She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘Did you see?’ said Labrousse. ‘She did her best to remain pleasant, but she didn’t hold out till the end. She’s annoyed with us.’

  ‘Why?’ said Gerbert.

  ‘For not spending the evening with her,’ said Labrousse.

  ‘Well, then, take her along,’ said Gerbert. He found it very unpleasant that this dinner should seem a complicated affair to Labrousse and Françoise.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Françoise. ‘It wouldn’t be at all the same thing.’

  ‘That girl is a little tyrant, but we do manage to keep our ends up,’ said Pierre cheerfully.

  Gerbert’s serenity returned, but he wanted very much to understand precisely what Pagès stood for in the eyes of Labrousse. Was it out of affection for Françoise that he was fond of her? Or what? He would never dare to ask him. He was very happy when Labrousse happened to give him a little bit of himself, but it was not his place to question him.

  Labrousse stopped a taxi.

  ‘What do you say to dinner at the Grille?’ said Françoise.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Gerbert. ‘Maybe there’ll still be some jambon aux haricots rouges.’ He suddenly noticed that he was hungry, and he tapped his forehead. ‘Ah! I knew I’d forgotten something.’

  ‘What?’ said Labrousse.

  ‘At lunch, I forgot to take a second helping of beef. That was a big mistake!’

  The taxi pulled up in front of the little restaurant; a heavy grill covered the front windows; inside, to the right of the entrance, was a zinc-topped bar with a number of tempting bottles on it; the dining-room was empty. The proprietor and the cashier, with napkins tied around their necks, were eating their dinner together at one of the marble-topped tables.

  ‘Ah!’ said Gerbert, tapping his forehead.

  ‘You frighten me,’ said Françoise. ‘What else have you forgotten?’

  ‘I forgot to tell you before that I went down my stairs in thirty seconds.’

  ‘You’re a liar,’ said Labrousse.

  ‘I was sure you wouldn’t want to believe it,’ said Gerbert. ‘Exactly thirty seconds.’

  ‘You’ll have to do it again, with me there as witness,’ said Labrousse. ‘Anyway, I did beat you down the Montmartre steps.’

  ‘I slipped,’ said Gerbert. He picked up the menu: jambon aux haricots rouges was on it.

  ‘This place is quite deserted,’ said Françoise.

  ‘It’s too early,’ said Labrousse. ‘And besides, you know people stay shut up at home whenever things take a bad turn. We’ll play to an audience of ten tonight.’ He had ordered egg mayonnaise, and, with a maniacal look, was squashing the yolks into the dressing: he called this making œufs Mimosa.

  ‘I’d still prefer to see it settled once and for all,’ said Gerbert ‘It’s no life, to say to yourself every day that it’s going to happen tomorrow.’

  ‘But there’s always that amount of time gained,’ said Françoise.

  ‘That’s what everyone said at the time of Munich,’ said Labrousse. ‘But I’m convinced that it was rubbish. There’s nothing to be gained by climbing down.’ He picked up the bottle of Beaujolais already on the table and filled their glasses. ‘No, these avoiding actions can’t go on for ever.’

  ‘After all, why not?’ said Gerbert.

  Françoise hesitated.

  ‘Isn’t anything better than war?’ she said.

  Labrousse shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If it gets too ghastly here, you could always slip off to America,’ said Gerbert. ‘You’d certainly get a welcome there. You’ve already made a name for yourself.’

  ‘And what would I do?’ said Labrousse.

  ‘I think a lot of Americans speak French. And besides, you’d learn English. You’d produce your plays in English,’ said Françoise.

  ‘That wouldn’t interest me in the least,’ said Labrousse. ‘What meaning would it have for me to work in exile? If I want to leave my mark on this world, I must accept my responsibility.’

  ‘America is a world, too,’ said Françoise.

  ‘But it’s not mine.’

  ‘It will be, the day you adopt it,’

  Labrousse shook his head.

  ‘You’re talking like Xavière. But I can’t, I’m too involved in this one.’

