Lucien REBATET Autographed letter to his wife. Long letter from prison

  
The Autographes des Siècles bookstore has been specializing for many years in the sale of autograph letters and manuscripts. Autographed letter signed to his wife Véronique. Six pages in-4° on administrative paper from the Clairvaux prison. With the prison number (1724) and workshop number (Tnos III). "I also have the right to believe that I am paying for my taste for truth. Overwhelmed by the despair of imprisonment and lost hours, the author of Les Décombres writes a long and dense letter, with pathetic tones, to his wife.

Regretting the "betrayal" of Louis-Ferdinand Céline against him, Rebatet stubbornly defends his past anti-Semitic actions in the name of what he considers honor and truth. Without hope or future, dead to society and literature, the prisoner-author inexorably sinks into the depths of a meaningless life, where the days are only occasionally saved by reading the masterpieces of Dostoevsky. Initially sentenced to death and then pardoned in 1947 by Vincent Auriol, and sentenced to hard labor for life, Rebatet will be imprisoned in Clairvaux until July 1952.

"My dear little Véronique, Since I unfortunately did not see you today, I am sending you these lines for the 'multi ani'. It is primarily for tradition! But truly, I wish with all my heart that you continue to be in good health this year, and that you can have a little more money in front of you (that shouldn't be impossible).

As for the other wishes, alas! I am too directly involved. Among those condemned for life, we do not wish each other anything. And you, you are also somewhat condemned for life, due to widowhood, troubles, useless phone calls, visiting hours behind the bars, all the jokes that have been part of your life for more than three and a half years.

I only received your letter from Monday last night; your response to my letters from last Sunday has not yet arrived; there is a huge delay in the mail. You kindly tell me the traditional words. In truth, I no longer expect anything from a new year. There is no way, the last remnants of hope have disappeared. One cannot live indefinitely on hopes that remain as vague and insubstantial.

One must shrivel in resignation; it is hardly in my nature, as you know, it is the slope of dullness, but there is nothing else to do. There is hardly any need to tell you that, without your visit, this day of January 1 has been the most dismal, so empty, so idle, under the rain or in the noise and smoke. You asked me to come to terms with not seeing you today. I have no choice but to do so.

But it is the disappointments that pile up one after another. There is only that, boredom, the forever lost time that passes with an inexorable insipidity. This, little by little, drives you, ages you, crushes you. And it is fatal that it should be so. The moral support I receive is too rare.

I do not blame you; you do everything you can, but you yourself are too little supported. Without anything administratively changing, my situation, even in Clairvaux, could be less dismal if I had family and friends who would take charge of part of the packages, which would allow you to visit me, for example, twice a month, if I were occasionally sent magazines, books that would reconnect me a little to what was my life, to devote some studies at least part of this horrifically wasted time. You have remarkably demonstrated to me that, practically, no one cares about me, that my debt of gratitude will be very light! You have criticized the quality of my friendships. I am willing to admit that this is largely true. You have mostly reproached me, in essence, for not having cultivated enough "successful" people. But that is to judge my character, my "morality," and my politics.

I take the case of R. He showed me esteem and kindness because I spoke properly about what he was doing, that I supported him quite usefully. But there was too fundamental an antinomy between our natures, our conceptions, for me to genuinely hope for his friendship. Honestly, what would you have thought of me if I had been like him, in 1940, from the small clan that fled its unhappy country, with ladies born into families of rabbis or diamond merchants?

To truly be with certain people, one had to build one's life on cynicism, a greed we can envy, even admire, that may be the only recipes for happiness, but of which neither you nor I are capable. Since I reached adulthood, I have always sacrificed money, positions, comfort, and flattering relationships to the ambition of leaving behind a few truthful pages on my time that can therefore be reread in sixty years.

It seems to me that this is why you have become attached to me because it is neither my charms nor my amenities that I could invoke, is it? I willingly concede that I have been more naïve than permissible; I will explain this publicly one day if I do not die here.

