She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘Well, I think I’ve reached the conclusion that the present situation is impossible,’ she said.

  ‘Impossible? Why so suddenly impossible? What’s happened now?’

  ‘That’s just it, nothing,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘Well, then, explain your meaning. I don’t understand.’

  She hesitated. Of course, he had never mentioned that he would one day leave his wife; he had never made any promises; in a sense, he was unassailable.

  ‘Are you really happy like this?’ said Elisabeth. ‘I put our love on a higher plane. What intimacy have we? We see one another in restaurants, in bars, and in bed. Those are just meetings. I want to share your life.’

  ‘Darling, you’re raving,’ said Claude. ‘No intimacy between us? Why, I haven’t a single thought that I don’t share with you. You understand me so wonderfully.’

  ‘Yes, I have the best part of you,’ said Elisabeth, sharply. ‘Actually, you see, we should have kept to what, two years ago, you called an ideological friendship. My mistake was to love you.’

  ‘But since I love you …’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. It was most irritating; she was unable to pin down any definite grounds for complaint against him without their seeming nothing but petty grievances.

  ‘Well?’ said Claude.

  ‘Well, nothing,’ said Elisabeth. She had put a world of misery into these words, but Claude did not choose to take notice of it. He looked round the room with a beaming smile; he felt relieved and was already preparing to change the subject when she hurriedly added: ‘Fundamentally you’re a very simple soul. You were never really aware that I wasn’t happy.’

  ‘You take pleasure in tormenting yourself,’ said Claude.

  ‘Perhaps that’s because I’m too much in love with you,’ said Elisabeth dreamily. ‘I wanted to give you more than you were prepared to accept. And, if one is sincere, to give is a way of insisting on some return. I suppose it’s all my fault.’

  ‘We aren’t going to question our love every time we meet,’ said Claude. ‘This sort of conversation seems absolutely pointless to me.’

  Elisabeth looked at him angrily. He could not even sense this pathetic lucidity that now made her so piteous. What was the good of it all? Suddenly, she felt herself growing cynical and hard.

  ‘Never fear. We shall never question our love again,’ she said. ‘That’s just what I wanted to tell you. From now on, our relations will be on an entirely different basis.’

  ‘What basis? What basis are they on now?’ Claude looked very annoyed.

  ‘Henceforth, I only want to have a peaceful friendship with you,’ she said. ‘I’m also tired of all these complications. Only, I didn’t think I could stop loving you.’

  ‘You’ve stopped loving me?’ Claude sounded incredulous.

  ‘Does that really seem so extraordinary to you?’ said Elisabeth. ‘Please understand me. I’ll always be very fond of you, but I shan’t expect anything from you, and as far as I am concerned, I shall take back my freedom. Isn’t it better that way?’

  ‘You’re raving,’ said Claude.

  Elisabeth turned scarlet with anger.

  ‘But you’re insane! I tell you that I’m no longer in love with you! A feeling can change. And you – you weren’t even conscious of the fact that I had changed’

  Claude gave her a puzzled look.

  ‘Since when have you stopped loving me? A few minutes ago, you said that you loved me too much.’

  ‘I used to love you too much.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure just how it all happened, but it’s true, things are not as they used to be. For instance …’ she added quickly in a slightly choked voice, ‘before I could never have slept with anyone but you.’

  ‘You’ve been sleeping with someone?’

  ‘Does that upset you?’

  ‘Who is it?’ said Claude inquisitively.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe me.’

  ‘If it’s true, you might have been loyal enough to tell me,’

  he said.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I am informing you. Surely you didn’t expect me to consult you beforehand?’

  ‘Who is it?’ repeated Claude.

  His expression had changed, and Elisabeth was suddenly afraid. If he was suffering, she would suffer too.

  ‘Guimiot,’ she said in a wavering voice. ‘You know, the naked messenger in the first act.’

  It was done; it was irreparable; it would be useless to deny it; Claude would not believe her denials – she didn’t even have time to think-she must go blindly ahead. In the shadows, something horrible was threatening her.

