She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  A shooting pain cut short her breath; she stopped and put her hands to her sides. ‘What’s the matter with me?’ A violent shiver shook her from head to foot. She was perspiring and her head was throbbing.

  ‘I’m ill,’ she thought with a kind of relief. She beckoned to a taxi. All she could do was to return home, go to bed and try to sleep.

  A door slammed on the landing and someone shuffled across the passage; it must be the blonde tart getting up. In the room above, the Negro’s gramophone was softly playing ‘Solitude’. Françoise opened her eyes, night had almost fallen; she must have been nearly forty-eight hours lying in the warmth of the sheets. That light breathing at her side came from Xavière, who had not moved from the big arm-chair since Pierre had left. Françoise took a deep breath: the stabbing pain had not left her lungs, she was rather thankful for it, as if it made her quite certain of being ill, it was so restful. There was nothing in the world to worry about, she was not even expected to talk. If only her pyjamas had not been drenched with sweat, Françoise would have felt completely well: as it was, they were glued to her body. On her right side, too, she felt a large smarting patch. The doctor had been indignant that the poultices had been so inefficiently applied; but that was his fault; he should have explained things better.

  Someone was lightly tapping at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Xavière.

  The hall-porter appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Does Mademoiselle need anything?’

  He timidly approached the bed. With a look of dolorous solicitude, he came every hour to offer his services.

  ‘No, thank you very much,’ said Françoise.

  Her breath was so short, she could no longer speak.

  ‘The doctor says that tomorrow, without fail. Mademoiselle must go to the nursing-home. Doesn’t Mademoiselle wish me to make any telephone calls?’

  Françoise shook her head.

  ‘I don’t intend to go,’ she said.

  A burning wave of blood rushed to her face and her heart began to pound violently. Why had this doctor stirred up the hotel staff? They would be bound to tell Pierre, and Xavière, too, would tell him: she herself knew that she could not lie to him. Pierre would force her to go. She did not want to, they would not, after all, take her away against her will. She watched the door close behind the hall-porter, and her eyes wandered over the room. It smelt like a sick-room. For two days, the housework had not been done, nor had the bed been made; the window had not even been opened. On the mantelpiece, Pierre, Xavière, Elisabeth, had stacked appetizing foods in vain. The ham had begun to shrivel, the apricots had candied in their own juice, the custard had slumped into a morass of caramel. The room was beginning to look like a leper’s lodging; but it was her room and Françoise did not want to leave it. She loved the squamous chrysanthemums on the wallpaper, and the threadbare carpet, and all the confused sounds of hotel life. Her room, her life. She was quite willing to stay there, prone and passive, but not to go into exile between white, anonymous walls.

  ‘I don’t want to be taken away from here,’ she said in a choking voice; once again, scorching waves broke upon her and nervous tears started to her eyes.

  ‘Don’t lose heart,’ said Xavière with an unhappy and earnest look. ‘You’re going to get well quickly.’ She suddenly threw herself on the bed and, pressing her own cool cheek against the feverish cheek, she clung to Françoise.

  ‘My darling Xavière,’ whispered Françoise with emotion. She put her arms round the supple, warm body. Xavière pressed against her with all her weight, she could not draw a breath, but she did not want to let her go; one morning she had pressed her to her heart like this: why had she been unable to keep her? She was so fond of this worried face, now radiant with affection.

  ‘My darling Xavière,’ she repeated.

  A sob rose in her throat. No, she would not go. There must have been some mistake, she wanted to begin everything afresh. Her morbid state had made her believe that Xavière had broken away from her, but this impulse that had thrown Xavière into her arms could not be deceptive. Françoise would never forget her eyes with their dark rings of anxiety, and this attentive, feverish love that Xavière had lavished on her without reserve during these last two days.

  Xavière drew gently away from Françoise and left the bed.

  ‘I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘I hear Labrousse’s step on the staircase.’

  ‘I’m certain he’ll want to send me to a nursing-home,’ said Françoise nervously.