  ‘You’re still young,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, but don’t you see, creating a new theatre for the Americans is a task that doesn’t appeal to me. What does interest me is to carry out my own work, the work I began with my own sweat and labour in my hovel near the Gobelins on the money I wheedled out of Aunt Christine.’ Labrousse looked at Françoise. ‘Don’t you understand that?’

  ‘I do,’ said Françoise.

  She was listening to Labrousse with a passionate attention that filled Gerbert with a kind of regret. He had often seen women turn ardent faces toward him; he was only embarrassed by it: such fulsome tenderness seemed to him either indecent or tyrannical. But the love blazing in Françoise’s eyes gave no consent and made no demand. It almost made him hope to be the inspiration of such a love.

  ‘I’ve been moulded by my past life,’ Labrousse continued. ‘The Ballets Russes, the Vieux Colombier, Picasso, surrealism – I’d be nothing without all that. And certainly I hope that art will gain a fresh inspiration from me, but one that will be the continuation of that tradition. It’s impossible to work in a vacuum, it leads nowhere.’

  ‘Obviously, to move in bag and baggage, to work for a development that is not yours, would hardly be satisfying,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Personally, I prefer to go and put up barbed wire somewhere in Lorraine rather than to go and eat corn-on-the-cob in New York.’

  ‘Well, I’d prefer the corn-on-the-cob, especially if it’s grilled,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Well,’ said Gerbert, ‘I can assure you that if there were any way of getting the hell out of here to Venezuela, or to San Domingo …’

  ‘If war breaks out, I wouldn’t want to miss it for anything,’ said Labrousse. ‘I must even confess that I feel rather curious about it.’

  ‘You’re not half depraved!’ said Gerbert.

  He had been dreaming about the war all day long, but it chilled him to the marrow to hear Labrousse talk about it so calmly, as if it had already come. Indeed, it was already there, tucked away between the roaring stove and the zinc-topped bar with its yellow reflections, and this meal was a Reunion Dinner for the dead. Helmets, tanks, uniforms, grey-green trucks – a vast muddy tide was breaking over the world. The earth was being submerged in this blackish quagmire, that sucked down everyone, the leaden garments on their shoulders reeking like a wet dog, while fierce lights burst in the night sky.

  ‘I wouldn’t either,’ said Françoise. ‘I wouldn’t like something important to happen without me.’

  ‘At that rate, you should have joined up in Spain,’ said Gerbert. ‘Or even gone to China.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing,’ said Labrousse.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘It seems to me that it’s a question of where you are,’ said Françoise. ‘I remember when I was at the Pointe du Raz, and Pierre tried to force me to leave before the storm, I was mad with despair, I would have felt in the wrong had I given in. Whereas, at the moment, all the storms in the world could rage there.’

  ‘There you are, that’s exactly it,’ said Labrousse. ‘This particular war is part of my own personal history, and that’s why I couldn’t bring myself to miss it.’

  His face was burning with joy. Gerbert looked enviously at both of them; it must give them a sense of security to feel so important to each other. Perhaps he himself, if he were really of very great importance to someone, would have counted for a little more in his own eyes; he could set no proper value on either his life or his thoughts.

  ‘Just imagine,’ said Gerbert. ‘Péclard knows a doctor who went completely potty from cutting men up; as he was operating on o
ne, the next guy passed out. It seems that one of them – all the time they were hacking at him – never stopped yelling: “Oh! the pain in my kneel Oh! the pain in my knee!” That couldn’t have been too funny.’

  ‘When you’ve reached that point, there’s nothing to do but yell,’ said Labrousse. ‘But, you know, I don’t find even that too bad. It’s just something you’ve got to put up with in life.’

  ‘If you take that line, anything can be justified,’ said Gerbert. ‘All you have to do is just sit back.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Labrousse. ‘To put up with something doesn’t mean accepting life blindly. I’d be willing to live through almost anything, precisely because I’d always have it in me to live freely.’

  ‘A strange kind of freedom,’ said Gerbert. ‘You wouldn’t be able to do any of the things that interest you.’

  Labrousse smiled.

  ‘You know, I’ve changed. I’m no longer imbued with any mysticism about art. I can easily face up to other activities.’

