She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘Of course, that’s all,’ said Xavière ungraciously.

  ‘Well, perhaps it can still be straightened out,’ said Pierre, looking at Françoise. ‘I’ll say that it had been our firm intention to go home, but that at the last minute Xavière appeared to be so upset that we resigned ourselves to sitting up all night.’

  Xavière pursed her lips.

  ‘Either he’ll believe you or he won’t,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I’ll see to it he believes it,’ said Pierre, ‘at least, we have the advantage of never having lied to him before.’

  ‘It’s true that you’re a bit of a St John Chrysostom,’ said Françoise. ‘You ought to try to see him right away.’

  ‘And Aunt? Well, so much the worse for Aunt!’

  ‘We’ll call on her at six o’clock,’ said Françoise nervously. ‘Oh no, we’ve got to drop in, otherwise she’ll never forgive us.’

  Pierre got up. ‘I’ll ring him up,’ he said.

  He went off. Françoise lit a cigarette to keep her composure. Inside, she was trembling with rage; it was hateful to think of Gerbert being unhappy, and unhappy through some fault of theirs.

  Xavière tugged at her hair in silence. ‘After all, it won’t kill the little fellow,’ she said with barely restrained insolence.

  ‘I’d like to see you in his shoes,’ said Françoise bitterly.

  Xavière was taken aback. ‘I didn’t know it was so serious,’ she said.

  ‘You were warned,’ said Françoise.

  Silence became prolonged. A little terror-stricken, Françoise thought over this living catastrophe that had surreptitiously invaded her life. It was Pierre who, by his respect, by his esteem, had broken down the dikes within which Françoise had confined her. Now that she was let loose, how far would it all go? The day’s balance sheet was already respectable: the landlady’s anger, the private view already more than half missed, Pierre’s uneasy irritability, the quarrel with Gerbert. In Françoise herself existed this uneasiness that had settled on her a week earlier; perhaps it was that which frightened her most of all.

  ‘Are you angry?’ Xavière murmured. Her face of dismay did not soften Françoise.

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière softly; she looked down. ‘It’s just as well,’ she said in an even lower voice, ‘at least you’ll know what I’m worth, you’ll be disgusted with me. It’s just as well.’

  ‘That I should be disgusted with you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not worth having anyone take an interest in me,’ said Xavière with desperate vehemence. ‘Now you know me. I told you, I’m worthless. You ought to have left me in Rouen.’

  All the reproaches Françoise had on the tip of her tongue were futile in comparison with these impassioned self-accusations. Françoise was silent. The café was now filled with people and smoke. At one table a group of German refugees were attentively watching a game of chess; at a neighbouring table, alone with a glass of coffee, an eccentric woman who imagined she was a whore was making up to an invisible companion.

  ‘He wasn’t there,’ said Pierre.

  ‘You were away a long time,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I took the opportunity of going for a little walk. I wanted to get some air.’

  He sat down and lit his pipe: he seemed to have relaxed.

  ‘I’m going to leave,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Yes, it’s time to go,’ said Françoise.

  No one moved.

  ‘What I would like to know,’ said. Pierre, ‘is why you told him that?’

  He stared at Xavière with so keen an interest that it seemed to have swept away his anger.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Xavière once again. But Pierre did not give up so quickly.

  ‘Of course you know,’ he said gently.

  Xavière shrugged her shoulders despondently.

  ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘You had something in mind,’ said Pierre. ‘What was it?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Did you want to be unkind to us?’

  ‘Oh, how could you think that?’

  ‘You thought that this little mystery gave Gerbert a slight advantage over you, didn’t you?’

  Xavière’s eyes flashed with resentment.

  ‘I find it very irritating always to have to conceal my feelings,’ she said.

  ‘Is that the reason?’ said Pierre.

  ‘No, of course not. I told you it just happened, that’s all,’ she said with a tortured look.

  ‘You said yourself that this secret irritated you.’

  ‘But that’s beside the point,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise looked at the clock impatiently; Xavière’s reasons were of no consequence, her behaviour was inexcusable.