  Pierre knocked and came into the room: he looked worried.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he said, pressing Françoise’s hand in his. He smiled at Xavière. ‘Has she been good?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ whispered Françoise. ‘It’s a little difficult to breathe.’ She wanted to sit up, but a sharp pain stabbed her chest.

  ‘Please, would you knock on my door when you leave,’ said Xavière, giving Pierre a friendly look. ‘I’ll come back.’

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ said Françoise. ‘You ought to go out for a while.’

  ‘Am I not a good nurse?’ said Xavière reproachfully.

  ‘The best possible nurse,’ said Françoise affectionately.

  Xavière noiselessly closed the door behind her and Pierre sat down at the side of the bed.

  ‘Now then, have you seen the doctor?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Françoise suspiciously, and she grimaced; she did not want to start to cry but she felt herself completely lacking control.

  ‘Send for a nurse, but let me stay here,’ she said.

  ‘Listen,’ said Pierre putting his hand on her forehead. ‘They told me downstairs that you have to be watched very closely. It’s not critical, but as soon as the lungs are affected, it is serious all the same. You need injections, a lot of care, and a doctor within reach. A good doctor. That old man is an ass.’

  ‘Find another doctor and a nurse,’ she said.

  The tears welled up; she continued to resist with what little strength remained to her; she did not give in. She would not let herself be torn from her room, from her past, from her life; but she had no longer any way in which to protect herself, even her voice was no more than a whisper.

  ‘I want to stay with you,’ she said. She began to cry in real earnest. Here she was at the mercy of others, just a body shivering with fever, without strength, without speech, even without thought.

  ‘I’ll be there all day long,’ said Pierre. ‘It will be exactly the same.’

  He looked at her pleadingly and in great distress.

  ‘No, it will not be the same thing,’ said Françoise. She was choking with sobs. ‘That’s all.’

  She was too weak to determine what exactly it was that was dying in the yellow light of the room, but she never wished to derive comfort from its loss. She had struggled so hard; she had felt menaced for so long a time; she had confused visions of a jumble of tables at the Póle Nord, banquettes at the Dóme, Xavière’s room, her own room, and she saw herself strained and intent – to what purpose, she hardly knew. Now the moment had come; it was useless to keep her hands clenched, and crouch for a last leap. She would be taken away despite herself. Nothing depended on her will now, and her only means of defence was tears.

  Françoise was very feverish all through the following night. She fell asleep only at dawn. When she again opened her eyes a pale winter sun shone in the room, and Pierre was leaning over the bed.

  ‘The ambulance is here,’ he said.

  ‘Ah!’ said Françoise.

  She recalled that she had cried the previous evening, but she did not really remember why: her mind was empty, she was completely calm.

  ‘I’ll have to take some things with me,’ she said.

  Xavière smiled.

  ‘We packed your bag while you were asleep. Pyjamas, handkerchiefs, eau-de-Cologne-I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything.’

  ‘You needn’t fuss,’ said Pierre cheerfully. ‘She managed to fill the big suit
case.’

  ‘You would have let her go away like an orphan, with nothing but a toothbrush in a handkerchief,’ said Xavière.

  She came up to Françoise and looked at her anxiously.

  ‘How do you feel? It won’t tire you too much?’

  ‘I feel all right,’ said Françoise.

  Something had happened while she was asleep; not for weeks and weeks had she known such peace. Xavière’s features looked tortured. She took Françoise’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘I hear them coming up,’ she said.

  ‘Will you come and see me every day?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Oh yes, every day,’ said Xavière. She bent over Françoise and kissed her: her eyes were filled with tears. Françoise smiled at her. She still knew how to smile, but not how to be moved by tears, nor how to be moved by anything. She watched dispassionately as they entered, the two ambulance men who would raise her up and lay her on a stretcher. One last time she smiled at Xavière, who stood paralysed beside the empty bed. And then the door closed on Xavière, on her room, on the past. Françoise was hardly more than an inert mass, she was not even an organic body. She was carried down the stairs, head first, her feet in the air, nothing more than a heavy piece of luggage that the stretcher-bearers handled in accordance with the laws of gravity and their personal convenience.