  Gerbert thoughtfully drained his glass. It was strange to think that Labrousse could change: Gerbert had always regarded him as being immutable. He had an answer to every question, it was hard to imagine what questions were left that he could still ask himself.

  ‘Well, then, nothing stands in the way of your going to America,’ he said.

  ‘For the moment,’ said Labrousse, ‘it seems to me that the best use to which I can put my freedom is to defend a civilization that is bound up with all the values that mean a lot to me.’

  ‘Still, Gerbert is right,’ said Françoise. ‘You’d regard any world in which there was a place for you as justified.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve always suspected that you think you’re God the Father.’

  They both looked happy. It always amazed Gerbert to see them becoming so excited over words. What difference did it make? What good were all these words in comparison with the glow of the Beaujolais he was drinking, in comparison with the gas that would stain his lungs green, and the fear that was clutching at his throat?

  ‘Just what do you hold against us?’ said Labrousse.

  Gerbert shuddered. He had not expected to be caught out in the very process of thinking.

  ‘Why, nothing at all,’ he said.

  ‘You had your magisterial look,’ said Françoise. She handed him the menu. ‘Don’t you want any dessert?’

  ‘I don’t like dessert,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘There’s tart. You like tart,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, I do like it, but I don’t feel up to it,’ said Gerbert.

  They burst out laughing.

  ‘Are you too tired for a glass of old brandy?’ said Labrousse.

  ‘No, that’s always easy to drink,’ said Gerbert.

  Labrousse ordered three brandies and the waitress brought a big, dust-coated demi-john. Gerbert took out his pipe. This was awful; even Labrousse had to invent something to which he could cling! Gerbert could not believe that his calmness was completely sincere; he valued his ideas rather as Péclard valued his furniture. And Françoise leaned on Labrousse. In that way, people managed to surround themselves with an impervious world in which their lives had meaning, but there was always a little cheating at the bottom of it all. If one looked carefully, without trying to deceive oneself, one would find beneath all these imposing appearances nothing but a sprinkling of small, futile impressions – the yellow light on the bar-top, the taste of rotten medlars at the bottom of the glass of marc. It could not be caught in words: it had to be borne in silence and then it disappeared without leaving any trace, and something else, equally elusive, arose in its place. Nothing but sand and water, and it was folly to try to build anything on it. Even death did not deserve all the fuss that was made over it. Of course it was terrifying, but only because one couldn’t imagine how one would feel.

  ‘Being killed, even that would be all right,’ said Gerbert, ‘but you might also have to go on living with a bashed-in face.’

  ‘I’d sooner lose a leg,’ said Labrousse.

  ‘I’d rather an arm,’ said Gerbert. ‘I saw a young Englishman in Marseilles who had a hook instead of a hand: well, it made him look rather distinguished.’

  ‘An artificial leg isn’t so obvious,’ said Labrousse. ‘An arm would be impossible to disguise.’

  ‘It’s true that in our profession we can’t afford to go too far,’ said Gerbert. ‘Having your ear torn off would ruin your whole career.’

  ‘But that’s not possible,’ Françoise broke in. Her voice was choking, her face became transformed, and quite suddenly tears rose to her eyes. Gerbert thought she looked almost beautiful.

  ‘It’s also possible to come back without a scratch,’ said Labrousse, in a soothing tone. ‘And besides, we haven’t gone yet.’ He smiled at Françoise. ‘You mustn’t start having nightmares now.’

  With effort, Françoise also smiled.

  ‘The one thing quite certain is that you’ll be playing before an empty house tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Labrousse. His eyes wandered over the deserted restaurant. ‘I must go all the same. I ought to be there now.’

  ‘I’m going home to do some work,’ said Françoise. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Though I don’t how how much enthusiasm I’ll have for it.’

  They went out and Labrousse hailed a taxi.

  ‘No, I’d rather walk home,’ said Françoise. She shook hands with Labrousse and then with Gerbert.

  He watched her walk away, her hands in her pockets, with long but rather unsteady strides. Now he probably would not see her again for the best part of a month.

  ‘Get in,’ said Labrousse, pushing him into the taxi.

