She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said with a look of complete surprise.

  It was useless to try to anticipate Xavière’s greeting, one was always wrong. Françoise and Pierre stood rooted to the spot.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Pierre.

  Xavière’s throat swelled.

  ‘I’m moving,’ she said in a tragic voice. The scene was stupefying. Françoise thought vaguely of Aunt Christine whose lips must have already begun to tighten, but everything seemed trivial in comparison with the cataclysm that had ravaged this room as well as Xavière’s face. Three suitcases lay gaping in the middle of the room; the cupboards had disgorged on to the floor piles of crumpled clothing, papers, and toilet articles.

  ‘And do you expect to be finished soon?’ asked Pierre who was looking sternly at this havoc-stricken sanctuary.

  ‘I’ll never get finished!’ said Xavière. She sank into an arm-chair and pressed her fingers against her forehead. ‘That old hag …’

  ‘She spoke to me just now,’ said Françoise. ‘She told me that you could stay on for tonight, if that suits you.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Xavière. A look of hope flashed into her eyes and died immediately. ‘No, I ought to leave at once.’

  Françoise felt sorry for her.

  ‘But you aren’t going to find a room this evening.’

  ‘Oh, surely not,’ said Xavière. She bent her head and sat prostrated for some time. Françoise and Pierre stood as if spellbound, staring at her golden head.

  ‘Well, leave all that,’ said Françoise with a sudden return to consciousness. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go and look together.’

  ‘Leave this?’ said Xavière. ‘But I couldn’t live in this rubbish heap for even an hour.’

  ‘I’ll help you to tidy it up tonight,’ said Françoise. Xavière gave her a look of plaintive gratitude. ‘Listen to me. You are going to get dressed and wait for us at the Dôme. We’ll dash off to the private view and we’ll be back in an hour and a half.’

  Xavière jumped to her feet and clutched her hair.

  ‘Oh, I would so like to go! I’ll be ready in ten minutes. I just have to tidy myself up a bit.’

  ‘Aunt has already begun to fume,’ said Françoise.

  Pierre shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘In any case, we’ve missed the port,’ he said angrily. ‘Now, there’s no longer any point in getting there before five o’clock.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Françoise. ‘But the blame will fall on me again.’

  ‘Well, after all, you don’t give a damn,’ said Pierre.

  ‘You’ll smile at her winningly,’ said Xavière.

  ‘All right,’ said Françoise. ‘You’ll have to think of a good excuse for us.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ grumbled Pierre.

  ‘Then we’ll wait for you in my room,’ said Françoise.

  They went upstairs.

  ‘It’s an afternoon wasted,’ said Pierre. ‘There won’t be enough time left to go anywhere after we leave the exhibition.’

  ‘I told you she couldn’t learn how to live,’ said Françoise. She walked over to the looking-glass: with this upswept coiffure it was impossible to keep the back of one’s neck looking neat. ‘If only she doesn’t insist on moving.’

  ‘You haven’t got to move with her,’ said Pierre. He seemed furious. He had always been so cheerful with Françoise that she had almost reached the point of forgetting that he was not good-tempered, that his fits of anger were legendary at the theatre. If he took this affair as a personal offence, the afternoon was going to be grim.

  ‘But I will; you know that. She won’t insist, but she’ll sink into black despair.’

  Françoise glanced over the room.

  ‘My nice little hotel. Fortunately, I can rely on her inertia.’

  Pierre walked over to the pile of manuscripts stacked on the table.

  ‘You know,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll hang on to Monsieur le Vent. This fellow interests me, he ought to be encouraged. I’ll ask him to have dinner with us one of these evenings so that you can form some opinion of him.’

  ‘I also want to look at Hyacinthe,’ said Françoise. ‘I think it’s promising.’

