The weather is terrible, my dearest love. The house is in the middle of a cloud and the rain is pouring down non-stop. I am in bed trying to work. But for the last forty-eight hours there has been no question of it. The moral state of F[rancine] worries me and I am obliged to look after her a little. I did not write to you yesterday because I went to Cannes to pick up Dolo who was going up to spend the weekend here. I had lunch in Cannes and we did not get back up until quite late. I knew that if I wrote to you today, you would not miss my letters.
Of course, don’t worry. Today things are much better and crises are inevitable. If I tell you about it, it is to let my heart speak, as we agreed. My heart, at the moment, is a bit loose. It only wants to be alone with you, and to forget. But that too is inevitable. When I came home yesterday I found your letter of Friday. And I was happy. Happy to know you better. But I stand by what I told you: go see a doctor. As for the play, I’m willing to take care of extra rehearsals. But if there aren’t many people coming, do you really think it will last much longer? And in that case, I’m angry at the idea that you’ll have to accept the Soldati story. We’ll talk about it.
On Friday I tuned in for the interview on The Righteous. I sent myself the entire program Rendezvous at Five o'clock*, which is calibrated, believe me. But nothing about The Righteous. Yesterday, on my way back from Cannes, my brother said to me as I opened the door, “You just missed a program on The Righteous!” Yes, I know that Orpheus is a success for you. I’ve heard about it and I wish your father wasn’t right and that it would make things easier for you. I’ve been thinking about it. The story of The Plague (the dialogues are by Pierre Herbart, a friend of mine) will be worth nothing for you (two or three plans) but if there is a need, tell me. I’ll reserve the question until you make up your mind. But the film should be shot in November, at the earliest. We’ll talk about it.
Ah my darling child, the idea of seeing you, of talking to you, of putting my hands on you, finally, after these cruel months… It’s raining all the water in the world right now. But this idea alone is enough to burn my cheeks. Do you still love me at least! Ah, I know it, I know it and my heart bursts! When I press the button of your elevator, only then, this tight heart that has not left me for three months will relax, then my blood will start to run freely again. I will see your face of joy, your serious face, your face of desire and voluptuousness, I will lose myself at last in the joys and the transports that you give me at every moment. I kiss you, I kiss you like at the beginning of the storm, my beloved, my tender, my brave one. See you soon. I’m coming, you see. And I love you with tenderness, with fury…
Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, March 12, 1950 [#245]
*Daily program by Pierre Divoire, on RTF (Paris-Inter).
