Royal Windsor Hotel in Montreal. It was to present my husband to a gathering of prominent French Canadians as a bit of advance publicity for Le Petit Prince. Everyone of any importance attended. They liked my husband so well that the party finally finished at a beautiful private home. The French Canadians were crazy about him. The whole affair ended very, very late.” There was no further comment on this but the next question gave me a violent start. Her tone of voice became demanding with a strange undercurrent. “What do you do when you give my husband lessons ?”” What could she mean? Reserve was a refuge. I would

answer her truthfully but very briefly. I did not expect to be believed. “T teach him English as well and as quietly as I know how.” Her voice came back stronger, more insistent, demanding! “You do something else too and I want to know what it is! My husband says that lots of times he wishes you wouldn’t come. He hasn’t been able to write the way he wants and he feels irritable and nervous. He’s in no mood for an English lesson but he sees you because he agreed to and because you take the trouble to come out here from the village. He says that in a little while after the lesson begins, he loses his feeling of irritation. His nervousness goes and he gets quiet. After you leave, he

96 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

goes back to work and he says he writes better than ever.” Her voice became more

insistent. ‘““Now tell me,

what do you do? I want to do the same thing.” Somehow I could not bring myself to mention the statement of Dr. Du Bois regarding Saint-Exupéry’s nervous condition and her admonition to me. I could not bear to tell that I concentrated on quiet and peace almost like prayer before entering the house. Intuitively I believed it would no longer work if I spoke of it. Neither could I afford to run the risk of having the writer know of Dr. Du Bois’s opinion. “Madame, you know I believe it is a privilege to teach your husband. In my gratitude I do the best I can as quietly as I can.” “Well, you’re hiding something.” Her words came accusingly. “‘I still believe you do something else, something like magic.” My unspoken reaction to the idea of magic was that no adult could really believe anything so absurd. I dismissed the matter and forgot self-consciousness. Once again she talked as she had begun, amiably like any casual neighbor. “It’s a good thing this is a local call. Our phone bills are terrible. They usually run seventy-five dollars a month. My husband is always phoning long distance without considering the cost... . Well, you'll be coming Thursday at five-thirty? .. . Yes? Goodbye, Miss.” I hung up thoughtfully and my mind reverted to the first part of our telephone conversation. “An Open Letter

to Frenchmen

Everywhere” had appeared two days be-

fore, on the previous Sunday. It was moving in its strong

appeal to all Frenchmen to lay aside conflicting opinions

and unite for France. Again I opened the magazine sec-

Linking Episodes / 97

tion where the picture of a detail of Rude’s Marseillaise on the Arc de Triomphe appeared so fittingly above the title. A most beautiful sentence, practically prose poetry, was near the beginning of the article. ‘‘France is nothing but a silence; she is lost somewhere

in the night with all

lights out like a ship.” To the Frenchmen outside of France, engaged mainly in dissenting talk, “‘our political discussions are the discussions of ghosts. We do not represent France; all we can do is serve her.’’ He left no doubt

where the easier task lay: “there is no common measure between freedom to fight and bearing the crushing weight of the darkness.” He labeled the Nazi rule ‘‘a blackmail unique for cruelty in the history of the world.” He called upon his countrymen to lay aside and forget their doubts: ‘When the English and the Russians fight side by side, they leave to the future disputes which are grave enough. . . . Let us hate divisions of any kind. It is more important to serve France in the present than to argue about her history.’”’ As for prestige, he remarked that “‘the only places open are soldiers’ places.”” He did not dwell on death. There was an allusion to “quiet beds in some small countryside cemetery in North Africa.” In my mind’s eye I could see in the French countryside the high-walled enclosures with their narrow paths and occasional blooming roses, where the air is so still that any busy moving creature seems out of harmony. Mostly older women come to pray or meditate near the resting places of loved ones. Now the younger ones would be denied this comfort. This

article meant

that he, too, would leave for the

war as soon as it would be possible. Did Consuelo worry about this? Undoubtedly, but for the moment she was proud of the publicity and that her husband was important enough to command several translators and be paid

98 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

a large sum of money for a few pages of writing. His leaving, somehow,

still seemed

a long way off in spite

of the article. New York Times readers were agreed upon the beauty of the writing and the sincerity, but wondered whether this appeal would really unite disagreeing Frenchmen. For them the “Letter” fell mainly in the domain of literature. Americans were more impressed by the well-publicized disparities of French temperament than aware that the mass like ourselves are intensely loyal to their country. As Saint-Exupéry stated in his Letter, “One does not hear those who keep still . . . despite our reputation, most of us at heart know only love of our civilization and our country.” At the following routine lesson I felt incompetent to make any appropriate remarks and did not mention the article. It was an expression of such deep feeling, conviction, and knowledge of the suffering in his country that talking about it merely to be polite seemed desecration. Also, as an American, I was an outsider to the situation.

There were other factors, too. My fundamental timidity, increased by a partially European bringing-up and the necessity for maintaining marked reserve, restrained natural impulses to question, but this did not prevent my feeling great pride and gratitude in knowing SaintExupéry, the person. By this time I had witnessed all the qualities as portrayed by Wind, Sand and Stars—first the play of an impressive mind, and then those characteristics necessary to any lasting respect and friendship— understanding, sympathy, and generosity in their widest sense.

Ve >

ae

Points of View

QUESTIONS

ABOUT

CONSUELO

Most of my weekends were spent at the home of Dr. and Mrs. William Milwitzky in Newark, New Jersey. Dr. Milwitzky had resigned as a philologist at Harvard to direct the study of foreign languages in the Newark Public Schools. Our friendship dated from the day I applied for a position under him during the depression, just before a temporary ruling cut off all but Newark citizens from being employed. On this particular weekend, Pierre de Lanux, a writer and popular lecturer of the Alliance Francaise, was to be the dinner guest. In the course of the conversation Dr. Milwitzky said to his friend, ‘You

may be interested to know that Miss Breaux is now teaching English to Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who resides in IS

100 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

her town.”’ Lanux turned his serious brown eyes apprais-

ingly in my direction to ask politely, “Do you find this interesting?” “Very much so. It is a contrast to the usual teaching. Besides, I am quite flattered to be doing this. But I have become very curious as to how such a reserved and somewhat aloof Frenchman chose a wife whose background and ideas appear so different from his. Of course, her beauty entered in but is there any further explanation?” With a thoughtful expression Pierre de Lanux turned his head away to answer with a depth of feeling, “Poor Consuelo! She is to be pitied.” With this observation, he changed the subject. The remaining talk dealt with France, and was carried on exclusively by the two men. While they were talking, I kept wondering why Consuelo should be pitied. Did she not have everything to be wished for—beauty, social position, an interesting and eminent husband, and undoubtedly exciting social and intellectual contacts ? After the departure of Pierre de Lanux, I asked Dr. Milwitzky if he could explain his friend’s remark about Consuelo. “Only partially. In her own country Consuelo undoubtedly belonged to the upper class, which has many traditions and customs unlike those of France and even quite different from our own. This I learned while living as a tutor long ago in the richest family of Cuba. Adaptation to the rules of a conservative aristocratic French family would present difficulties for any young woman, particularly one of another country. It is true that Saint-Exupéry broke with the traditions of his class in becoming a pilot and in his choice of friends, but no matter how well he

adapted himself to a new environment and types of peo-

Points of View / 101

ple, he remained for his own kind essentially the Frenchman of an elite group. “In a wife, his family would notice any divergence from their standards and training. Consuelo must have been subjected to a sharp scrutiny of which she might even have been unaware. ‘Then there are differences rather foreign to American training as well as to the French. The upper class of Spanish blood have, as a rule, little consideration for the

humble servant. Labor is accepted as his or her lot, which nothing can change. The difference in social level is a wide one. This attitude also applies to the woman who

must earn her living on a higher level than that of the domestic. She is never accepted socially. By destiny each is in his or her own class with its invisible barriers. Consuelo can never get away from the age-old traditions among which she grew up.” Back at Northport, I now wanted to know more of Consuelo’s background. Reading here and there produced scanty facts. She was born in San Salvador with the name of Consuelo Suncin y Sanderval. The birthplace was a surprise, for she had never mentioned that country, only Guatemala. At last I knew her father’s name, for Sanderval meant her mother’s, a name to be found wherever

the Spanish had settled in the New World. Suncin, pronounced in Spanish, contained the echo of a faraway tongue, a challenge to the imagination. A sampling of the world’s names ranges the entire Pacific Coast. Few Westerners pay any attention to this fact, since only personality, including position, and not always the latter, actually counts except to the foreigner or someone interested in the history of early settlers. Just looking at a map stirs the imagination as to how ships

102 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

and settlers ever managed to get the whole length of the New World. I found no reference to Guatemala or to her education. At a youthful age she had married an Argentine

journalist and lived in Buenos Aires. She became a widow and some time later a mutual friend introduced SaintExupéry to his future wife. The information, like a heavy

veil, revealed very little. It was very disappointing.