  ‘Your taste isn’t bad,’ said Claude. ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘About ten days ago. He fell madly in love with me.’

  Claude’s face became inscrutable. He had often showed suspicion and jealousy, but he had never admitted to it. He would far rather have been hacked to pieces than utter a word of censure, but that was of no reassurance to her.

  ‘After all, that’s one solution,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought it a pity than an artist should limit himself to one woman.’

  ‘You’ll soon make up for lost time,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Why, that Chanaux girl is just waiting to fall into your arms.’

  ‘The Chanaux girl …’ Claude grinned. ‘I prefer Jeanne Harbley.’

  ‘There’s something to be said for that,’ said Elisabeth.

  She clutched her handkerchief in her moist hands; now she could see the danger and it was too late. There was no way of retreat. She had thought only of Suzanne. There were all the other women, young and beautiful women, who would love Claude and who would know how to make him love them.

  ‘You don’t think I stand a chance?’ said Claude.

  ‘She certainly doesn’t dislike you,’ said Elisabeth.

  This was insane. Here she was trying to brazen it out and each word she uttered sucked her deeper into the slough of despond. If only they could get away from this bantering tone. She swallowed and with great difficulty said: ‘I don’t want you to think, Claude, that I wasn’t open with you.’

  He stared at her. She blushed. She did not know exactly how to go on.

  ‘It was really a surprise. I had always meant to speak to you about it.’

  If he kept looking at her in that way she would cry. Whatever the cost, that must not happen; it would be cowardly, she ought not to fight with a woman’s weapons. Yet, that would simplify everything. He would put his arm round her shoulders, she would snuggle against him and the nightmare would be ended.

  ‘You have lied to me for ten days,’ said Claude. ‘I could never have brought myself to lie to you for one hour. I put our relationship on such a high plane.’

  He had spoken with the dismal dignity of a judge, and Elisabeth rebelled.

  ‘But you haven’t been loyal to me,’ she said. ‘You promised me the best part of your life and never once have I had you to myself. You have never stopped belonging to Suzanne.’

  ‘You aren’t going to blame me for behaving correctly to Suzanne,’ said Claude. ‘Pity and gratitude alone dictated my behaviour towards her, as well you know.’

  ‘I don’t know anything of the kind. I know that you’ll never leave her for me.’

  ‘There was never any question of that,’ said Claude.

  ‘But if I were to raise the question?’

  ‘You’d be choosing a very strange moment,’ he said coldly.

  Elisabeth remained silent. She should never have mentioned Suzanne. She could no longer control herself, and he was taking advantage of this. She saw him exactly as he was, weak, selfish, self-seeking and eaten up with petty conceit. He knew his faults, but with ruthless dishonesty he wanted to give a faultless picture of himself. He was incapable of the slightest impulse of generosity or sincerity. She loathed him.

  ‘Suzanne is useful to your career,’ she said. ‘Your work, your ideas, your career. You never
gave me a thought.’

  ‘How contemptible!’ said Claude. ‘So I’m a careerist, am I? If that’s what you think, how could you ever have been fond of me?.’

  There was a sudden burst of laughter and footsteps echoed on the black tiled floor. Françoise and Pierre were arm in arm with Xavière, and all three seemed hilariously happy.

  ‘Look who’s here!’ said Françoise.

  ‘I’m very fond of this place,’ said Elisabeth. She would have liked to have hidden her face, she felt as if her skin were stretched to the point of cracking! it was drawn tight under her eyes and round her mouth and beneath it the flesh was swollen. ‘So, you’ve got rid of the bigwigs?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Françoise. ‘We just about managed it.’

  Why wasn’t Gerbert with them? Was Pierre suspicious of his charm? Or was it Françoise who feared Xavière’s charm? With an angelic and obstinate expression, Xavière smiled without uttering a word.

  ‘It was an undoubted success,’ said Claude. ‘The critics will probably be severe, but the applause was excellent.’