But I have the right to believe that I am also paying for my taste for truth, a truly exorbitant price, since it is not even about my freedom, my pleasures, but my health, my talent that every day becomes more cruelly compromised. This is what everyone has forgotten. I had predicted it, I wrote to you; I am not surprised. But I cannot hide from you that this indifference greatly contributes to darkening my life, to breaking the forces that I had left. You must feel some satisfaction in seeing that you were right about the doctor.

Since he ultimately let me down. I certainly do not make a drama out of this betrayal; I take it quite philosophically; I have my shoulders so loaded, and I have gotten so used to it! You must, however, understand that this is still a little sadness for me, that if the doctor had remained faithful, it would have been in my null and gray life a small positive element. For more than two years, the letters from the Doctor had been a significant intellectual stimulant for me (it is not my fault if I am an intellectual). The doctor has grown tired.

It is clear; for everyone, I am crossed off the papers, finished, at the bottom of my hole, and it is becoming increasingly accurate. You will agree that it is a very despairing sensation, and that does not compensate for the small satisfaction of sometimes saying to oneself: "I screw them." I do not understand what you want to tell me by writing to me last Monday "in six months at most." I imagine it is a little word of comfort that you wanted to slip to me for the New Year, like a sweetness in a package.

But in all sincerity, my dear, it is unnecessary. Because it can no longer "take." Put yourself in my place! If it "took," it would be very regrettable because my imagination might start to work, ultimately making a new jump, a little lower into the hole. I am willing to hope that your current efforts will not be in vain, that you will achieve some small result. But so small according to the most favorable forecasts! I note that the written testimonies, judicial, diplomatic, financial, etc.

, of the injustice of which we are victims, I and a certain number of others, are accumulating in an increasingly impressive way. But how is this vigorous concert practically translated? I am still waiting for the eminent jurist, the lecturer, the lawyer who knows how to demonstrate that I served and followed a legal government, that the judgment that struck me is null in real law, but who will also come to tell you: Madame, your husband is one of those victims.

What can I do to lighten his fate? Historically speaking, my situation is becoming unbelievable; legally as well after so many verdicts that you know as well as I do, so many releases, etc. But it is an absurdity that endures. And in the meantime, I am going little by little, with what remains of my future. My dear Minette, what you wrote to me on Monday about your situation squeezes my heart.

That you can no longer even acquire the essentials for yourself, that you are increasingly reduced to this existence of poverty. And to think that if I were outside, in 15 days, I could change that completely! I am very troubled about you. Where will this lead you? I fear that you are living on illusions. You will not be able to hold on much longer like this.

There must still be remedies. How I wish that after obtaining a positive or negative result from your current efforts, you could finally, for a few months, take care of yourself, solely.

I will dedicate a few lines to a less distressing subject. I saw in an illustrated magazine that there is currently, at the Petit Palais I believe, an exhibition of the most beautiful paintings from the Pinakothek in Munich, like those from Vienna last year. I urgently ask you to inquire right away about the duration of this exhibition, which must have been open for some time already, and to dedicate two or three hours to it as soon as possible.

The Pinakothek was one of the most beautiful museums in the world. I saw it extensively in the winter of '37 while you were at the Hotel du Mont-Blanc. You may never have the chance to see these paintings again. I want you to have the memory of them like I do, so that we can talk about them together one day.

I especially recommend the Rubens, the most beautiful existing collection, The Battle of the Amazons, The Abduction of the Daughters of Leucippus, The Judgment of the Innocents. After detailing the treasures of the Pinakothek exhibited in Paris, the Rembrandts, Dürers, and Cranachs, "Of very German taste, but so filled with fantasy," but also canvases by Tintoretto, Tiepolo, Goya, Greco, Botticelli, the Flemish primitives, etc. My pictorial memory is still quite good." Rebatet concludes the first part of this letter initiated on the 1st.