MORE

QUESTIONS

In a small town no occurrence remains unknown. After some weeks a number of village folk knew that I was teaching English to the foreign writer in the Bevin House. He and his wife were looked upon as nonattractive strangers who did not belong to the milieu. Undoubtedly some had never read Wind, Sand and Stars, and others did not connect the tall, aloof Frenchman

with his best

seller. He was alluded to as “the foreign writer.” The caste system and Saint-Exupéry both maintained the same idea—keep separated. As for my colleagues at school, his name seemed to mean nothing. Books were seldom, if ever, mentioned at the lunch table. From every quarter the town was not recognizing an outsider from another country.

A few townspeople, however, were very curious and managed to ask questions in the course of the weekly shopping for food, when cars were shared because of the shortage of gasoline coupons. After a careful approach, an acquaintance with an expressionless face asked cautiously, “Do you really like those people?” “Tam a fervent admirer of the man’s writing. I believe

Points of View / 103

that only a person of spiritual integrity, with sympathetic understanding and a feeling of responsibility for others could have written Wind, Sand and Stars. His ideas are truths for me. I don’t believe an author can write authoritatively about anything which does not form a part of his character and experience. As I see him during lessons, he is rather stiff in his reserve but always a cultured and courteous gentleman. The wife is interesting but I admit I am not familiar with her make-up. She is volatile. She varies from warm, open friendliness to an insulting lack of regard. I am never sure of what she will say next.” “Do they really get along?” “As far as I have observed, they seem like any other couple. I’ve never been a witness to any argument or any sign of disagreement. She runs the house to suit him. The meals are excellent and she is careful not to invite visitors.” “Well, the neighbors steer clear of them.” “The writer would never object to being left alone, as he needs hours without interruption while working, but I suspect the wife gets lonely. She seems to know only one person in the vicinity.” ‘What is your opinion of them after some teaching?” “On the surface they show marked differences. He is intellectual; she is not, although very intelligent. He is always reserved while that is not her nature. He does not care about show or making an impression on people socially. I have a feeling that these things are quite important to her. He reflects the finest element of French aristocracy. She belongs to the upper class of Guatemala but, as a teacher, I see her as a grown-up, impetuous, spoiled child who has never had to learn self-discipline. Whenever I see them together, they seem to share an

104 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

understanding. I would never know that they are any different from other married people.” Not many days later, I met Véronique, the Frenchborn resident somewhat close to Consuelo. She was alone and would probably tell me the truth. ‘Is it true that Saint-Exupéry and his wife do not always get along?” A few had asked me this question and I had been astonished; surely it was not true.

She looked at me with some amusement and an allknowing air. “Well, it’s like this.” She spoke with emphasis. “‘He’s a writer. That’s his business. That’s all he cares about. That is why he has chosen to be here in Northport. When he writes he doesn’t want to be interrupted and he likes best to write at night. Consuelo is his wife. She’s a woman. Do you get me? A REAL woman! She has her needs and marriage ought to satisfy them. When he gets to writing and that means many, many long hours on end, he is not even aware that she exists. Now she can’t understand at all such an attitude toward work. She thinks it can be done at any old time. So, she has the notion that if she is persistent enough and tries hard enough and long enough, she’ll get his attention away from his writing. Now do you catch on?” My immediate reaction was, “‘Doesn’t she know that she has a duty to his writing,’ but somehow I felt it

wiser not to voice the thought. I said “thank you” and Véronique left me, smiling to herself. Another day I ran into a former pupil, a student at Swarthmore home on a short vacation. With the greatest of enthusiasm she said radiantly, “Oh, Miss Breaux, I’m

so thrilled that you are Saint-Exupéry’s English teacher!

My present French teacher says he owes his morale and outlook on life to the understanding letters he gets from

Points of View / 105

time to time from Saint-Exupéry. He says he has been helped over some very hard places and that nobody ever could have a more wonderful friend.”

A

SECOND

DINNER

WITH

CONSUELO

Often before the beginning of actual winter, there sweeps over the Island a warning storm of gale winds and the lambasting of the land. In midweek a heavy rain began during the afternoon. Shortly after arriving home, I received an unexpected call from Saint-Exupéry. ‘‘Mademoiselle, just now I have had a message from Washington. I shall leave on the next train. Would you be so kind as to take dinner with my wife? She does not like to be left alone. . . . Thank you. Come near six-thirty.” The words resembled those of the previous invitation some weeks back. By six o’clock, when I left the house, a strong wind was blowing and pushing the rain before it. The water beat down so hard that splashes bounced off the pavement. The beach road was desolate. Angry whitecaps, close

together,

spurted

above

the

fast-moving,

lead-

colored water. At the turn into Bevin Road, the pouring rain was rolling pebbles downward; water and pebbles raced together down the roadbed, now

become a swift,

shallow brook. The car labored ahead on the slight incline in first gear. The nearer we got to the Bevin House, the worse the clutter of small stones, the jutting out of naked tree roots, and the unexpected widening of ruts. In the dusk they were formidable obstacles to the lowslung car. At the stopping place not a light was to be seen in the

106 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

house. The front door had been blown wide open. The great tree branches were swaying over the grass flattened against the ground. To the eeriness were added banging

sounds here and there from the interior of the house. Knocking turned out to be a feeble echo of the racket inside and out. I began calling, “Anyone home?” Following an outright yell, the housekeeper with the beautiful speech appeared at the open doorway. “Good heavens! What are you doing here in this weather? The writer is not home. He left for Washington.” “Yes, I know that. He phoned to ask me to dine with his wife and keep her company a little while.” “Oh, that was her idea, I’m sure! She wouldn't hesitate

to ask anyone to come out in this sort of weather. She is not only the most inconsiderate employer for whom I have worked but the most inconsiderate person I have ever met. The husband is a true gentleman. He never overlooks the fact that a worker is a human being. He even goes out of his way to show appreciation. But his wife! She is demanding in the extreme. A servant is not an employee but a slave. And no matter what one does for her, it never occurs to her to say thank you. She is unaware that anyone feels or lives but herself. I wonder if she ever realizes how she humiliates one to the core. Her nonchalant manner is often cruel. It is a trial of the

spirit to be here.” The words seemed to be gushing madly from her. Her face suddenly looked anxious and she questioned me also with her eyes. ““Do you know if she is sick? Could she have tuberculosis? She seems to have a cold which never goes away. She always has kleenex at hand.” The expression changed and rancor revealed itself again in her voice.

Points of View / 107

“Do you think that when she uses it she ever bothers to

throw the moist paper in the fireplace? Not her! She drops it wherever she is walking—in the hallway, on the

stairs, any part of a room where she happens to be.” Her voice began to crescendo. ‘This nasty little piece of work annoys me almost beyond endurance.” She needed to catch her breath but she was growing calmer. ‘“This is a very lonely place. Even with too much to do, it is lonely. Each day’s chores bring exhaustion. There are three floors to do in this house. Aside from the cooking and cleaning, there are fires to lay in each room. This means climbing stairs with heavy baskets of wood each day. These people prefer open fires. It seems to remind the gentleman of his home. Of course, I am handsomely paid to put up with all the inconvenience, the lack of consideration,

and the hermit existence. But the

money doesn’t make me contented. It isn’t quite that important.” Most of the time this woman was not really looking at me but now she turned to eye me closely and changed the subject. “I can tell you right now that your coming tonight will not be appreciated. Why don’t you go now before complete darkness makes your driving harder?” “T have already promised to come for the evening. Now that I am here, I may as well keep the promise. Where is Madame? Isn’t she home?” “No, she went to the village by taxi for some meat and hasn’t yet returned.” All rancor had finally left her voice. She was poised and continued speaking of her employers more objectively. ‘Have you ever seen the Countess dressed up?” “No, I have seen her only in the country and then she always wears slacks.”