  ‘The idea that we owed some consideration to someone else annoyed you. I understand. It’s unpleasant to feel that you are facing up to people who aren’t free,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Yes, in a way,’ said Xavière. ‘And besides …’

  ‘And besides what?’ asked Pierre in a friendly tone. He looked as if he were quite ready to approve of Xavière.

  ‘No, it’s contemptible,’ said Xavière. She hid her face in her hands. ‘I’m contemptible. Leave me alone.’

  ‘But there’s nothing contemptible about it,’ said Pierre. ‘I would like to understand you.’ He hesitated. ‘Was it a little revenge because Gerbert hadn’t been nice the other evening?’

  Xavière uncovered her face: she seemed completely astonished.

  ‘But he was very nice, at least as nice as I was.’

  ‘Then it wasn’t in order to hurt him?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She hesitated and then taking the plunge, she said: ‘I wanted to see what would happen.’

  Françoise looked at her with increasing uneasiness. Pierre’s face reflected such an intense curiosity that it looked almost like affection. Did he excuse jealousy, perversity, selfishness to which Xavière had all but confessed? With what determination she would have fought such feelings had she felt them dawning in herself. And Pierre was smiling.

  Suddenly Xavière blurted out: ‘Why do you make me say all this? To despise me even more? But you can’t despise me any more than I despise myself!’

  ‘How can you think that I despise you?’ said Pierre.

  ‘Yes, you do despise me,’ said Xavière, ‘and you’re right. I don’t know how to behave! I make trouble everywhere. Oh! there’s a curse on me,’ she wailed passionately.

  She leant her head against the back of the banquette and turned her face towards the ceiling to prevent her tears from flowing. Her throat swelled convulsively.

  ‘I’m certain this whole incident will be straightened out,’ said Pierre in an urgent tone. ‘Don’t get so upset.’

  ‘It’s not only that,’ said Xavière. ‘It’s … everything.’

  She looked fiercely into space and said quietly: ‘I’m disgusted with myself. I loathe myself.’

  Whether she wished to be or not, Françoise was touched by her tone. She could feel that these words had not just come to her lips; she had torn them from the very depths of herself. For hours and hours during long sleepless nights she must bitterly have turned them over and over.

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ said Pierre. ‘We think so highly of you …’

  ‘Not now,’ said Xavière weakly.

  ‘Yes we do,’ said Pierre, ‘I can well understand that you should have had a brainstorm.’

  Françoise suffered a spasm of revulsion: she did not think so highly of Xavière, she did not excuse this brainstorm; Pierre had no right to speak for her. He went his own way without even looking at her and then would insist that she had followed him; this was just too presumptuous. She felt herself turning into a lump of lead from head to foot. This separateness hurt her cruelly, but nothing would induce her to set foot on this slippery slope of the imagination at the bottom of which yawned she knew not what abyss.

  ‘Moods and br
ainstorms,’ said Xavière, ‘that’s all I’m capable of.’

  Her face was blanched and purple rings were showing under her eyes. She was extraordinarily ugly with her red nose and her streaming hair that suddenly seemed tarnished. There could be no doubt that she was genuinely upset, but it would be too convenient if remorse were to obliterate everything, thought Françoise.

  Xavière continued, her voice dismally plaintive. ‘When I was in Rouen, people could still find excuses for me, but what have I done since I’ve been in Paris?’ She began to cry again. ‘I no longer feel anything, I no longer am anything.’

  She looked as if she were contending against some physical malady of which she was the helpless victim.

  ‘All that will change,’ said Pierre. ‘Trust us and we’ll help you.’

  ‘No one can help me,’ said Xavière in a burst of childlike despair. ‘I’m branded!’ Sobs choked her; sitting bolt upright, her face distorted in agony, she allowed her tears to flow freely, and at the sight of their disarming ingenuousness Françoise felt her heart soften. She wished she could find a gesture, a word, but that was not easy, she was returning from too far away. There ensued a long, weighty silence. In the café, between the tarnished mirrors, a weary day still hesitated to die. The chess players had not changed position. A man had come to sit down beside the lunatic woman: she seemed much less crazy now that her companion had found a body.

