She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  Pierre tenderly put his arm round Françoise’s shoulders and they went up to the first floor. It was now daylight. Everyone’s face was haggard. Françoise opened the bay window and stepped out on to the flat roof. The cold gripped her. A new day was beginning.

  ‘And now what is going to happen?’ she thought.

  But whatever happened, she could not have decided in any other way than she had. She had always refused to live among dreams, nor would she agree now not to imprison herself in an incomplete world. Xavière existed and was not to be refuted, all the risks involved in her existence had to be accepted.

  ‘Come inside,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s too cold.’

  She shut the window again. Tomorrow perhaps might bring suffering and tears, but she felt no compassion for that tormented woman whom she was to become again so soon.

  She looked at Paule, Gerbert, Pierre, Xavière. She felt nothing but an impersonal curiosity, and a curiosity so violent that it had the warmth of joy.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Naturally,’ said Françoise, ‘the character is not brought out quite clearly enough, you’re giving much too much of your own self; but you do feel the character; all the finer shades are correct.’ She sat down on the edge of the couch beside Xavière and seized her by the shoulders. ‘I solemnly swear to you that you can do that scene for Labrousse. You’re good, you know; you’re really good.’

  It was a triumph even to have persuaded Xavière to recite her monologue; she had had to be coaxed for an hour and Françoise felt completely exhausted; but it was useless if she could not now persuade her to work with Pierre.

  ‘I don’t dare,’ said Xavière in despair.

  ‘Labrousse is not so frightening,’ said Françoise with a smile.

  ‘But he is!’ said Xavière. ‘As a teacher, he frightens me.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Françoise. ‘You’ve been working on this scene for over a month now. You’re turning into a neurasthenic, and you’ve got to get out of it.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like better,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Listen, you can trust me,’ said Françoise, with great warmth. ‘I wouldn’t tell you to chance Labrousse’s opinion if I didn’t think you were ready. I’ll take the responsibility.’ She looked Xavière in the eyes. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Xavière, ‘but it is perfectly horrible to feel that you are being judged.’

  ‘If you want to work, you must get rid of all false pride,’ said Françoise. ‘Be brave: do it before you even start on your first lesson.’

  Xavière thought it over.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said with a look of conviction. Her eyelids fluttered. ‘I do so want you to be a little satisfied with me.’

  ‘I’m sure you will become a real actress,’ said Françoise tenderly.

  ‘That was a good idea of yours,’ said Xavière, her face brightening. ‘The end is much more effective if I’m standing up.’

  She rose and recited with vivacity: ‘If this twig has an even number of leaves, I shall give him the letter … Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen … even.’

  ‘You’ve got it perfectly,’ said Françoise gaily.

  The inflection in Xavière’s voice and her facial expressions were still only hints, though natural and charming. ‘If only it were possible to instil a little determination into her,’ thought Françoise: it would be so wearing if she had to be spoon-fed to success.

  ‘There’s Labrousse,’ said Françoise, ‘he’s scrupulously punctual as usual.’

  She opened the door, she had recognized his step. Pierre smiled cheerfully.

  ‘Greetings!’ he said.

  He was weighed down by a heavy camel-hair overcoat that made him look like a teddy-bear.

  ‘Oh, what a boring time I’ve had! All day long I’ve been going through accounts with Bernheim.’

  ‘Well, we certainly haven’t wasted our time,’ said Françoise. ‘Xavière rehearsed her scene from l’Occasion for me. You’ll see how well she’s worked.’

  Pierre looked encouragingly at Xavière.

  ‘I’m at your disposal,’ he said.

  Xavière was so afraid of venturing out of doors that she had finally consented to take her lessons in her room; but she did not budge.

  ‘Not now,’ she implored. ‘Can’t we wait for a while?’

  Pierre looked questioningly at Françoise.

  ‘Would you mind if we stayed here for a little?’

  ‘Stay until six-thirty,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, no more than a half-hour,’ said Xavière, looking at Françoise and Pierre in turn.