108 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

With genuine admiration, the housekeeper added, “In

her fine clothes she is beautiful to look at. She adores clothes and has one room in the city completely filled with expensive and elegant clothing. Some of her evening gowns are magnificent. She can be dazzling. You can’t keep your eyes off her. She looks every inch a countess then. “T notice you call her Madame. She usually insists on everyone’s addressing her as Countess. The husband doesn’t like to have the title used in speaking to him. He is always natural, kind, and simple in manner. He makes this servitude bearable.” Thoughtfully and quietly she continued her unwinding. “Last weekend we had another writer whom you may have seen at some time. He is a despicable guest.” That word despicable suddenly evoked a vivid memory of a time when I had entered the writing room to find the host and a guest seated at a card table before the fireplace. They had just finished a game of chess. On standing Saint-Exupéry introduced me to the other player, saying to my astonishment in a cool fashion, with contempt written on his face, ““May I present Monsieur i ? We always play chess together and I always win.” It was hard to grasp the idea that such words were coming from the epitome of a correct Frenchman, but at the same time I was amazed to see a look of dislike akin to hatred on the opponent’s face. From my standpoint he did not belong as a guest, but I knew I could never hope to have explanations of oddities in this household. I lis-

tened with interest but was dumbfounded, too, as the housekeeper continued. “That man doesn’t know when to stop drinking! The

Points of View / 109

next day I have to clean his bed. It’s not easy to lift a big mattress and turn it over. I despise a man too lazy to walk to the bathroom! But, I despise him even more for the kind of influence he has over the Countess. Something is not right, although I do not know what it is. He seems to mold her thinking. I believe she often acts the way he wants her to. ‘Well, the Countess ought to be here fairly soon. Come to the dining room and sit by the fire. You may as well wait where it is more cheerful. I must return to the kitchen.”’ As we walked down the dark hall, she suddenly opened a door I had never noticed before. It was at the end of the hall at right angles to the one opening into the diningroom. “Here! Look inside and see what happens when the Countess has her tempers.” It was a moderate-sized room

filled with odds and ends of broken

furniture, mostly

chairs and small tables. As a sort of leave-taking,

she

finished with ‘‘It was a relief to be able to talk to you. Thank you.” She disappeared into the kitchen and I sat down before the fire. In a very short time, Consuelo bounded through the house en route to the cook. We were to have steak,

a rare treat for anyone in the war period. A pleasant Consuelo returned to sit by me, but off and on she glanced anxiously in a rather frightened way out of the windows, which she was partially facing. Following each glance outdoors, she appeared to force herself to gaze at the open fire. Something was preying on her mind, for she was very quiet, with no sign of even wanting to talk. Soon we were seated at the dining table. The cook brought in a thick, tempting steak obviously cooked over

110 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

coals. Consuelo’s countenance suddenly clouded with rage.

Red in the face, she screamed at the top of her heavy

voice, “You bitch! You overcooked the meat!” I interrupted. “Oh may be rare under the She was too excited

stupid imbecile! You fool! You've

Madame, cut into it! The meat surface.” to hear. She jerked herself im-

petuously out of her chair and raced toward the kitchen,

calling out, ‘‘There’s another steak. I’ll cook it myself.” Quiet reigned. All I could think of was the number of meat coupons necessary for the expensive steak. For most people it would mean no more meat for several weeks, owing to a lack of coupons rather than lack of money. Perhaps as guests of the country they had an unlimited allotment. Consuelo, calm again, entered, bearing a platter of meat cooked to her taste. After the meal we sat again in the chairs before the glowing fire, but intermittently, with her expression of dread, Consuelo would glance at the savage outdoors. The wind howled continuously under the eaves. ‘Miss, this weather is the brewing of the Devil. I’m sure he is around. It frightens me terribly. I feel so alone.” Then tonelessly, ‘But I feel alone nearly all the time anyway.” After a nervous pause, “Do you know anything about Black Magic? ...No!l... Would you like to be initiated? One of my very real friends is a Master of Black Magic. He has taught me a great deal about it. . . . Oh, I see from your expression that you don’t really care to learn about it. It’s deep but it’s frightening too.” She broke into a moan, “Oh, I’m afraid. I’m afraid!” I had no idea of what to say. Black Magic filled me with horror for everyone involved.

Points of View / 111

After a serious pause, she looked up at me to say, “I wonder if you know what it means to be alone. Really alone.” She must have decided I did not fully understand for, with a depth of misery revealed, she continued, “Not to belong! Not to be wanted! Oh, it’s terrible! Too terrible for anyone else to understand.” Then colorlessly, ‘“My husband will go away soon and I will be lost.” I thought I could suggest something worthwhile, something that would have meaning for me if I needed comfort. “Usually at such a time one’s childhood home can mean a great deal. Why don’t you return to your people in Guatemala?” In a burst of despair, she cried out, “Oh, you don’t

know what that means! I’ve changed too much and in too many ways. Once I got lonely in France and went back. It was awful. All my girlhood friends were married and all they could talk about was their homes and their children. All had big families. That frightened me, too, because the children were not all the same color.’’ She looked frightened at mentioning this but I thought ‘“Indian and European—not so terrible after all.’’ However, I said nothing. She continued, ‘““Their talk was always the same. When I talked about other things, they listened politely but they weren’t interested. My tastes had become sophisticated. I liked all kinds of things that they knew nothing about. I was alone with them. Finally, not knowing what to do with myself, I gave up and returned to France. “You know, Miss, I was so happy for a while after I married Tonio. Heaven couldn’t be any different. I loved everything about it. I loved living each day. There was always excitement of some sort—lots of parties and dinners and going around. I supposed it would last forever.”

112 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

Her manner was so simple and her longing for a past

time so marked that she was touching. “One morning when I woke up, there was a note pinned to my pillow. It said that my husband was being sent away on a mission to India and he had no idea of when he would be returning. “T didn’t see him again for years. He didn’t want me back. He doesn’t want me now! He would like never to see me again.” She was in the depths of despair. After a very brief pause, ‘‘Do you remember the passage in the ‘Open Letter to Frenchmen Everywhere,’ where he says some of them will find a final resting place in a small hillside cemetery? Well, he’s hoping that will happen to him. He wants to die in this war. That’s one way to be free of me.” ‘How can you think that way when you are here together in this country? Aren’t you worrying too much?” Consuelo became rigid. With some attempt at emotional restraint, she burst out, ‘““Do you think he wanted

this? Never! We wouldn’t be together if it hadn’t been for a very good friend and counselor who advised me on my entry into this country. As soon as Wind, Sand and Stars became a best seller and selection for the Book-of-

the-Month Club, this friend said to me, ‘Go see your husband. Say you want to be taken back. If he refuses, say you'll make a big public stink. He knows the press will be keen to print your story. It would be all up with him! He doesn’t dare have his reputation attacked. His ideas would soon be ridiculed. The international hero would be hurled from his pedestal.’ “I took his advice and it worked. My husband got me an apartment in his building. A little later, this same friend said to me, “Take your clothes and move into his apartment. He’ll accept you. He has to.’ It was true. Then

Tonio had to ask for a larger apartment, big enough for

Points of View / 113

both of us. But he doesn’t really want me. He’s got it in his head to go away and he will. The war will help him

do that!” Indignantly she went on, ‘That's another thing! Only France would allow a man in his condition to fight. He’s been in so many plane wrecks and crashes that he has broken or cracked every bone possible and still move about. Every late afternoon he runs a temperature. So far no medical authority had discovered what causes this. They just say he has an infection in his system impossible to localize.” Turning her head to face me, “You must have noticed how he sits at a table. He will never be able to bend that leg again and still he wants to fly! Only France would permit this to happen! After a physical examination, your country would bar his piloting forever!” I wanted to comfort her but did not know how. Mentally I could see these two people with very different backgrounds and often poles-apart ways of looking at things and I suspected that her problem could not be solved. I even wondered if her counselor had really helped her or made the suffering worse. The thought of the demands of the next day’s work intervened and I became aware of the late hour. “Madame,

the storm has died down. The remainder

of the night will be quiet and you need no longer be frightened.” “Miss, can’t you stay overnight? I don’t want to be alone in this house.” “You aren’t really alone. There’s your housekeeper who speaks such beautiful English. She looks absolutely reliable. I’m sure she would help you if you would let heres Angrily she answered, ‘That housekeeper! There’s

114 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

something about her I don’t understand! I don’t want her near me! I’m afraid!” “You don’t realize that I have to get up while it is still dark, hours before you are accustomed to stirring. It will be better for me to pass the night in the village. I have to earn my living and those who work must be on time. I’m sorry not to be able to accept your invitation but still more sorry that I can’t help you.” On the inevitably slow return to the village, the evening’s revelations were haunting. For a while a refrain kept intruding, “The poor woman! The unfortunate man! The disastrous marriage!’ Turning my thoughts back to Consuelo, it was difficult to adjust her insistence on not being wanted with what I saw on the surface and SaintExupéry’s statements regarding his wife as expressed in Wind, Sand and Stars. I also took into account, based on reading and hearsay, the fact that when gripped by artistic creative impulses, the artist allows nothing to interfere because those impulses represent to him the essence of living. To European and Latin women anywhere, generally speaking, accepting such an attitude would be natural where the man is considered master. In marriage the wife would adapt her way of living to the husband’s. On the other hand, a very young, unself-disciplined, willful woman might never be able to understand this attitude as a necessity where an artist is concerned. For me, at least, these had to be the reasons for putting

aside the tiny temperamental being who had enchanted much earlier an already eminent Frenchman. It had to be the artist, who, like a parchment-painting monk, needed many hours of solitude for his gift and kept faith with it by accepting or making a way for precious hours in complete silence.