  ‘I’m such a coward,’ said Xavière, ‘I ought to kill myself, I ought to have done it a long time ago.’ She screwed up her face. ‘I will do it,’ she said, suddenly defiant.

  Pierre looked at her, perplexed and woebegone, and turned sharply to Françoise. ‘Well, don’t you see what a state she’s in? Try to calm her down,’ he said indignantly.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ said Françoise, whose pity immediately froze.

  ‘You ought to have put your arm round her a long time ago and said – said something to her,’ he added lamely.

  Mentally, Pierre enfolded Xavière in his arms and rocked her soothingly, but respect, decency, and strict convention paralysed them, his warm compassion could be embodied only in Françoise. Inert, frozen. Françoise gave not the faintest hint of a movement; Pierre’s imperious voice had drained her of her own will, but with all the strength of her stiffened muscles she shut herself off from any outside intrusion. Pierre, too, remained motionless, cluttered up with useless affection. For a moment Xavière’s agony continued through the silence.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ Pierre repeated gently. ‘You must trust us. Up till now you’ve lived haphazardly, but life is a big undertaking. We’ll talk it over together and make our plans.’

  ‘There’s no plan to make,’ said Xavière gloomily. ‘No, all I can do is go back to Rouen. That’s the best thing.’

  ‘Go back to Rouen! That really would be clever!’ said Pierre. ‘You can see that we aren’t angry with you.’ He cast an impatient look at Françoise. ‘Tell her at least that you’re not angry with her.’

  ‘Of course I’m not angry with you,’ said Françoise in a flat voice.

  With whom was she angry? She had the painful impression of being divided against herself. It was already six o’clock, but there was no question of leaving.

  ‘Stop being tragic,’ said Pierre. ‘Let’s talk sensibly.’

  There was something so reassuring, so steady about him, that Xavière calmed down a little: she looked at him with a sort of submissiveness.

  ‘What you need more than anything else,’ said Pierre, ‘is something to do.’ Xavière made a gesture of derision. ‘Not a job just to fill in time. I appreciate the fact that you are too exacting to be satisfied with disguising a void, you can’t merely accept something that’s just an amusement. You want something that will give your days some real meaning.’

  Françoise heard Pierre’s analysis with annoyance; she had never suggested anything but amusement to Xavière. Once again she had not taken her seriously enough. And now Pierre was trying to reach an understanding with Xavière over her head.

  ‘But I tell you I’m not good at anything,’ said Xavière.

  ‘But then you haven’t tried your hand at very much,’ said Pierre. He smiled. ‘I’ve got a good idea.’

  ‘What is it?’ she enquired.

  ‘Why don’t you go on the stage?’

  Xavière’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘On the stage?’

  ‘Why not? You have a very good figure, a keen sense of the effects of your attitudes and of facial expressions. That doesn’t necessarily mean that you have talent, but it’s a good reason for hoping so.’

  ‘I could never do it,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Wouldn’t it tempt you?’

  ‘Of course, but that doesn’t get me anywhere.’

  ‘You’re sensitive and intelligent – gifts that are not everyone’s,’ said Pierre. ‘They’re trump cards.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Dash it, you’ve got to work. You’ll come to the School. I take two courses myself, and Bahin and Rambert are as nice as can be.’

  A flash of hope flickered in Xavière’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll never manage it,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll give you lessons myself to help you out. I promise you, that if you have the faintest shadow of talent I’ll bring it out.’

  Xavière shook her head.

  ‘It’s a beautiful dream,’ she said.

  Françoise made an effort to be co-operative. It was possible that Xavière might be talented; in any case it would be all to the good if they could succeed in getting her interested in something.

  ‘You said that about your coming to Paris,’ she said. ‘And yet, you are here all right.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise smiled.