  ‘You look a little tired,’ said Pierre.

  ‘I think I’ve caught a chill,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s the weather.’

  It was the weather, but it was also due to lack of sleep; Pierre was blessed with an iron constitution and Xavière was able to catch up on her sleep during the day; both of them gently teased Françoise if she wanted to go to bed before six o’clock.

  ‘What did Bernheim have to say?’ she asked.

  ‘He spoke to me again about that plan for a tour,’ said Pierre; he hesitated a moment. ‘Of course the figures are very tempting.’

  ‘But we aren’t in such need of money,’ said Françoise quickly.

  ‘A tour? Where?’ said Xavière.

  ‘Greece, Egypt, Morocco,’ said Pierre. He smiled. ‘The day we do that, we’ll take you with us.’

  Françoise shivered; they were only building castles in Spain, but it was annoying that it should have occurred to Pierre to put them into words: his was a ready generosity. If ever this tour were to take place she was fiercely determined to go alone with him; the company had to be dragged about with them, but that did not count.

  ‘That won’t be for a long time,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think it would be so terrible if we allowed ourselves a short holiday?’ said Pierre coaxingly.

  This time a violent storm shook Françoise from head to foot; Pierre had never even envisaged this idea; now he was well away. Next winter his plays would be produced, his book would be published, and he had a whole heap of plans for the development of the Dramatic School. Françoise was so desperately anxious for him to reach the peak of his career, and at last give his work its definitive form, that she had difficulty in mastering the tremor in her voice.

  ‘This is not the moment,’ she said. ‘You know perfectly well that in the theatre it is so much a question of seizing the opportunity. After Julius Caesar, your next season will be impatiently awaited. If you let a year go by, people will be thinking about something else.’

  ‘Your words are golden, as always,’ said Pierre with a shade of disappointment.

  ‘How sensible you are!’ said Xavière; her face expressed genuine but shocked admiration.

  ‘Oh, but we’ll surely do it some day,’ said Pierre cheerfully. ‘It will be so nice when we land at Athens, or Algiers, to play in their moth-eaten little theatres. At the end of the show, instead of going to the Dôme, we’ll go and he on the mats inside a Moorish café and smoke kief.’

  ‘Kief?’ said Xavière, fascinated.

  ‘It’s an opiate plant that they grow over there; it seems that it induces enchanting visions’; and he added with a disappointed air, ‘but then – I’ve never tried it.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me about you,’ said Xavière with affectionate indulgence.

  ‘It’s smoked in nice little pipes that the shopkeepers make to order for you,’ said Pierre. ‘You’d be proud to have a little pipe of your own.’

  ‘I would certainly have visions,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Do you remember Moulay Idriss?’ said Pierre smiling at Françoise. ‘When we smoked that pipe which those Arabs – who were most certainly riddled with syphilis – passed around from mouth to mouth?’

  ‘I remember very well,’ said Françoise.

  ‘You were scared,’ said Pierre.

  ‘You
weren’t too happy about it yourself,’ said Françoise.

  She had difficulty in getting the words out, she was so tense with emotion. Still, these were far-off plans and she knew that Pierre would decide nothing without her consent. She would say no: that was simple, there was nothing to worry about. No. No, they would not leave next winter; no, they would not take Xavière with them. No. She shivered; she must be feverish, her hands were moist and her whole body was on fire.

  ‘We’ll go and work,’ said Pierre.

  ‘I’ll do some work, too,’ said Françoise.

  She forced herself to smile. They must have been aware of the fact that something unusual was going on inside her; there had been a hint of embarrassment. Usually, she had better control over herself.

  ‘We still have five minutes,’ said Xavière with a sullen smile, and she sighed: ‘Only five minutes.’

  Her eyes turned again to Françoise’s face, then rested on her hands with their tapering fingernails. In the past, Françoise would have been moved by that fervent if furtive look, but Pierre had pointed out to her how Xavière often made use of this excuse when she felt overwhelmed with affection for him.