Points of View / 115

Somewhat later, I took note of a paragraph in which Saint-Exupéry says this. ‘“‘“A novice taking orders could appreciate (flying or writing) this ascension towards the essence of things, since his profession too is one of renunciation; he renounces

riches; he renounces

the love of

woman. And by renunciation he discovers his hidden fod.4 With no children to consider and supporting his wife, Saint-Exupéry could perhaps feel free to earn his living as flier and writer where the opportunities best presented themselves. Since, apparently, he had never mentioned a divorce, this did not completely rule out love for Consuelo, who had attracted him in so many ways. Trying to understand this strange situation, I was driven back to searching those passages in Wind, Sand and Stars which expressed love, responsibility, compassion, and an equally strong determination to lead his own life. When in the desert and close to dying of thirst, forcing himself to concentrate on putting one foot ahead at a time, he described the round of his thoughts. “I was haunted by a vision of my wife’s eyes. . . . I could see only eyes, questioning me, looking at me yearningly. I am answering with all my strength. . . . Every time I saw those yearning eyes it was as if a flame were searing me. They were like a scream for help, like the flares of a sinking ship. . . . I was perfectly ready to fall asleep, whether for a night or for eternity . . . but that cry would be sent up at home, that great wail of desolation— that was what I could not bear. . . . Each second of silence drove the knife deeper into someone I loved.’’** A few pages beyond these words, he remarks, ‘Apart * Wind, Sand and Stars, p. 184.

** Pp, 203-5.

116 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

from your suffering, I have no regrets. All in all, it has been a good life. If I got free of this I should start right in again. [This would seem to indicate that flying and writing took precedence, even if it meant separation from his wife.] A man cannot live a decent life in cities and I need to feel myself live.’** This might imply that his wife preferred cities and their whirl of activities.

Then he added what had to him become the realization of love. “Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction. There is no comradeship except through union in the same high effort.’’* He had to earn his living and undoubtedly he wished to return in some way to his beloved mother something of what she had sacrificed for him. He was going to be free to do the work he loved and which had turned him into a profound thinker. I concluded that between a compulsive artist-and-flyer and a very independent woman long used, perhaps, to having her way, marriage meant inevitable suffering to both. I would go on accepting them as they seemed on the surface, varied personalities who make up the ordinary couple.

RRS 27 *P. 288.

§ OD)

>

a

a

e-em ee

The Final Lesson

After the poignant evening with Consuelo and another inevitable cancellation, it was again a lesson day, set for late in the afternoon. At twilight, remembering the request for a newspaper, I stopped to purchase an evening issue en route to Asharoken Beach. Beyond the bluff where

the road descends,

the raw

air above the Sound

exuded penetrating cold. Driving along the beach was depressing, leaden water under a leaden sky. Even the Bevin Road, with its bare trees and bushes among the pines, seemed withdrawn, waiting for the coming snow and freezing weather. It was really winter. When I entered the studio, Saint-Exupéry was already standing. Immediately noticing the newspaper, he stretched out his hand for it, asking as before, ‘“‘Have you

read this?’ Again he selected a long column dealing with 17

118 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

war detail and asked to have it translated. This time I was more confident and the change to French went more smoothly as I read. At the end I looked up to find his grave eyes taking measure of me in some way and summing up what he had found. Calmly and seriously he began speaking. ““Mademoiselle, your country can make excellent use of your unusual understanding of both English and French. You are needed in Boston in the broadcasting field. I should like to speak to the War Department about you. Furthermore, I should like to be able to help you in some way to better your situation. May I have your permission to speak?” This was a vision of the Promised Land with the knowledge that I could not enter. Numbly I answered, ‘Monsieur, I thank you. I want to say yes and dare not. In New York State all women teachers kept at a prewar salary are temporarily “frozen” in their positions because so many have left for better-paying work in this war time. A woman here in Northport may have permission to leave only if entering the Armed Forces. Our chief administrator stated that steps would be taken to

prevent a woman from reentering the teaching field if she left, even to work for the government. This is the only profession for which I am qualified by much experience as well as training.” I thought I had to explain further. “Unfortunately I am old enough to hesitate at taking the risk of not being able to earn my living at the end of the war. Who can now predict when it will end? I must add that there is no one to whom I could turn were I stranded without funds. A change could be dangerous.”’ He had listened without losing his grave expression.

The Final Lesson / 119

Then almost reluctant words, or perhaps shy words because of what he was revealing, came from his lips. “I know how you feel. I, myself, am rather old for all I wish to do. I am in my forties.’ With that admission he assumed his usual impersonal manner and added mechanically, as if he expected no answer, ‘‘Let me know if I ever can do something for you—perhaps a letter that may help.” Eagerness, like a fountain, sprang within me. “I could

make good use of a letter of recommendation to the United States State Department. I am applying in one of its branches for a position in a cultural center in Latin America. I was told I would be expected to use French as well as Spanish. However I may not get the position until the end of the war. I do not need the letter at this time.”

“T shall be glad to write a letter for you, but don’t put off the request too long!” The lesson followed. Afterwards, Saint-Exupéry, very serious, spoke again. ‘Please bring your bill the next time. As you must have noticed, winter has come. It is steadily growing colder. There may be a bad storm at any time and we are quite unprepared to cope with snow. You can understand what that means with this long approach to the house by private road. Also, we do not like furnace heat since we have always been used to open fires. Besides, we do not know how the furnace functions. It is

too much to ask our housekeeper to keep fires in every room for our comfort. She has a very great deal to do as it is.’ His tone changed and he added with simple friendliness, “Saturday night we shall have our last dinner here. We should like you to share the meal with us. Can you come about seven-thirty in the evening?”

120 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

Toward the end I had listened in a sort of daze; I had not previously allowed myself to think of the inevitable ending. Within myself I now literally grabbed at the invitation while giving a stereotyped answer, ‘Thank you. It will give me great pleasure.”

With Saint-Exupéry’s closing of the car door, I rode

off in the darkness, unable to comprehend that these episodes, sometimes challenging, always lifting to the spirit, and often filled with the unexpected, had now drawn to an end. My loss would be great. I was unable to think further.

THE

LAST

DINNER

AT

THE

BEVIN

HOUSE

The last time to go to the Bevin House was at hand. This evening I set out, determined to enjoy the final outing in the little car, for nobody in the war period used automobiles to enjoy scenery. Now and then a town offcial questioned any frequent use of cars, and his manner belonged to forbidding authority. But the driving this night presented no pleasure. The night was black—no stars, no moon—yjust solid impenetrable darkness. Crossing the narrow neck of Asharoken Beach where war conditions permitted only parking lights, even the necessarily slow driving required concentration, for the road was scarcely visible and the curves seemed to wind much more than in the daylight. For a short while this left no room for mental play, but with adaptation to the pace, soon a background of thinking accompanied the slow advance of the car. The nearer I came to the Bevin House,

the more I was deeply concerned with an unwanted, a dreaded, adjustment to resuming the daily chores without

The Final Lesson / 121

a challenging break. The idea of concentrating on quiet and peace never entered my mind. Not once had I realized that such thinking armors a person with poise and creates a control of sensitive reactions; that this is a basis for

forgetting self in order to communicate something of value to others. Instead, I was anesthetized in a despairing regret that contact with an admired writer’s existence was drawing to a close. At the end of the Bevin Road, seeming more uneven than usual under the pale, short light provided by bandaged headlights, I parked the car in its accustomed

position. At the door the maid informed me that I was to enter the study, that the gentleman wished to speak to me. After the traditional handshaking, there was no other preliminary. Saint-Exupéry was courteous but as usual wasted no time over social nothings and unnecessary words. “Now is the right time to pay you. How much do I owe?” “Thirty-six dollars, Monsieur.” “T don’t understand. Why so little? You used your car, your time coming and going, and then the lesson hours. All this should be counted in. Why not one hundred dollars or at least seventy-five dollars?” “Perhaps you do not understand that giving you lessons was an escape from a type of routine that offers

very little inspiration.” Behind these words I felt indebted to him for stimulating hours and visions of a life outside of my experience. I would always be grateful for the initial unexpected contact and each subsequent meeting. “Ffow about the gasoline involved? It is hard to come by and cost you something.”