I will write to you tomorrow morning. Good evening, my dear Minette, I kiss you. My dear little Véronique, I continue my letter from last night. I will scrupulously take a remedy for the tension if you send me one on Chaucharol's prescription.

But know that it is almost useless to worry about my health as long as my living conditions cannot be changed, and that I cannot have my teeth repaired. The unfortunate filling I had put in last year is falling apart.

I have a dull toothache two days out of three. You sometimes wonder why I never tell you anything about my daily life.

It is that it is indescribable under the current circumstances, in any case. All I can tell you is that, broadly speaking, from 7 am to 7 pm, it is impossible for me to do anything. Very often, I end up huddled in my corner, dozing off as best I can, because it is still the best solution. What is annoying is that in these cases, I can no longer sleep at night. You must be tired of hearing my moans, and I am myself tired of pushing them.

But I have so little subject for conversation! I end up thinking it would be more dignified to shut my mouth, even with you. As I have already said, the only pleasure of my existence recently has been reading Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov. I have realized how much a great read, I mean that of a great book, can help me detach from my sad "environment," help me overcome it.

But this increases my resentment against the indifferent who could alleviate my fate by replenishing me a little with intellectual food. I would have loved, this winter, to fully delve into the research on Dostoevsky, which I have not done in over twenty years, and for which I am in remarkably receptive dispositions. Would there be any way to obtain from a generous donor The Idiot and Demons, in the N. edition, the only complete and good one, as well as the best French biography of Dostoevsky? I had left a few lines on this page, hoping to have your response to my letters from Sunday, but the mail is being delivered right now, and there is nothing for me. I would have truly been spoiled for the "holidays.

" I know it is not your fault; there is a bottleneck of letters. Thank goodness you wrote me a little note on Monday without waiting for my letters; otherwise, I would have spent the whole week without any news! I certainly count among those who receive the least mail. Please do not fail to send me two little notes per week. Try to come and see me one of these Sundays.

It is not so much that I am impatient to have details about your efforts, but I would like to see you. Try to keep warm, take care of yourself, do not take any risks. We are becoming increasingly unhappy with each other. How far will this go? Quickly respond to these letters, so we can restore normal correspondence.

Do not forget to go to the exhibition at the Pinakothek. I love you with all my heart, my dear Minette, but our shoulders are truly too loaded. I no longer live; I drag myself. I kiss you longingly, but sadly.

In 1942, Lucien Rebatet published. Pinacle, a pamphlet of anti-Semitic abjection. Critic, writer, journalist, his lines ooze, during the Vichy hours, a furious hatred of the Jews, accusing them of the national debacle of 1940.

While Nazi Germany collapses, Rebatet flees to Germany and joins Sigmaringen with other collaborators and exiles, notably Louis-Ferdinand Céline. He is arrested in Austria on May 8, 1945, the very day of the armistice, and tried. Rebatet is sentenced to death. Thanks to a petition from writers including the names of Camus, Mauriac, Paulhan, Bernanos, Aymé, and Anouilh, Rebatet is pardoned on April 12, 1947, by President Vincent Auriol. His death sentence is commuted to hard labor for life.

He finishes in prison a novel begun in Sigmaringen, Les Deux Étendards, published by Gallimard in 1952 with the support of Jean Paulhan. This work remains considered a masterpiece by many readers and critics. François Mitterrand reportedly said about it, "There are two kinds of men: those who have read Les Deux Étendards and the others. The Gallery Autographes des Siècles specializes in the sale and expertise of autograph letters and manuscripts from the great personalities of past centuries. We accept the following payment methods: Bank transfers and checks.

The prices indicated are in euros and are net. We can also proceed with shipments by private carrier at your request. In accordance with the customs of the International League of Antiquarian Book Sellers, we accept a return guarantee within 14 days. Return shipping costs are the responsibility of the buyer.

All the items offered are originals, and we guarantee their authenticity. Our invoices serve as proof of authenticity for the items sold. However, at your request, we can issue a certificate of authenticity for an additional fee.