  ‘We’ll see you back soon, Mademoiselle Miquel. Get well quickly.’

  The proprietress, the hall-porter and his wife were lined up in the hall.

  ‘I’ll soon be back,’ said Françoise.

  A cold gust, striking her face, woke her to full consciousness. A number of people were assembled in front of the door. An invalid being carried away in an ambulance: Françoise had frequently seen this in the streets of Paris.

  ‘But this time the invalid is me,’ she thought, with astonishment; she did not quite believe it. Sickness, accidents, all those stories printed in thousands of copies, she had always thought it impossible for that to become her story; she had told herself that about war; these impersonal, anonymous misfortunes could not happen to her. How can I be just anybody? And yet there she was stretched out in an ambulance which was gliding smoothly away; Pierre was seated beside her. She was the invalid. It had happened after all. Had she become just anybody? Was that why she felt so light, released from herself, from her whole choking escort of joys and cares? She closed her eyes. Smoothly, the car drove on and time slipped by.

  The ambulance drew up in front of a big garden. Pierre wrapped the blanket tightly round Françoise and she was carried along icy paths, along linoleum-covered corridors. She was laid on a big bed and she felt with delight under her cheek, against her body, the freshness of clean linen. Everything here was so clean, so restful. A small olive-complexioned nurse came to shake up the pillows and talk quietly to Pierre.

  ‘I’ll leave you,’ said Pierre. ‘The doctor will come in to see you. I’ll be back presently.’

  ‘I’ll see you presently, then,’ said Françoise.

  She let him go without regret; she no longer needed him – she needed only the doctor and the nurse. She was just a patient, No. 31, just an ordinary case of congestion of the lungs. The sheets were fresh, the walls white, and she felt within her a tremendous sense of well-being. That was that! All she had to do was to let herself go, to give in – it was so simple, why had she hesitated so? Now, instead of the endless babbling of the streets, of faces, of her own head, she was surrounded by silence and she wanted nothing more. Outside, a branch snapped in the wind. In this perfect void, the slightest sound radiated in broad waves which could almost be seen and touched: it reverberated to the ends of eternity in thousands of vibrations which remained suspended in the ether, beyond time, and which entranced the heart more magically than music. On the night-table, the nurse had set a carafe of pink, transparent orangeade; it seemed to Françoise that she would never tire of looking at it; there it was; the miracle lay in the fact that something should be there, without any effort being made, this mild refreshment or anything else at all. It had come there without any fuss or bother, and there it was going to remain. Why then should her eyes cease to be enchanted by it? Yes, this was precisely what Françoise had not dared to hope for three days earlier: released, satisfied, she was lying in the lap of peaceful moments turned in upon themselves, smooth and round as shingle.

  ‘Can you raise yourself a little?’ said the doctor. He helped her sit up. ‘That’s all right like that. It won’t take long.’

  He had a friendly, efficient look: he took an instrument from his case and put it against Françoise’s chest.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ he said.

  Françoise inhaled. Her breathing was so laboured that the effort exhausted her. When she tried to breathe deeply, a stab of pain pierced her.

  ‘Count, one, two, three,’ said the doctor.

  He was now listening to her back. With a series of short taps he sounded the thoracic cavity, like a detective on the films tapping a suspicious wall. Obediently, Françoise counted, coughed, inhaled.

  ‘There, that’s all over,’ said the doctor. He arranged the pillow under Françoise’s head and surveyed her with a kindly look.

  ‘It’s a slight inflammation of the lungs. We’ll start injections immediately to stimulate the heart.’

  ‘Will it last a long time?’ said Françoise.

  ‘Normally, it takes about nine days, but you’ll need a long convalescence. Have you ever had trouble with your lungs in the past?’

  ‘No,’ said Françoise. ‘Why? Do you think I may have a patch on one of them?’