122 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

“The replica of a Renault uses very little gasoline. If I had the usual American car, I could not have come so

regularly. I still have gas coupons.” He looked completely rebuffed and helpless. “That is a ridiculous sum for the work rendered. It does not seem right to me. I feel that I owe you more.” “The lessons were a legitimate excuse to use my car and drive along a pleasing road. I can’t charge you for that because I was delighted to do it. The current village price for tutoring is $2.50 a lesson, an hour’s work. I have charged you two dollars and perhaps ran over the halfhour only once. You probably do not know that teachers receive very little pay in comparison with workers in industry. According to village standards, I am overcharging you.” ‘The price is absurd but if that is your decision, I'll make out the check now.” While he was busy with his checkbook, I added a bit timidly, ‘“You can do something else for me, however.”’ He lifted a questioning glance. “T have brought a copy of Pilote de Guerre. Would you be so kind as to autograph it?” His expression turned almost to one of contrition. “Oh Mademoiselle, why didn’t you tell me you wanted the book? It would have been so easy for me to procure a copy. Forgive me for not guessing that you would like to own one. Of course, I'll autograph it. Here, let me do

it now.” After handing back the book, he said, “We have another guest for this evening,

a painter,

Max

Ernst,

a

somewhat recent refugee from the Nazis. Let us go to the dining-room. They are waiting for us.” The painter was a man of average height and build,

The Final Lesson / 123

with a pleasing appearance, whose French was impeccable. I supposed he was another friend of long standing. The dinner served was excellent, a very real treat. One thing in the meal stood out. The housekeeper cook of the beautiful speech passed me a small dish, which suddenly brought a cry from Consuelo. ‘Don’t give her that! Only someone from southern France could stand its taste!”” Turning to me she explained, “It’s a specialty of Provence, minced garlic and avocado. It’s awful but my husband likes it.” Saint-Exupéry sat on one side of the table with his way of holding one leg stiffly outstretched. He faced his artist guest, who stated somewhat interrogatively, ‘‘So you are going to leave Northport permanently and settle in town?” “Yes, my wife has found a house on the East Side in as quiet a location as a big city has to offer. The house has considerable privacy with a balcony and even a small garden high enough above the street below to afford a view of the river. There are no neighbors on that side. You probably know Beekman Place better than I do.” “T know where it is. Doesn’t Ethel Barrymore have a residence in that section?” “Of that I have no idea. I’m usually too busy to know who lives nearby. By the way, I am curious. You are a French citizen but not French-born?” “No. I was born in Germany. I took part on the German side in World War I, but with peace and the return to my city, I was mainly interested in painting and formed a group interested in the new order. However, it wasn’t too long before I was eager for association with French artists in Paris. When I got there, the climate was right and I stayed on presumably forever.”

124 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

“When you decided to leave France, it must have been exceedingly hard to make the necessary connections for exit papers. How did you manage?” “After a great deal of careful probing, I learned that Laval, himself, was the key to anyone’s leaving the country. Oh, one did not go directly to him. Actually one reached him through his mistress. It was up to me to find a go-between for the lady and myself. On the surface, all was correct.” “So you found a way of connecting. How did matters progress ?” “Naturally I handed over a required sum and needless to say, I asked no questions. There was quite a long wait for the papers. I haven't the slightest idea of how the transaction was handled in order to obtain the official Nazi stamp. When I received the coveted paper, I was told to go as soon as possible, and to leave my apartment intact with the appearance of living in it. It must seem as if I were returning in a few hours. I was to go out as if to visit a friend in the suburbs—no handbag, nothing whatever to excite suspicion, particularly that of a servant. Many of the domestics were in the employ of the Nazis and furnished useful data. To leave my apartment wasn’t too painful but I just could not bear to leave all my paintings behind. I rolled up a few which I could carry rather casually under my arm. The papers allowed me to cross the French border and nothing more. The rest was up to me.”

“A very nice situation! You headed for Spain, of course. How did you manage then?” “Truthfully I was uneasy. It was not bad leaving the French authorities but those few feet on Spanish soil

The Final Lesson / 125

when the papers had to be examined again—that was the test. It so happened that the official looking at my papers suspected something. He began a series of questions which might have lasted a long time. There was the risk of missing the waiting train which ran only on certain days of the month. The train to Madrid and my safety were at stake. It was an ordeal! “IT can always be thankful that the Spanish love art. All of a sudden he barked at me, ‘What’s in that roll?’

I was sick at the idea of having to lose my paintings. I opened the roll and began to display the canvasses. The man lost his official-personality and immediately showed enthusiasm.

One

of the officials

exclaimed,

‘The

train

leaves in a few minutes. We can’t keep back a man with such gifts.’ My papers were stamped and I ran to the train. From then on there were no more painful problems.”’ Up to this point I had been a most interested, quiet listener, but my silence was not destined to continue. In some way the questioning, for the first time in that house, came in my direction and I was lost. It had something to do with my way of living. I saw the return to days exactly alike. There would be some interesting teaching but most of the time it would consist of drill work, ex-

hausting disciplinary chores of which the public knows nothing, never-ending correction of papers in addition to the necessary class preparations. Social life? It was wartime. It hardly existed in small towns. One went to bed to prepare for another day. This program rose before me. I was full of rebellion. The war had canceled all hopes of a musical career; the little country town had no outlets; drabness and monotony

126 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

were the daily keynotes. I made a spectacle of myself without a doubt. I can remember only one statement: “This evening marks an end to a kind of inspiration I shall never know again. I shall return to a humdrum life and for a while be lonelier; I know so few people, and most of them superficially.” The artist looked at me so vaguely that I understood it was European disapproval of baring one’s innermost thoughts and emotions in front of others. Even Consuelo wore a mask. It made no difference whatsoever. My feelings and thoughts were like water rolling with increasing speed to the edge of a cliff. I was horrified at my own disclosures but it did not stop me. Saint-Exupéry looked up with kindness and sympathy, ‘““We are not going to be that far away. This will not be the last time. In a few weeks you will come in and have Sunday dinner with us. You can phone to verify the day and either my wife or myself will give you directions.” The dinner ended. Since there was no reason for delaying my departure, I expressed my thanks and said goodbye. Saint-Exupéry as usual saw me to the car and opened the door for me. I drove off slowly into a very black night. As long as the war continued, this was likely to be the last ride out of the village, the last opportunity to be near a stretch of water, the last closeness to the woods and an

expanse of nature. But, most of all I would be missing the mental stimulation. At home I turned on the reading light. First I looked at the check and wished I could afford not to cash it. Then I looked inside the cover of Pilote de Guerre (Flight to Arras). With a little difficulty I made out this from the fine spidery handwriting:

The Final Lesson / 127 Pour Mademoiselle Adéle Breaux qui m’a guidé si gentiment dans les mystéres de la langue anglaise. Avec mon

trés amical souvenir

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry For Miss Adéle Breaux who has guided me so gently into the mysteries of the English language.

With a very friendly recollection Antoine

Comforted, I fell asleep.

de Saint-Exupéry

7 >


Oe

Aftermath

P. L. TRAVERS

AND

“THE

LITTLE

PRINCE”

When “The Little Prince” was finally to reach the public after Saint-Exupéry’s departure, the author of Mary Poppins, Miss P. L. Travers, reviewed the story in The New York Herald Tribune Weekly Book Review of April 11, 1943. Saint-Exupéry considered his fantasy di-

rected only to children in spite of the adroit comments criticizing aspects of society which could have come only from the long experience of a sensitive and acute observer. He may never have realized that his Little Prince would appeal to all ages. Miss Travers expressed particularly the appeal to the mature adult. She believed the key to his fairy tale lay in the sentence ‘‘So I lived my life alone without anyone I could

really talk to.”” She added further: 144

Aftermath / 145 Most of us live alone without anyone we can really talk to... for we have not found the hidden companion within ourselves. . . . The prince will speak only to the ear that is humbly tuned to listen. . . . Indeed it seems to me that each of his books has been a path leading across the sands to the prince’s citadel. . . . I cannot tell whether it is a book for children . . . it has a moral (which) attaches the book to the grown-up world. To be understood it needs a heart stretched to the utmost by suffering and love. . . . [It is] a short book but long enough to remind us we are all involved in its meaning.*

After reading her article, I wondered if her acquaintance with Saint-Exupéry had not been purely a very short professional one. Did she really have any idea of how much he had admired her own fairy tale and how highly he ranked it as literature? It is rare for one to express full admiration to anyone not a close friend. Following an impulse I wrote Miss Travers about Saint-Exupéry’s reaction to her popular story and sent it care of the newspaper. Not too long afterwards came the following reply. 142) Fast -52nd* St. N.¥.C; 27th April 1943 Dear Mrs. Breaux, Thank you very much for your very kind letter. I am so glad you liked the review of your pupil’s book. And I was glad to do it for I admire St.-Ex’s approach to life very much. I met him once, before he had read Mary Poppins but I heard from our joint publishers that he liked it. And that is something I value. It was particularly pleasant to have it told me in your letter. I am so glad he is going to Africa . . . I think he fretted for action.

Again with thanks,

Yours sincerely P. L. Travers** * Quoted with the permission of Miss P. L. Travers. ** Reprinted with Miss P. L. Travers’s permission.

146 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

As soon as copies of The Little Prince were available to the public, I bought a book to savor more slowly what I had seen in the manuscript and to renew a sense of

Saint-Exupéry’s personality. The very jacket made

an

appeal. When I opened to the first page, the introductory illustration, which I had not seen before, brought a smile —a boa who looked astonished at his frightened prey not

yet completely swallowed. Saint-Exupéry must have had his tongue in his cheek. Soon appeared the sentence any child would love: ‘‘“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.”* And then SaintExupéry turned himself into the real grown-up, “I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t improved my opinion of them.’’** Very shortly he mentioned the scope of conversation he had to indulge in with most adults:

‘bridge and golf and politics and neckties. And the grownup would be greatly pleased to have met such a sensible man.’’*** Immediately afterwards he expressed his isolation about living his life alone, the line which carried so much meaning to Miss Travers. At first I questioned this statement, since he had respected, admired, and loved

Guillaumet the pilot and Léon Werth the scholarly elderly friend to whom he dedicated The Little Prince. But I remembered the former had been killed and the latter could be a possible victim of the Nazis. He had seen neither man for some years. On the meeting with the little prince, while he was very busy and yet having to answer the many questions chil* Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince, trans. Katherine Woods (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1943), p. 8. ** Tbid., p. 9. ¥** Ibid,

Aftermath / 147

dren always pose, Saint-Exupéry revealed his natural impatience with anything interrupting him at work. Shortly he betrayed how he felt about flying. “I was proud to have him learn that I could fly.”* Piloting was

more

than a highly skilled occupation;

it had the

same magic that great music exerts over the musician.