  ‘You’re so wrapped up in the present, that any future at all seems to you like a dream. It’s time itself that you mistrust.’

  Xavière smiled faintly.

  ‘It’s so uncertain,’ she said.

  ‘Are you in Paris or not?’ asked Françoise.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the same thing,’ said Xavière.

  ‘You only have to get to Paris once,’ said Pierre cheerfully. ‘But in the theatre, you’ll have to begin all over again each time. But you can rely on us. We have enough will-power for three.’

  ‘Alas!’ said Xavière smiling. ‘You’re bursting with it.’

  Pierre pressed home his advantage.

  ‘From Monday onwards, you’ll attend the miming classes. It’s just like the games you used to play when you were a little girl. You’ll be asked to imagine that you’re lunching with a friend, that you’re caught shop-lifting. You have to improvise the scene as well as act it.’

  ‘That must be good fun,’ said Xavière.

  ‘And then you’ll choose a part which you begin to work on immediately; that is, selections from it.’

  Pierre looked at Françoise questioningly.

  ‘What do you think we ought to suggest to her?’

  Françoise thought it over.

  ‘Something that doesn’t call for too much experience, but that doesn’t let her simply act with her natural charm. Mérimée’s l’Occasion, for example.’

  The notion amused her, perhaps Xavière would become an actress; at any rate it would certainly be interesting to try.

  ‘That wouldn’t be at all bad,’ said Pierre.

  Xavière looked happily from one to the other.

  ‘I would so love to be an actress! Could I act on a real stage like you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Pierre, ‘and perhaps by next year you’ll be ready for a small part.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Xavière, ecstatically. ‘Oh! I shall work. You’ll see.’

  Everything about her was so unpredictable, perhaps she would work, after all; Françoise once more began to take pleasure in the future she planned for her.

  ‘Tomorrow is Sunday, so that’s no good,’ said Pierre, ‘but on Thursday I can give you your first el
ocution lesson. Would you like to meet me in my dressing-room on Mondays and Thursdays from three to four?’

  ‘But that will put you out,’ said Xavière.

  ‘On the contrary, I shall find it most interesting,’ said Pierre.

  Xavière’s calm was completely restored, and Pierre was beaming. It had to be admitted that he had accomplished an almost gymnastic feat in pulling Xavière from the depths of despair to a state of confidence and joy. He had completely forgotten about Gerbert and the private view as well.

  ‘You ought to ring up Gerbert again,’ said Françoise. ‘It would be better if you saw him before the show.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Pierre.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ she said a little dryly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pierre reluctantly. ‘I’ll go.’

  Xavière looked at the clock.

  ‘Oh! Now I’ve made you miss the private view,’ she said penitently.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ said Françoise.

  On the contrary, it mattered a good deal. She would have to go the very next day to apologize to Aunt, and the apologies would not be accepted.

  ‘I’m ashamed,’ said Xavière softly.

  ‘But you mustn’t be,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s remorse and her resolutions had really touched her; she could not be judged by any rule of thumb. She put her hand on Xavière’s hand.

  ‘You’ll see, everything will be all right.’

  For a moment Xavière looked at her with devotion.

  ‘When I look at myself and when I look at you,’ she said fervently, ‘I’m ashamed!’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ said Françoise.

  ‘You’re perfect,’ said Xavière ardently.

  ‘Oh, that’s certainly not true,’ said Françoise. Formerly, these words would only have made her smile, but today they made her feel awkward.

  ‘Sometimes, at night, when I think about you,’ said Xavière, ‘it dazzles me so, I can’t believe that you really exist.’ She smiled. ‘And you do exist,’ she said with charming tenderness.

  Françoise had always known it. The love that Xavière bore her, she yielded to it at night, in the secrecy of her room; then no one could contend with her for the image she carried in her heart, and sitting comfortably in her arm-chair, her eyes fixed on space, she studied it in ecstasy. The flesh-and-blood woman who belonged to Pierre, to everyone, and to herself, could only perceive at odd moments faint hints of this jealous worship.