  ‘One can never be sure,’ said the doctor vaguely. He patted Franchise’s hand. ‘As soon as you feel better we’ll X-ray you, and we’ll see what has to be done for you.’

  ‘Are you going to send me to a sanatorium?’

  ‘I didn’t say so,’ said the doctor, smiling. ‘In any case, a few months’ rest won’t hurt you. But above all, don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worrying,’ said Françoise.

  A patch on her lung! Months in a sanatorium! Years, perhaps. How strange it was. All these things could really happen. How far away was that Christmas Eve festivity when she believed herself to be safely settled in stability; there was as yet no indication of coming events. The future spread out in the distance, smooth and white like the sheets; the walls were a long soft expanse of peaceful snow. Françoise was just anyone, and just anything had suddenly become possible.

  Françoise opened her eyes. She loved these awakenings that did not drag her from her repose but allowed her to become enchantedly aware of it; she did not even have to change her position, she was already sitting up. She had grown quite accustomed to sleeping in this way; for her sleep was no longer a fierce voluptuous retreat, it was one of many activities, carried out in the same posture as the others. Her eyes slowly took in the oranges and the books that Pierre had piled on the night-table; a peaceful day lay lazily ahead of her.

  ‘Presently they’ll X-ray me,’ she thought.

  That was the principal event round which all other events revolved. She felt indifferent about the results of the examination. What did interest her was to cross the threshold of this room in which she had been immured for three weeks. Today, she felt that she was completely recovered; surely she would have no difficulty in standing up or even walking.

  The morning went by very quickly. While helping with her ablutions, the thin dark nurse who looked after Françoise delivered a long lecture on the fate of modern woman and the beauty of learning. Then the doctor called. Madame Miquel came at about ten o’clock: she brought with her two pairs of freshly ironed pyjamas, a pink angora bed-jacket, some tangerines and a bottle of eau-de-Cologne; she stayed on for lunch and lavished thanks on the nurse. When she left, Françoise stretched out her legs and, lying on her back with the upper part of her body almost straight, she let the world slip into darkness. It began to slip, then returned to the light; it slipped again; it was a very gentle
swaying. Suddenly, the swaying ceased. Xavière was leaning over the bed.

  ‘Did you have a good night?’

  ‘I always sleep well when I have those drops,’ said Françoise.

  With her head thrown back and a faint smile on her lips, Xavière was undoing the scarf tied over her hair; when she was thinking about herself, there was always something mysterious and ritualistic in her gestures. The scarf slipped off, and she came back to earth. Cautiously, she picked up the bottle.

  ‘You mustn’t get into the habit,’ she said, ‘for then you won’t be able to do without it. Your eyes will become glassy and your nostrils pinched. You’ll frighten people.’

  ‘And you’ll conspire with Labrousse to hide all my little bottles,’ said Françoise, ‘but I’ll outwit you.’

  She began to cough, it tired her to talk.

  ‘I didn’t go to bed at all last night,’ said Xavière proudly.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me all about it,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière’s statement had affected her like a dentist’s drill in a dead tooth; she felt nothing but the empty cavity of a pang that existed no more. Pierre tires himself out too much, Xavière will never accomplish a thing: these thoughts were still there, but ineffective and insensitive.

  ‘I have something for you,’ said Xavière.

  She took off her raincoat and drew from the pocket a small cardboard box tied with a green ribbon. Françoise untied the knot and lifted the lid; it was stuffed with cotton wool and tissue paper. Under the light paper lay a bunch of snowdrops.

  ‘How pretty they are!’ said Françoise. ‘They look both real and artificial at the same time.’

  Xavière blew gently on the white corollas.

  ‘They were up all night too, but this morning I put them on a special diet. They’re in good health.’

  She got up and filled a glass with water and arranged the flowers in it. Her black velvet suit made her lithe body look even more slender: no longer had she anything of the little peasant-girl about her. She was a perfect young lady and certain of her charm. She drew an arm-chair up to the bed.