Within a few pages began Saint-Exupéry’s portrayal of supposedly prominent people and their ways of determining what makes for importance. There was the astronomer whose genius was not recognized because of his strange dress, and the money in the bank which is the standard by which most people are rated. The seriousness of his remarks is practically removed for the younger ones by remarking, “Children should always show great forbearance toward grown-up people.’’** Another thing attracted my attention; the little prince, obviously sad, would never admit to sadness. It had to be a principle of the writer’s life never to yield in words the individual’s deep trouble. He merely says, ‘‘It is such a secret place, the land of tears.”’*** Saint-Exupéry believed that sentiment and love of beauty belong to the well-rounded individual. How does he speak of the red-faced gentleman? “He has never looked at a star. He has never loved anyone. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures.” **** I wondered,

too, if he had not had his Consuelo

in

mind when he wrote of the rose, “It was only in the full radiance of her beauty that she wished to appear. . . .***** This flower is a very complex crea12D, alee. SANTEE TS, px* Dipas##%% P27

#48 Pp, 29-31.

148 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

ture.’* There was so much that seemed interwoven with his wife. “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose. . . . The stars are beautiful because of a flower that cannot be seen.”* This line must have applied to moments in flying among the stars when he had missed her presence. After more story he adds without quibble his philosophy, ‘‘Accepted authority rests first of all on reason,’** and then an unpleasant truth, “It is more dificult to judge oneself than to judge others.”*** He states that the lamplighter, so faithful to his orders, thinking of something else besides himself, is the only one the little prince feels he could have as a friend. This must have been the writer’s standard for accepting anyone as a friend. The love of the desert is always present, where one “‘sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs and gleams. . . . The house, the stars, the desert—what gives them their beauty is something that is invisible.”**** To read The Little Prince is to know Saint-Exupéry intimately in his reactions to people—children, acquaintances, and those well known. Only in this book does he permit himself to say, “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye, HA THE

TRAIN

EXPERIENCE

On my first visit to France after World War II and *Pp. 71-75. **P. 38, a8. 39, *#** Pp, 75-76, aenee P70,

Aftermath / 149

following several years in Latin America, I left Paris by train for Dijon to meet again my good friend Aline P., whom I had met in Chile. Near noon I went to the dining car, believing that eating would be more satisfying and interesting than remaining in a compartment where the occupants were conventionally uncommunicative. I was placed at a table of men. After I had given the waiter my order, the man opposite me stated with pleasant curiosity in his voice, ‘““You come from another country. It sounds as if you had been away from France for some tine, “Yes,

I am from the United States.”

He then astonished me by saying “One of our great men spent some time in your country—Saint-Exupéry.” With a bit of excitement I said, “He even lived in my community and I knew him for a little while.” The stranger looked pleased and added, “I, too, knew

him somewhat. I was his tailor. Never have I ever had a customer who was so considerate of anyone working for him or who was so patient when being fitted. Then when everything was ready, he always expressed his _ appreciation of my work. His consideration made me glad to see him.” The tailor gave neither his name nor his city, but once again had come testimony from one who served, that Saint-Exupéry believed in acknowledging as important any type of work well done.

THE

REACTION

OF

CHILE’S

COLOANE

I went down to Chile to work in a cultural center which, like all the others, owns an excellent library, con-

150 / Saint-Exupéry

in America, 1942-1943

taining not only the standard classics in English but also Spanish translations of what is best in American Literature. Scanning the shelves, to my surprise I caught sight of a Spanish translation of Wind, Sand and Stars. Very shortly a teaching missionary priest came in for some material. After a greeting, I asked “By chance, have you read this wonderful book?” He went away with the copy but in a few days returned to ask how long he might be able to keep it. Then he explained, ‘“‘My business is to teach the classes in religion. I believe this book is outstanding in interest, and for me it exemplifies how a man may live embodying the precepts of religion. The Lyceo boys will learn a great deal indirectly about how to consider others from hearing this book read aloud to them and later discussing its action and ideas.”’

While still in Chile, finding it hard to fall asleep one night, I searched for something to read and picked up Cabo de Horno by Francisco Coloane. It had received the first prize at the fourth centennial of Santiago, the capital, where readers learned about life in the Antarctic region given over to sheep ranches and seal hunting. The book revealed powerful masculine writing with spots of poetic beauty. By accident, just as with Saint-Exupéry, I met the author the day before I left. Many years later, in 1964, Coloane’s government declared him its greatest living author of fiction, an occasion for all outstanding journalists and writers of South America to attend a cocktail party in Chile’s capital in order to celebrate the event. Prior to this occasion the few books which Coloane had written all captured literary prizes. Some years later I wrote him to explain what I

Aftermath / 151

was trying to do in regard to Saint-Exupéry. This is part of his reply: Santiago, Chile May 30, 1967 Sefiorita Adéle Breaux New

York

Dear Miss Breaux, Today I received your beautiful letter in which you share such interesting matters dealing with the mind and imagination that both my wife and I are deeply moved; especially when you tell

us that you were the English teacher of Saint-Exupéry whom I have admired ever since reading Tierra de Hombres (Wind, Sand and Stars) in which many of his flights took place over Patagonia, a country that exercises the strange domination of its plains and crags. [he land puts its stamp on all that survive its challenges.

The United States has for a long time now been at war in Asia, and from time to time the public is confronted with ugly scenes. In rereading Flight to Arras one begins to realize that pictures never change. According to SaintExupéry the combatant must believe that what he does is right for the cause of war. When a war is on, a village ceases to be a cluster of traditions. The enemy who hold it have turned it into a nest of rats. Things no longer mean the same. Here are trees three hundred years old that shade the home of your family. But they obstruct the field of fire of a twenty-two year old lieutenant. Wherefore he sends up a squad of fifteen men to annihilate the work of time. In ten minutes he destroys three hundred years of patience and sunlight, three hundred years of the religion of the home and of betrothals in the shadows round the grounds. You say to him, ‘My trees!” but he does not hear you. He is right. He is fighting a war.*

* Antoine

de Saint-Exupéry,

Flight to Arras,

trans.

(New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1942), p. 92.

Lewis

Galantiére

Il D-DD

(D-DD)

ED

a

-

Epilogue

In June of 1966 Dr. Pauline Alderman, a musicologist, her cousin Mrs. Dorothy Ryan, and I were driving from one historical place to another in France. The climax of our wanderings, for the musicologist, would be the days

spent in Dijon, where music had so astonishingly developed in the courts of the governing Dukes. In their former capital we would see the great ducal palace surrounded by picturesque buildings on very narrow streets, not to mention museums and Gothic architecture peculiar to Burgundy. The province was only some hours away. As for many years I had had a longing to see the chateau of Saint-Exupéry’s childhood, I noted with especial interest that Ambérieu,

according

to the map,

lay

almost on our route. In one of his books Saint-Exupéry had indicated that the chateau was located in the vicinity. EY

Epilogue / 153

I consulted my friends and we decided to visit the place on our way to Dijon. The car skimmed over the main highway cutting across wheat fields where peasants were busily threshing under the warm sun. In the distance to the southwest rose abrupt cliffs, part of the outer flanking of the Alps. On the approach to Amberieu, sweating farmers, working near the

road, answered our questions rather vaguely. ‘‘SaintExupéry?”’ repeated one of the men wonderingly. His face was upturned in thought. ‘‘Why—it’s a name that belongs to the region. . . . No, I don’t recall any particular man whereabouts

of that name. of the chateau.

... We don’t know the . . . Must be farther on.”

Peasants are not likely to be readers of literature but they know their countryside. Would not the radio have mentioned the name Saint-Exupéry both as flyer and writer in previous years? Most of these men looked as if they had lived during World War II. However, individual radios in France were probably very expensive and perhaps rare in humble homes. Undiscouraged, we passed through Ambérieu, undoubtedly little changed from the war days when SaintExupéry’s mother, a nurse, helped to care for the wounded. It looked like a practical, small business town, totally unpicturesque. It was the “déjeuner’’ hour when everything is closed. We continued on the main highway. As we passed one village after another with no chateau limned against the sky, we began to feel uneasy. Perhaps we had left the right town behind us. Dorothy said practically, “At home the thing to do would be to inquire at a postofice. Why not here?” We had just driven by a local postoffice, a very small yellow house standing by itself on one side of the road.