  ‘On the whole, it went off very well,’ said Pierre. He smiled warmly. ‘We must meet one of these days. We’ll have more time to spare now.’

  ‘Yes, there are a number of things I’d like to talk to you about,’ said Claude.

  Elisabeth was suddenly dazed by an access of suffering. She saw her empty studio where she would no longer wait for the ring of the telephone, the empty letter rack in the concierge’s office, empty restaurants, empty streets. This was impossible. She did not want to lose him. Weak, selfish, hateful, that was of no importance. She needed him in order to live. She would accept anything at all if she could keep him.

  ‘No, don’t do anything about Berger until after you have your answer from Nanteuil,’ Pierre was saying. ‘That would be unwise. But I’m sure he’ll be very interested.’

  ‘Ring up some afternoon,’ said Françoise. ‘We’ll arrange to meet.’

  They disappeared towards the back of the room.

  ‘Let’s sit here. It’s just like a little chapel,’ said Xavière.

  This excessively suave voice grated on the nerves like a fingernail scraping over silk.

  ‘That youngster is very sweet,’ said Claude. ‘Is that Labrousse’s new love?’

  ‘I suppose so. For someone who dislikes attracting attention as much as he, their entry was a bit rowdy.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Don’t let’s stay here,’ said Elisabeth nervously. ‘It’s horrible to feel them staring at our backs.’

  ‘They’re not paying any attention to us,’ said Claude.

  ‘It’s odious … all these people,’ said Elisabeth. Her voice broke. Tears rose to her eyes. She would not be able to hold them back much longer. ‘Let’s go to my studio,’ she said.

  ‘Just as you like,’ said Claude. He called the waiter and Elisabeth put on her coat in front of the looking-glass. Her face was distraught. In the depths of the glass she caught sight of the others. Xavière was talking. She was gesticulating, and Françoise and Pierre were looking at her as if fascinated. That really was too inconsiderate. They could waste their time on any idiot, but they were blind and deaf to Elisabeth. Had they been willing to admit her with Claude into their intimate life, had they accepted Partage? It was their fault. Anger shook Elisabeth from head to foot; she was choking. They were happy, they were laughing. Would they be everlastingly happy, with such overwhelming perfection? Would not they, too, some day drop into the depths of this sordid hell? To wait in fear and trembling, to call vainly for help, to implore, to stand alone in the midst of regrets, anguish and an endless disgust of self. So sure of themselves, so proud, so invulnerable. By keeping careful watch, could not some way be found to hurt them?

  Elisabeth stepped into Claude’s car without a word. They did not exchange a single sentence until they reached her door.

  ‘I don’t think we have anything left to say to each other,’ said Claude when he had stopped the car.

  ‘We can’t part like this,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Come up for a minute.’

  ‘What for?’ said Claude.

  ‘Come up. We haven’t really thrashed it out,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘You don’t love me any more, you think hateful thoughts about me. There’s nothing to discuss.’ said Claude.

  This was blackmail, pure and simple, but it was impossible to let him go-when would he come back?

  ‘You mean a great deal to me, Claude,’ said Elisabeth. These words brought tears to her eyes. He followed her. She climbed the stairs crying spasmodically, with no effort at self-control; she staggered a little, but he did not take her arm. When they had entered the studio, Claude began to pace up and down in a black mood,

  ‘You’re quite free not to love me any more,’ he said, ‘but there was something else besides love between us, and that, you should try to salvage.’ He glanced at the couch. ‘Did you sleep here, with that fellow?’

  Elisabeth had let herself drop into an arm-chair.

  ‘I didn’t think you would be angry with me for it, Claude,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose you over a thing like that.’

  ‘I’m not jealous of a second-rate little actor,’ said Claude. ‘I’m angry with you for not having told me anything. You should have spoken to me sooner. And, besides, tonight, you said things to me that make even friendship between us impossible.’

  Jealous, he was just plain jealous: she had wounded his male pride and he wanted to torture her. She was well aware of that, but it made matters no better, his steely voice was exacerbating.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ she repeated. She began to sob undisguisedly.