  ‘Show it to me,’ said Pierre. He began to look through the manuscript and Françoise leaned over his shoulder to read with him. She was not in a good mood: alone with Pierre, she would have got the private view over and done with very quickly, but with Xavière about, everything tended to become burdensome, it made one feel that one was walking through life with clods of clay on the soles of one’s shoes. Pierre should never have decided to wait for her; even he looked as though he had got out of the wrong side of the bed. Nearly half an hour passed before Xavière knocked. Then they hurried downstairs.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ said Françoise.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Since we’ve only an hour,’ said Pierre, ‘let’s go to the Dôme.’

  ‘How cold it is,’ said Xavière, tightening her scarf round her face.

  ‘It’s only a few steps from here,’ said Françoise.

  ‘We haven’t got the same conception of distance,’ said Xavière whose face was screwed up.

  ‘Or of time,’ said Pierre dryly.

  Françoise was beginning to read Xavière very well. Xavière knew that she was in the wrong. She thought they were angry with her and she was taking the lead; and besides, her attempts at moving had worn her out. Françoise wanted to take her arm: wherever they had gone on Friday night, they had walked arm in arm, and kept in step.

  ‘No,’ said Xavière, ‘it’s much faster on one’s own.’

  Pierre’s face darkened again, Françoise was afraid he was going to lose his temper. They sat down at the back of the café.

  ‘You know,’ said Françoise, ‘this private view won’t be at all interesting. Aunt’s protégés never have an ounce of talent, she’s never been known to fail in that respect.’

  ‘I don’t care a hang about that,’ said Xavière. ‘It’s the reception I’m interested in. Pictures always bore me stiff.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve never seen any,’ said Françoise. ‘If you were to come with me to exhibitions, or even go to the Louvre …’

  ‘That wouldn’t make any difference,’ said Xavière. She made a wry face. ‘A picture is so arid, it’s completely flat.’

  ‘If you were to get to know a little about it, I’m sure you would enjoy it,’ said Françoise.

  ‘You mean I would understand why I ought to enjoy it,’ said Xavière. ‘I’d never be satisfied with that. The day when I no longer feel anything, I’m not going to look for excuses to feel.’

  ‘What you call feeling is really a way of understanding,’ said Françoise. ‘You like music, well then …!’

  Xavière stopped her short.

  ‘You know, when people speak about good and bad music, it goes right over my head,’ she said with aggressive modesty. ‘I don’t understand the first thing about it. I like the notes for themselves; the sound alone is enough for me.’ She looked Françoise in the eye. ‘The pleasures of the mind are repulsive to me.’

  When Xavière was being obstinate it was useless to argue. Françoise looked reproachfully at Pierre; after all, it was he who had wanted to wait for Xavière, he could at least join in the conversation, instead of entrenching himself behind a sardonic smile.

  ‘I warn you that the reception, as you call it, is not a bit amusing,’ said Françoise. ‘Just a lot of people exchanging polite remarks.’

  ‘Oh, still there’ll be a crowd, and excitement,’ said Xavière in a tone of passionate insistence.

  ‘Do you feel a need for excitement now?’

  ‘Of course I need it!’ said Xavière, and a wild untamed look glinted in her eyes. ‘Shut up in that room from morning till night, why, I’ll go mad! I can’t stand it there any more, you can have no idea how happy I’ll be to leave that place.’

  ‘Who prevents you from goi
ng out?’ asked Pierre.

  ‘You say that there isn’t any fun in going dancing with women, but Begramian or Gerbert would be only too glad to take you, and they dance very well,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière shook her head.

  ‘Once you decide to have a good time to order, it’s always pitiful.’

  ‘You want everything to fall into your lap like manna from heaven,’ said Françoise, ‘you don’t deign to lift your little finger, and then you proceed to take it out on everyone. Obviously …’

  ‘There must be some countries in the world,’ said Xavière, as if in a dream, ‘warm countries – Greece or Sicily – where it surely isn’t necessary to lift a finger.’ She scowled. ‘Here you have to grab with both hands – and to get what?’

  ‘You have to do the same out there,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s eyes began to sparkle.

  ‘Where is that red island that’s completely surrounded by boiling water?’ she said hungrily.