154 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

On the gentle slope opposite, stone houses huddled together. The roof and belfry of the old church rose above

the homes to hover over the ancient village. I ran back to knock and enter the door marked ‘“‘Bureau de Poste.” A sturdy man in his middle years, resembling a farmer, looked at me in surprise. Clothes, among other things, betray the foreigner. After a “Bonjour, Monsieur,” I asked if he knew the location of the Saint-Exupéry chateau.

He smiled broadly on answering, “You are right here in Saint-Maurice-de-Rémens and the chateau is almost behind you. Turn around! See the road across the way curving around the barn? Drive up that way a few hundred feet and there you are!” But being a man of the countryside, he felt no need to restrain his curiosity. “Why do you want to go there? No member of the family lives in the place any more. . . . Oh, so you knew the writer! Do you know his mother?... A little delicate-looking woman, using a cane, came in here one day and asked for the former postmaster. I told her I was his successor. What could I do for her? She announced herself as the Comtesse de Saint-Exupeéry, mother of the famous flyer and writer. Then she talked about their life here when he was a child.” The man began to think aloud. “You know I had read one of his books, the one called Lettres a4 sa Meére.

Ah! there is a tribute to a mother! Do you know that when he was flying at night or in serious danger, he thought of her and felt her strength? That touched me.’’ He shook his head thoughtfully and continued to speak of the tiny person. “She was here to sell the chateau. She couldn’t live in it alone. A Colonie d’Enfants of Lyons bought it and she returned to her home by the

Epilogue / 155

Mediterranean.

. . . Well,

don’t hesitate

to enter the

grounds. You'll find that the people at the chateau always welcome visitors. Au revoir, Madame.” We took the narrow country road, almost a lane, and came to wide-spreading fields and a partially grass-covered brook. Where was the chateau? We turned back slowly to stop alongside a grilled fence with rusty square posts indicating an entrance. Examining it carefully we made out on one of the posts the nearly invisible rusted letters Saint-Exupéry. To our right was a low brick building, probably former stables. Before us rose a large, three-storied, shabby, dark stone building, rectangular in shape, whose white shutters

were greatly in need of a coat of paint. At one end of the house was a chapel. Over its entrance hovered an infant in carved wood supported on either side by a flying angel. So that was the chateau! Tall leafy trees grew luxuriantly on either side of the property. Children’s voices drifted through to our ears. We walked around to the other side, identical with that

facing the rusty posts. In front of it extended the park, now a playground with the inevitable bare spots. Children were playing at the far end, supervised by two young women. A third young woman limped up to us. She introduced herself as Madame Garcia. Since I was the only one who spoke French easily, I told her why we were trespassing. She welcomed us and explained that in summer this was an outing place for children from lowly homes in Lyons. During the other months the place became a private school. Since the chateau was so costly to heat because of its enormous rooms and high ceilings, a long one-storied structure had been built on the left side of the park. It contained the

156 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

kitchen, refectory, sleeping quarters,

and a few class-

rooms. Would we like to enter the chateau? The door opened onto the central corridor dividing the house. It was large enough to be a drawing room. The soft green walls were bare, except for a plaque in white marble above a small wooden

table and two chairs, the

only furnishing of the “corridor.” We climbed the enclosed staircase on which Saint-Exupéry once crouched fearfully to overhear the grown-ups’ conversation. On the second floor we entered a room full of chairs facing a television set. Madame Garcia said that the Principal had an apartment to the left. It included Saint-Exupéry’s former room. Downstairs again, Madame Garcia called attention to the plaque. ‘‘When the Colonie d’Enfants opened the chateau as a place for children, there was quite a ceremony attended by many notable people. It was then that the plaque was hung.” We neared it to read: Homage to Saint-Exupéry Writer-Aviator Born June 20, 1900 Died for France July 31, 1944 In this house Antoine de Saint-Exupéry spent all his vacations when a schoolboy and a student. It was in the park bordering on the earth of men that he learned to love plants, animals and life in its most humble aspects. It was very near here at Ambérieu that he first flew in a plane and chose his vocation. Children, imitate him, have happy vacations, and afterwards don’t be afraid to try hard! Work with courage, so that like him, you become useful to your country and to other men.

It was a final goodbye to the person I had known briefly. The chateau, as a child’s kingdom, belonged to Saint-Exupéry’s nostalgic memoirs, a few pages in Wind,

Epilogue / 157

Sand and Stars. Now the big house was merely the shell of a former home where a family had lived happily together and then had disappeared from the place. Without sons of his own, we felt that Saint-Exupéry would have liked this ending for his beloved chateau—walls that encircle children. Quietly we turned away and drove on. It would soon be nightfall and we needed shelter before dark.

Riding in the dusk with eyes fixed on the road ahead,

my thoughts returned to the postmaster’s description of

Saint-Exupéry’s beloved mother, of whom I had once seen a picture in sitting posture with one of her children. It had appeared in a Montreal magazine. Her face showed determination and reserve. She had dark eyes and hair and was obviously small. At the time the picture made no immediate impact upon me, probably because she would not permit the photographer to see anything but a facade. Only this day’s visit brought back the recollection of it. Now in thinking back, it seems natural that first in North Africa and then as Director for Latécoére in Buenos Aires, Saint-Exupéry should have known nostalgia for his immediate family. In particular, he must have missed the very generous mother and her tender understanding. The longer he lived after reaching his mature development, the more he must have admired her mind, her independence, and her initiative. Her nursing in

World War II would have revealed these qualities to many others who had never known her before. Later in the summer

when I, too, read Letters to his

Mother, her capacity to understand this son, comprehend

158 / Saint-Exupéry in America, 1942-1943

and share his ideas, and show sympathetic interest had to exist or he could never have written so frankly and so affectionately. Consuelo, I also recalled, was petite, exquisite in features and bodily proportions, with dark eyes revealing independence and sometimes fire. Now I realized that physically she bore some resemblance to the flyer’s mother, although as a person she was far from being reserved. Her talk revealed a capacity for forming opinions on books and art, certainly a matter of importance to her husband. She did not mind saying that the translation of Terre des Hommes did not reveal the simplicity and grace of style of her husband. Saint-Exupéry had been known to remark that the ordinary, well-brought-up young Frenchwoman of good family who expressed no opinions or ideas outside of the round of her daily life would bore him as a life partner. He wanted a stimulating personality. Consuelo, at the opposite pole from the undesired type, must have seemed the answer to all he hoped for in a wife. Together they must have known some fascinating companionship before some years together revealed unknown sides of character, disparate outlooks, and the ineradicable stamp of a different upbringing in backgrounds of conflicting customs. A published snapshot of the two together at Chamonix in _ the early part of their marriage disclosed a very happylooking couple. All great artists are dominated by their calling. Many have said in writing that they live alone when it comes to their inner world of creation. Frustration in this work brings calamity of some sort. It would mean that a wife must learn to adapt to the artist’s hours of work. She might often have to accept periods of loneliness and

Epilogue / 159

waiting. For me, at last, the riddle of the marriage was

solved. It was not a question of two factors but of three —Saint-Exupéry’s love of his mother, love of the wife who must have seemed at first a reflection of his mother’s qualities, and last, his writing, to which he felt a sort of

divine responsibility and which also provided a living. My questions were at an end.

Appendix: Dates of the English Lessons and Visits

1942 AT

THE

BEVIN

HOUSE

NORTHPORT,

October

4 6

IN

ASHAROKEN

LONG

VILLAGE,

ISLAND

the first meeting with Saint-Exupéry tea with Consuelo de Saint-Exupéry

8 the first lesson 13 lessons 15 —_ lessons 20 __ lessons 22 lessons 29 lessons

27 November 160

3 5

‘the tea of Chapter III lesson the first dinner with Consuelo

Appendix: / 161

10 15 17 20 24 28 December

1 5 8 11

NEW

December

lesson short lesson—Henri Claudel illustrations of The Little Prince =the manuscript of The Little Prince lesson and first newspaper reading the apartment building on 59th Street, New York City Consuelo’s phone call a second dinner with Consuelo second newspaper reading and final lesson the last dinner at the Bevin House

YORK

20 26

CITY—BEEKMAN

Sunday dinner luncheon with Exupéry

PLACE

Consuelo

de

Saint-

1943 March

§

the last glimpse of Antoine de SaintExupéry

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Index

Ambérieu, 153, 154 Asharoken, 12, 14, 22

Commandant

Barrymore, Ethel, 129 Beekman Place, 129, 135, 139, 140;

advantages, dence, 129,

123, 135

135;

resi-

Bevin, Sydney, 11, 13 Bevin House: residence of SaintExupéry: description, 25, 52, 79, 85; French Mecca, 91; haven for writing, 85, 88, 91; historical background, 11, 12, 13; reminder of French home, 85, 107 Bevin Road, 22, 23 Bistro, 130, 131

D-, 52, 53

De Lamater, Cornelius H., 12, 13 (builder of the Bevin House) Du

Bois,

Phebe,

writer of war

M.D.,

effect

on

experiences,

41

Eaton’s Neck, 11 Ericsson, John, 13 Ernst, Max: background, 123; flight from Nazi France, 124; Spanish border scene, 125