  ‘Three minutes,’ said Xavière; she was now staring at the alarm clock, and reproach was barely disguised beneath regret.

  ‘I don’t think I grudge my time,’ thought Françoise; evidently by comparison with Pierre, she seemed rapacious; of late, he hadn’t been writing at all, he was wasting himself unconcernedly. She could not compete with him: she did not wish to. Once again, a burning shiver ran through her.

  Pierre stood up. ‘Shall I come back at midnight and pick you up?’

  ‘Yes, I shan’t move,’ said Françoise. ‘I’ll expect you for supper.’ She smiled at Xavière. ‘Be brave. It will soon be over.’

  Xavière sighed. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Till tomorrow, then,’ said Françoise.

  She sat down at her table and joylessly looked at the blank sheets. Her head was heavy, and she ached all down her neck and back. She knew that she would work badly. Xavière had again nibbled off a half-hour: it was terrible, the amount of time she devoured. There was no longer any leisure or solitude, or even simple rest; one reached a state of inhuman tension. No, she would say no; with all the strength at her command she would say no; and Pierre would listen to her.

  Françoise felt herself growing weak, something snapped inside her. Pierre would easily give up this trip, he wasn’t so terribly keen on it; and then what? What good would it do? What was agonizing was that he had not, of his own accord, faced up to this proposal. Did he value his work so little? Had his dilemma given way to complete indifference? It was senseless to foist on him from without the semblance of a faith he no longer possessed. What use was it to try to achieve something for him, if it did not carry him along with it and was achieved in spite of him. The decisions Françoise expected of him must come from his own will; all her happiness rested on Pierre’s free will, and over that she had no hold.

  She shuddered. Someone was running up stairs and the next moment knocks shook the door.

  ‘Come in!’ she called.

  Their two faces appeared together in the doorway, both smiling. Xavière had tucked her hair under a big plaid cowl: Pierre was holding his pipe in his hand.

  ‘Would you really be cross with us if we went for a walk in the snow instead of doing the lesson?’ he said.

  Françoise’s heart was in her mouth. She had taken such pleasure in imagining Pierre’s surprise and Xavière’s satisfaction at the praise he would bestow on her. She had tried with all her heart to make her work; she really was a fool, they never took the lessons seriously, and they still expected her to take the responsibility for their laziness.

  ‘That’s your concern,’ she said. ‘I have nothing to do with it.’

  Their smiles vanished; this serious voice had been unexpected.

  ‘Are you really cross with us?’ said Pierre unabashed.

  He looked at Xavière, who returned the look uncertainly; they had the appearance of two guilty people. For the first time, because of the complicity wherein Françoise was confining them, they were standing up to her like a pair of lovers. They felt it themselves, and they were ill at ease.

  ‘No, no,’ said Françoise, ‘have a nice walk.’

  She shut the door a little too quickly, and stood leaning against the wall while they went downstairs without speaking. She could see their guilty faces; they were certainly not likely to work, she had only ruined their walk; a kind of sob shook her. What good was it? She had only succeeded in poisoning their pleasures and making herself hateful in her own eyes; she could not will their actions – that was a dead certainty. Suddenly she threw herself face down on the bed and her tears flowed: it was too painful, this rigid will she persisted in preserving in herself. She had only to let things take their own course, and she would see what would happen.

  ‘Well see what will happen,’ Françoise said aloud; she felt utterly at the end of her strength, all she longed for was that blissful peace that falls in white flakes on the weary traveller. She had only to give up everything – Xavière’s future, Pierre’s work, her own happiness – and she would know what true peace was; she would be protected from the palpitations of her heart, the spasmodic contraction of her throat, and the terrible dry burning at the back of her eyeballs.