  ‘Santorin, one of the isles of Greece,’ said Françoise. ‘But that isn’t exactly what I told you. Only the cliffs are red, and the sea boils only between two small black islets thrown up by volcanic eruptions. Oh, I remember,’ she said, warming to her subject, ‘a lake of sulphurous water in the midst of the lava. It was all yellow and edged by a peninsula as black as anthracite and on the other side of this black strip the sea was a dazzling blue.’

  Xavière looked at her with rapt attention.

  ‘When I think of all you’ve seen,’ she said in a voice filled with resentment.

  ‘You consider that it’s quite undeserved,’ said Pierre.

  Xavière looked him up and down. She pointed to the dirty leather banquettes, the grubby tables.

  ‘To think, after seeing all that, that you can come and sit here.’

  ‘What good would it do to pine away with regrets?’ asked Françoise.

  ‘Of course, you don’t want to have any regrets,’ said Xavière. ‘You are so anxious to be happy.’ She looked away into space. ‘But I wasn’t born resigned.’

  Françoise was cut to the quick. Surely she couldn’t contemptuously push aside the acceptance of this happiness that seemed to her so clearly to be asserting itself. Right or wrong, she no longer regarded Xavière’s words as outbursts: they held a complete set of values that ran counter to hers. However much she refused to acknowledge this fact, its existence was awkward.

  ‘This life of ours is no resignation,’ she said sharply. ‘We love Paris, and these streets, and these cafés.’

  ‘How can anyone love sordid places, and hideous things, and all these wretched people?’ Xavière’s voice emphasized her epithets with disgust.

  ‘The point is that the whole world interests us,’ said Françoise. ‘You happen to be a little aesthete. You want unadulterated beauty; but that’s a very narrow point of view.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be interested in that saucer because it presumes to exist?’ asked Xavière, and she looked at the saucer with annoyance. ‘It’s quite enough that it’s there.’ With intentional naïveté she added: ‘I should have thought that when one is an artist, it is just because one likes beautiful things.’

  ‘That depends on what you call beautiful things,’ said Pierre.

  Xavière stared at him.

  ‘Heavens! you’re listening,’ she said, wide-eyed but gently. ‘I thought you were lost in deep thought.’

  ‘I’m paying close attention.’

  ‘You’re not in a very good mood,’ said Xavière, still smiling.

  ‘I’m in an excellent mood,’ said Pierre. ‘I think we’re spending a most delightful afternoon. We’re about to start off for the private view, and when we’re through with that, we’ll have just enough time to eat a sandwich. That works out perfectly.’

  ‘You think it’s all my fault,’ said Xavière, showing more of her teeth.

  ‘I certainly don’t think it’s mine,’ said Pierre.

  It was simply for the purpose of behaving disagreeably towards Xavière that he had insisted on meeting her again as soon as possible. ‘He might have given me a thought,’ Françoise reflected with bitterness; she was beginning to find the situation intolerable.

  ‘That’s true. When for once in a while you’ve got some free time,’ said Xavière, whose grin became more perceptible, ‘what a tragedy it is, if a little of it is wasted!’

  This reproach surprised Françoise. Had she once more misread Xavière? Only four days had passed since Friday and at the theatre, yesterday evening, Pierre had greeted Xavière most amiably. She would already have to be very fond of him to feel that she had been neglected.

  Xavière turned to Françoise.

  ‘I imagined the life of writers and artists to be something quite different,’ she said in a sophisticated tone. ‘I had no idea it was regulated like that – by the ring of a bell.’

  ‘You would have preferred them to wander about in the storm with their hair streaming in the wind?’ said Françoise, who felt herself grow utterly fatuous under Pierre’s mocking look.

  ‘No. Baudelaire didn’t let his hair stream in the wind,’ said Xavière. She continued more naturally: ‘What it amounts to is that, except for him and Rimbaud, artists are just like civil servants.’

  ‘Because we do a little work regularly every day?’ Françoise asked.

  Xavière pouted coyly.