  It was stupid to abide by the rules, to play the game loyally; you got no thanks for that. You thought that one day all the hidden suffering and all the inner sensitivities and struggles would come to the surface, and that he would be overwhelmed with admiration and remorse. But no, this was just so much wasted effort.

  ‘You know that I’m at the end of my tether,’ said Claude. ‘I’m going through a spiritual and intellectual crisis that’s exhausting me. You were all I had to lean on, and this is the moment you have chosen!’

  ‘Claude, you’re unfair,’ she said weakly. Her sobs increased; it was an emotion which carried her away with so much violence, that dignity and shame became mere futile words, and she found herself saying anything. ‘I was too much in love with you, Claude,’ she said. ‘It’s because I was too much in love with you that I wanted to free myself from you.’ She hid her face in her hands. This passionate confession ought to call Claude to her side. Let him take her in his arms; let everything be blotted out! Never again would she utter a complaint.

  She looked up, he was leaning against the wall, the corners of his mouth were trembling nervously.

  ‘Say something to me,’ she said. He was looking viciously at the couch, it was easy to guess what he saw there; she should never have brought him here, the picture was too vivid.

  ‘Will you stop crying?’ he said. ‘If you treated yourself to that little pansy, it was because you wanted to. You no doubt got what you wanted.’

  Elisabeth stopped, almost choking in the effort; she felt as if she had received a direct blow on her chest. She could not bear coarseness, she was physically incapable of it.

  ‘I forbid you to speak to me like that,’ she said with violence.

  ‘I’ll speak to you in whatever way I choose,’ said Claude, raising his voice. ‘I find it amazing that you now take the line that you’re the victim.’

  ‘Don’t shout,’ said Elisabeth. She was trembling, it seemed to her that she was listening to her grandfather, when the veins on his forehead became swollen and purple. ‘I won’t allow you to shout.’

  Claude directed a kick at the chimney-piece.

  ‘Do you want me to hold your hand?’ he said.

  ‘Stop screaming,’ said Elisabeth, in an even more hollow voice. Her teeth were beginning to chatt
er, she was on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘I’m not screaming. I’m going,’ said Claude. Before she could move, he was outside the door. She dashed to the landing.

  ‘Claude,’ she called. ‘Claude.’

  He did not look back. She saw him disappear and the street door slammed. She went back into the studio and began to undress; she was no longer trembling. Her head felt as if it were swollen with water and the night, it became enormous, and so heavy that it pulled her towards the abyss – sleep, or death, or madness – a bottomless pit into which she would disappear for ever. She collapsed on her bed.

  When Elisabeth opened her eyes again, the room was flooded with light; she had a taste of salt water in her mouth; she did not move. Pain, still somewhat deadened by fever and sleep, throbbed in her burning eyelids and in her pulsing temples. If only she could fall asleep again till tomorrow-not to have to make any decisions – not to have to think. How long could she remain plunged in this merciful torpor? Make believe I’m dead – make believe I’m floating – but already it was an effort to narrow her eyes and see nothing at all. She rolled herself up tighter in the warm sheets. Once again, she was slipping towards oblivion when the bell rang shrilly.

  She jumped out of bed and her heart began to race. Was it Claude already? What would she say? She glanced in the looking-glass. She did not look too haggard, but there was no time to choose her expression. For one second, she was tempted not to open the door – he would think she was dead or had disappeared – he would be frightened. She listened intently. There was not a breath to be heard on the other side of the door. Perhaps he had already turned round, slowly; perhaps he was going down the stairs – she would be left alone – awake and alone. She jumped to the door and opened it. It was Guimiot.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘No, come in,’ said Elisabeth. She looked at him somewhat horror-stricken.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s noon, I think. Were you asleep?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth. She straightened the sheets and plumped up the bed; in spite of everything, it was better to have someone there. ‘Give me a cigarette,’ she said, ‘and sit down.’