  When Gerbert reached his dressing-room he found Guimiot and Mercaton already at their dressing tables, their arms and necks daubed with ochre; he absent-mindedly shook hands with them, he did not really like them. The small, over-heated room reeked of the nauseating smell of cold cream and brilliantine. Guimiot stubbornly insisted on keeping the windows closed, he was afraid of catching cold. Gerbert walked to the window with marked determination.

  ‘If he says anything, I’ll smash that little pansy’s face,’ he thought.

  He would have loved to have it out with somebody, it would have eased the strain, but Guimiot never turned a hair, he was dabbing his face with a huge mauve puff and the powder was flying all over the place: it made him sneeze twice most distressingly. Gerbert was so glum that this did not even make him laugh. He began to undress – coat, tie, shoes, socks; and in a little while they would all have to be put on again. He was fed up by the mere thought of it, and besides, he did not like to exhibit his naked body in front of other fellows.

  ‘What the hell am I doing here!’ he suddenly asked himself, looking round about him with an almost pained astonishment. He knew these states of mind all too well, they sometimes reached the height of unpleasantness, as if everything within him were transformed into stagnant water: he often used to have these attacks during his childhood, especially when he saw his mother bent over a tub of steaming washing. In a few days, he would be polishing a gun; he would be marching on the barrack square; and then he would be made to mount guard in some icy hole; it was absurd: but meanwhile, he was smearing his thighs with a coat of coppery pigment, which it would be no end of trouble to scrape off; and that was no less absurd.

  ‘Oh! Hell!’ he said aloud. He had suddenly remembered that Elisabeth was coming to sketch him that evening. She certainly had picked a good day!

  The door opened and Ramblin’s head appeared.

  ‘Has anyone got some spirit-gum?’

  ‘I’ve got some,’ said Guimiot eagerly. He regarded Ramblin as a wealthy and influential person, and shamelessly licked his boots.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ramblin coldly. He seized the jar containing a quivering pink jelly and turned to Gerbest. ‘It’s going to be dead tonight! There are three stray cats in the orchestra stalls, and no more in the dress circle.’ He suddenly burst out laug
hing and Gerbert laughed with him. He liked these outbursts of lone gaiety that frequently shook Ramblin, and besides he was grateful to him, homosexual that he was, for never having made up to him.

  ‘Tedesco’s in a blue funk,’ said Ramblin. ‘He believes all foreigners are going to be clapped into concentration camps. Canzetti is holding his hand and sobbing. Chanaud has already called her a dirty wop and now she’s ranting that French women will know how to do their duty. It’s well worth seeing, I can assure you.’

  He was carefully sticking on the curls round his face, smiling at himself in the glass with an approving and quizzical expression.

  ‘Gerbert, darling, would you give me a little of your blue pencil?’ said Eloy.

  That Eloy girl always managed to think of some excuse to come into the men’s dressing-room when they were naked. She was half undressed; a transparent shawl barely concealed her enormous breasts.

  ‘Scram, we’re not presentable,’ said Gerbert.

  ‘And cover those up,’ said Ramblin, twitching her shawl; he watched her leave with disgust. ‘She says she’s going to volunteer as a nurse. Just think what a godsend she’ll be to those poor defenceless devils who fall into her clutches.’

  He disappeared. Gerbert put on his Roman costume and began to make up his face. This was much more fun, he loved detailed work; he had discovered a new way of making up his eyes by lengthening the line of the lids with a kind of star that had a most charming effect. He cast a satisfied last-minute glance at the glass and went downstairs. With her portfolio under her arm, he found Elisabeth sitting on a bench in the green-room.

  ‘Have I come too early?’ she said suavely. She was very smart tonight, there was no denying it: her jacket had certainly been cut by an expert tailor; Gerbert was a connoisseur.

  ‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes,’ said Gerbert.

  He glanced at the scenery. Everything was in place and the props were all arranged within reach. Through a slit in the curtain he studied the audience: there were no more than twenty people; that spelt disaster. With a whistle between his teeth he proceeded along the passages to summon the actors; then he went and sat down resignedly beside Elisabeth.