  ‘And then you count the number of hours you sleep, you eat two meals a day, you pay visits, and you never go for a walk one without the other. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise …’

  ‘But do you consider that unbearable?’ asked Françoise with a forced smile. This was not a flattering picture of themselves which Xavière was showing them.

  ‘It seems queer to sit down every day at one’s desk and write line after line of sentences,’ said Xavière. ‘I admit that people should write, of course,’ she added quickly. ‘There’s something voluptuous about words. But only when the spirit moves you.’

  ‘It’s possible to have a desire for a piece of work as a whole,’ said Françoise. She felt a little inclined to justify herself in Xavière’s eyes.

  ‘I admire the exalted level of your conversation,’ said Pierre. His malicious smile was aimed at Françoise as well as at Xavière, and Françoise was disconcerted; was he able to judge her objectively, like a stranger, she who could never bring herself to keep the slightest thing from him? This was disloyalty.

  Xavière never batted an eyelash. ‘It becomes home-work,’ she said and she laughed indulgently. ‘But then that’s the way you always do things, you turn everything into a duty.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Françoise. ‘I can assure you that I don’t feel myself so particularly handicapped.’

  Yes, she would have it out with Xavière, once and for all, and she in her turn would tell her just what she thought of her; it was all very well to let her assume all these little superiorities, but Xavière was overdoing it.

  ‘Your relations with people, for example.’ Xavière counted on her fingers. ‘Elisabeth, your aunt, Gerbert, and so many others. I’d rather live alone in the world and keep my freedom.’

  ‘You don’t understand that to have a more or less regular way of life does not constitute slavery,’ said Françoise with irritation. ‘It’s quite of our own free will that we try not to hurt Elisabeth, for example.’

  ‘You give them rights over you,’ said Xavière disdainfully.

  ‘Absolutely none,’ said Françoise. ‘With Aunt, it’s a kind of cynical bargain because she gives us money. Elisabeth takes what she’s given, and we see Gerbert because we like to do so.’

  ‘Oh, he certainly feels he has rights over you,’ said Xavière in tones of assurance.

  ‘No one in the world is less aware that he has rights than Gerbert,’ said Pierre calmly.

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Xavière. ‘I happen to know otherwise.’

  ‘What can you possibly know?’ asked Françoise, intrigued. �
�You haven’t exchanged three words with him.’

  Xavière hesitated.

  ‘It’s one of those intuitions whose secret is known to superior persons,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Well, since you want to know,’ said Xavière with a transport of anger, ‘he looked like an offended little princeling when I told him last night that I went out with you on Friday.’

  ‘You told him!’ said Pierre.

  ‘We warned you to say nothing,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Oh, it slipped out,’ said Xavière nonchalantly. ‘I’m not accustomed to all this diplomacy.’

  Françoise exchanged a look of consternation with Pierre. Xavière had clearly done it deliberately, out of mean jealousy. She was not in the least absent-minded and she had stayed in the foyer only a very short while.

  ‘There you are,’ said Françoise. ‘We ought never to have lied to him.’

  ‘Well, who would have thought it?’ said Pierre.

  He began to nibble one of his nails, he seemed deeply concerned. This was a blow to Gerbert’s blind confidence in Pierre from which he might never recover. Françoise felt a lump in her throat when she thought of this anchorless little soul who was wandering about Paris at this very moment.

  ‘We’ve got to do something,’ she said nervously.

  ‘I’ll have a talk with him this evening,’ said Pierre, ‘but what is there to explain? Having chucked him isn’t so bad, but the lie seems so gratuitous.’

  ‘It always seems gratuitous when it’s discovered,’ said Françoise.

  Pierre looked severely at Xavière.

  ‘What exactly did you say to him?’

  ‘He was telling me how they all got drunk on Friday, with Tedesco and Canzetti, and what fun it was. I said that I regretted very much not having met them, but that we had stayed shut up in the Pôle Nord and hadn’t seen anything,’ said Xavière sullenly.

  She was all the more reprehensible, since it was she who had insisted on staying at the Pôle Nord all night.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all you said?’ asked Pierre.