Galantiére, Lewis, 18 Guatemala, 22, 29, 101 Hobart, John Sloss, 11 Lanux, Pierre de, 99, 100

Canadian Aviator: reports SaintExupéry in North Africa, 142, 143

Claudel,

Henri, 87, 88, 89

Claudel, Mme. Henri, 88, 91 Coloane, Francisco: importance in Chile, 150; reaction to Wind, Sand and Stars, 151

163

Latin

women:

mores,

91, 101

Laval, Pierre (channel for official papers), 124 Letter to a Hostage, life epitomized, 138 The Little Prince basic ideas: attainment (pride in flying), 147; beauty (desert,

164 / Saint-Exupéry in America stars), 148; the essential, 148; love, 148; responsibility, 148 created in Bevin House, 80, 85 illustrations: baobab, 76; littleboy pictures in abundance, 74, 75; old kings, 75, 76; placing of illustrations, 133 publicity in Montreal, 95

reflections of experiences: boa, 81, 146; death affecting children, author’s opinion, 81, publisher’s 81; important people, 82; prominent people, 147 reviewer's opinion, P. L. Travers’s, 144-45 workroom: intelligent disorder, 74; suitcase, 80-81 writing: method of, 77-78; creates intimacy with children, 81-82; appeal to adults, 82,

144-45;

revelation

of self, 82,

84

untold

(something out of reach),

84

Marseille, railroad station, 68, 69; conditions, 69, 70

Mary Poppins, 80, 145 Maurois, André, 52, 55, 57 Milwitzky, William: Spanish upper class mores, 101 Monitor, the, 13 Monteux, Pierre, 23

attitude regarding languages, 36, 38, 39; French, 36, 54; freedom for way of living and working, 116; writing (dedication), 115 characteristics: consideration for others, 83, 126, 134, 138, 140; courtesy, 80; impatience, 82, 146-47; irritation at disturbance, 26, 27, 93; modesty, 88; nervousness, 147

zens,

the

17;

Exupéry,

town

reaction

16-17;

to

citi-

Saint-

102, 103; the school,

iW Open

Letter where, readers’

to Frenchmen Every94-98 ; American reaction, 98

Pilote de Guerre, 82, 122; the autograph,

126,

Saint-Exupéry,

127

Antoine

140;

reserve,

consultant to U.S. War Department: frequent trips, 30; statement to Claudel, 90 description: informal (Northport), 24, 129; formal (New York), 129; as lecturer, 20-21 disappearance, 149-50 English lessons: direct approach, 80; explanations requested, 48; facility in reproducing sound, 40, 49, 131; knowledge of English at the time, 38; need for English, publisher’s view, 62-63; publisher’s opinion of a Northport teacher, 63; his requirements, 36; rigid reserve, 35; room, 35; text book,

42;

curious

results, 43-44, 46

flying: dedication to, 115, 116; early ambition, 54; combat

flight, 55 handicaps:

Northport:

80,

age,

119;

health,

41,

80, 113; stiff leg, 21, 45, 80, 123

as host: manner

toward Claudel,

88-89; Ernst, 123; Maurois, 53 as illustrator: talent and training, 75 influences dominating writer’s

life, 159 lecturer, 20, 21

life, epitomized (quotation), 138 life-partner, requirements for, 158

de

love: definition (quotation), 116; for wife, response to, 43, 115,

Index / 165 147-48 ; for his mother, 157-58 prison commander, 55-56 residences: Bevin House, 85; apartment in New York, 93; 35

Beekman

responsibility housekeeper,

Place,

for

129

others’

106;

needs:

Swarthmore

professor, 104-5; English tutor, desire to aid to better position, 118; continuance of lessons, 95; letter, 119, 140, 141; desire to pay adequately, 121; invitations, 52, 86, 119, 126

responsibility

to

France,

Open

Letter to Frenchmen Everywhere, 94, 96-98 social skill: the tea, 53; turning aside questions, 123 Spain and Spanish music, 57, 90 statements of: on Bevin House, 85, 88; boa, 81; as consultant to U.S. War Department, 90; on children and death, 81; on

education, 54; on flying, 54, 55, 87; on his illustrations, 7576; on illustrating, 75; on important people, 82; on languages,

38, 54; on

The

Little

Prince, 80; on placing illustrations, 133; on command of prison, 55, 56; on for English, 38; Africa, 57,90; on French, 36, 54; room, 85, 89, 133, ing, 77, 78

requirements on Spain and his usage of on his work134; on writ-

summer home: requirements, 30 tributes: from Coloane, 150-51; from a missionary, 150; from his tailor, 149 workroom: at Northport (advantages), 89; at Beekman Place

(the

room)

133,

(the table),

134

writer: needs of a, 30; responsibility to “hidden god” (quota-

tion), 115; writing hours, 77 Saint-Exupéry, Consuelo de adaption to husband’s writing hours, 104; ambition to write, 64; husband’s reaction, 64; appearance as Countess, 108, 111; in the country, 107; atti-

tude

toward

husband’s

flying,

13

characteristics: hysteria, 140; imperiousness, 45; superstitiousMesse LOssetempers L109 e110); terror of storm, 110; intelligence, 158; opinion of translations, 29; appearance, 27; voice, 28 dinner in New York: atmosphere, 132; bistro, her choice of, 13034; costume, 130; conversation with fellow student, 132; topic of conversation, 132 education at University of

Mexico,

31

expressing garding

husband’s opinion retutor, 61-62; Amer-

ican women, 42, 62 fear of husband’s departure war,

for

111

first glimpse of Saint-Exupéry, 31 flight from Paris, 65-71 househunter: at Northport, 30; in New York, 123 housekeeper’s opinion: of employer’s beauty, 108; her inconsiderateness, her human problems, 106-7; her physical problems, 107 loneliness: in Northport, 30; significant remark on, 59;

stranger

in own

land,

111

luncheon in New York, invitation to, 135; the meal, 136

manner:

lack

of inhibitions,

33, 45, 59, 64, 135-36,

29,

142:

friendliness, 61-63 pride in husband’s achievements: as famed aviator, 31; in New

166/ Saint-Exupéry in America York Times recognition, 94; in recognition of Wind, Sand and Stars, 29

story-teller, as graphic, 65-71 wardrobe and love of beautiful clothes, 66, 108

Saint-Exupéry, Marie de meaning to her son, 154, 157, 158; description by postmaster, 154; nurse, World War, 153; photo, implications of, 157-58; sale of Chateau, 154

Saint-Maurice-de-Rémens, 154; cha-

teau, 154, 155; plaque, 156; village, 154 Spain and North Africa, 57, 90 Travers,

P. L. (review): key to The Little Prince, 144; her letter, 145

Vermland, Wartime

13 regulations:

59, 60, 120

Asharoken,

Wartime teachers: situation Northport and State, 118

in

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BREAUXs

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LIBRARY

(Continued from front flap) a war hero who was in love with flying,

a writer driven to his work. Here we meet his few callers; his volatile wife;

their housekeeper. Here also are set forth his work habits, and his lofty statements that reveal the depths of thought and heart. Here, too, one finds Le Petit Prince in process, and discovers that

Saint-Exupéry loved and understood children and that he made his own watercolor illustrations for this famous book that speaks as well to adults. The man grows before our eyes. Through Adele Breaux’s eyes, in sum,

we come to know sides of a complex and multifaceted human being that are of great worth. With Saznt-Exupéry m America, she fills the gap in Saint-Exupéry’s biography in the best of ways,

by her personal memoir.

L.Ge/0-99522 ISBN 0-8386-7610-3 Printed in the U.S.A.

ee!

About the Author

Adéle Breaux was born in Portland, Oregon, at a time when youngsters were still told stories about pioneer days, when cougars roamed the forests, and when a high school education was a rare privilege. She wanted to become a teacher of French and graduated from Reed College, but began a singing career soon to be curtailed by the Great Depression. Beginning to teach in Southern Oregon, Miss Breaux had a season with a traveling opera company, then traveled and studied in Europe. On her return she accepted a position teaching foreign languages in the Northport, Long Island, High School. It was early in her Northport years that she taught some Exupéry.

English to Antoine de Saint-

Again the author interrupted her teaching, for three years of work in American Cultural Centers in Haiti and Chili in order

to know people of Spanish background. During this time she also traveled in South America and wrote articles for the Northport Journal. Returning to Northport, she spent alternate sum-

mers in Europe and Oregon, where she began translating the vital, off-the-beaten-path Chilean stories of Francisco Coloane. Retirement has meant the beginning of a new career for Adele Breaux. Unable to sever herself completely from the challenge of education, she has used some of her time to supervise practice teachers

for Adelphi

University.

But

the main

thrust of her energy has been devoted to setting down the account of her experience with Saint-Exupéry. She is now working on a tale of early Americana, stretching from the pioneer days of Oregon back to the origin of some early settlers from French Canada.

Fairleigh Dickinson University Press