  All she had to do was to make the simplest of gestures – open her hands and let go her hold. She lifted one hand and moved the fingers of it; they responded, in surprise and obedience, and this obedience of a thousand little unsuspected muscles was in itself a miracle. Why ask for more? She couldn’t make up her mind to let go her hold. She had no fears for tomorrow, there was no tomorrow; but she saw herself surrounded by a present so naked, so glacial, that her heart failed her. It was like the time in the big café with Gerbert: a scattering of individual instants, a worm-like wriggling of continual gestures and incoherent images. Françoise jumped up, it was unbearable; any suffering, no matter what, was better than this hopeless abandonment in the very centre of void and chaos.

  She put on her coat and fitted her fur toque close down over her ears; she must pull herself together: she needed to commune with herself, she ought to have done so long ago instead of throwing herself into her work whenever she had a spare moment. Tears had burnished her eyelashes and darkened the rings under her eyes. It would be easy to repair the damage, but it was not even worth the effort; between now and midnight she would not see a soul, she wanted to satiate herself with solitude during all these hours. For a moment she stood before the looking-glass, staring at her face, it was a face which conveyed no meaning; it was stuck on her head like a label: Françoise Miquel. Xavière’s face, on the contrary, was the source of inexhaustible conjecture: that was unquestionably why she smiled to herself so mysteriously in mirrors. Françoise left her room and went downstairs. The pavements were covered with snow; the cold was biting. She boarded a bus. To recapture her solitude, her freedom, she must escape from this neighbourhood.

  With the palm of her hand, Françoise wiped off the film that obscured the window. Brightly lit shop windows, street-lamps, passers-by, sprang out from the night; but she had no sensation of motion, these apparitions followed one another without her altering her own position; it was a voyage in time, outside space; she closed her eyes. She must somehow pull herself together. Pierre and Xavière had stood up to her; she in turn wanted to stand up to them. Pull herself together! But pull on what? Her ideas melted away. She found absolutely nothing to think about.

  The bus stopped at the corner of the rue Damrémont and Françoise got off; the Montmartre streets were stark in whiteness and silence; Françoise hesitated, completely encumbered by her freedom. She could go anywhere she liked, but she had no desire to go anywhere. Mechanically, she began to climb up towards the Butte. At first the snow was slightly resilient to her tread and then subsided with an unctuous crunch: it was disappointing and ti
resome to feel its resistance melt away before bearing the full pressure of her step. ‘Snow – cafés – steps – houses … how do they concern me?’ thought Françoise in a kind of daze; she felt seeping into her a despair so deadly that her legs seemed on the point of giving way. What could all these unfamiliar things mean to her? They were set at a distance; they had no contact with the whirling emptiness, the maelstrom which was sucking her under; she was being sucked down spirally, deeper and deeper. It seemed that in the end she must touch something: peace of mind or despair, something definite; but always she remained at the same level, on the brink of emptiness. Françoise looked round her in distress. No, nothing could help her; she would have to eradicate from within herself pride, self-pity, and tenderness. Her back and her temples ached, and even this pain was impersonal. Someone should have been there to say: ‘I’m tired. I’m unhappy.’ Then this vague and aching moment would worthily have taken its place in her life. But there was no one.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ thought Françoise, as she slowly climbed the steps. It was her fault, Elisabeth was right, for many years now she had ceased to be an individual; she no longer even possessed a face. The most destitute of women could at least lovingly touch her own hand, and she looked at both her own with surprise. Our past, our future, our ideas, our love … never did she say: ‘I.’ And yet, Pierre determined his own future and his own heart: he disengaged himself, he retreated to the boundaries of his own life. She remained behind, separated from him, separated from everyone and without a link with herself; neglected, and finding in this abandonment no true aloneness.

  She leaned against the balustrade and looked down at the big, cold, blue puff of smoke that was Paris; it lay sprawled out with insulting unconcern. Françoise sprang back. What was she doing here, in the cold, with these white domes above her head, and at her feet this pit that lay gaping to the stars? She ran down the steps. She must go to a cinema or telephone to somebody.

  ‘It’s pitiful,’ she murmured to herself.

  Aloneness was not something you could dissect into small portions, to be used up piecemeal. It had been childish of her to think that she could take refuge in aloneness for an evening. She must reject it totally until she could totally regain it.