She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘How foolish you are! You know I’m always happy to be with you,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière did not return her smile: she had already withdrawn into herself. Françoise would never be able to make her understand that she was not expecting her to display for her either the grace of her body or the attractions of her mind, but only to allow her to participate in her life. All through the past month, she had tried persistently to become reconciled with her, but Xavière stubbornly remained a stranger whose negative presence cast a threatening shadow over Françoise. There were some moments when Françoise was absorbed in herself and others when she gave her entire self to Xavière, but she often called to mind with anguish that second personality, revealed to her one evening in a maniacal smile: the only way to destroy its abominable reality would have been to sink her own personality with Xavière’s in a single friendship. During these long weeks, Françoise had felt the need of this more and more keenly; but Xavière would never sink her own personality.

  A dragging, dismal chant pervaded the hot and sultry atmosphere. At a deserted street corner, a man was seated on a camp stool, holding a saw between his knees, and to the wailing of this instrument his voice matched melancholy words:

  ‘This evening in the r-a-i-n.

  My sad heart full of p-a-i-n

  I listen once a-g-a-i-n

  For the echo of your step.’

  Françoise pressed Xavière’s arm. The listless music in this scorching solitude seemed to her the very reflection of her heart. The arm remained on hers, yielding but insensible: even through this beautiful tangible body it was not possible to reach Xavière. Françoise longed to sit down on the kerbstone and never to move away from it.

  ‘Supposing we go to some place,’ she said, ‘it’s too hot for walking.’ She no longer had the strength to wander about aimlessly under this relentless sky.

  ‘Oh, yes! I’d like to sit down,’ said Xavière. ‘But where shall we go?’

  ‘Would you like to go back to the Moorish café where we enjoyed ourselves so much? It’s quite dose.’

  ‘Well, let’s go there,’ said Xavière.

  They turned the corner: it was already more comforting to be walking towards some definite objective.

  ‘That was the first time that we spent a really long happy day together,’ said Françoise. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘It seems such ages ago,’ said Xavière. ‘How young I was then!’

  ‘It’s not even a year ago,’ said Françoise.

  She, too, had aged since that not so distant winter. In those days she used to live without asking herself any questions, the world all round her was wide and rich, and it belonged to her, she loved Pierre, and Pierre loved her; from time to time, she even used to indulge in the luxury of thinking her happiness monotonous. She pushed open the door and at once recognized the wool rugs, the copper trays, the multicoloured lanterns: the place had not changed. The dancing-girl and the musicians, squatting on their heels in a recess at the back, were talking among themselves.

  ‘How sorry-looking it’s become,’ said Xavière.

  ‘That’s because it’s still early. It will probably fill up,’ said Françoise. ‘Would you like to go somewhere else?’

  ‘Oh, no. Let’s stay here,’ said Xavière.

  They sat down on the rough cushions in the same place as before, and ordered mint tea. Again, as she sat beside Xavière, Françoise caught a breath of the unusual smell that had intrigued her at the Dôme.

  ‘What did you wash your hair with today?’ she said.

  Xavière ran her fingers through a lock of silky hair.

  ‘I didn’t wash my hair,’ she said with surprise.

  ‘It smells like a chemist’s shop,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière gave an illuminating smile, which she immediately repressed.

  ‘I didn’t touch it,’ she said.

  Her face darkened, and she lit a cigarette in a slightly dramatic manner. Françoise gently laid her hand on her arm.

  ‘You’re so depressed,’ said Françoise. ‘You mustn’t let yourself get like this!’

  ‘What can I do?’ said Xavière. ‘I’m not a happy person.’

  ‘But you’re not making the slightest effort. Why didn’t you take the books which I put out for you?’

  ‘I can’t read when I’m in a gloomy mood,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Why don’t you work with Gerbert? The finest cure for you would be to work out a good act.’

  Xavière shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘It’s impossible to work with Gerbert! He acts for his own benefit, he’s incapable of suggesting anything. I might as well work with a brick wall.’ She added in a cutting tone, ‘And besides, I don’t like what he’s doing, it’s so trivial.’

  ‘You’re unfair,’ said Françoise. ‘He lacks depth of feeling, maybe, but he’s sensitive and intelligent.’

  ‘That’s not enough,’ said Xavière. Her face contracted. ‘I loathe mediocrity,’ she said furiously.

  ‘He’s young, and he hasn’t had much experience. But I think he’ll do something yet,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière shook her head.

  ‘If at least he were downright bad, there’d be hope, but he’s contemptible. He can just about manage to reproduce correctly what Labrousse has taught him.’

  Xavière had a great many grievances against Gerbert, but one of the most bitter was certainly his admiration for Labrousse. Gerbert always said that she was never so peevish with him as when he had just seen Pierre or even Françoise.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Françoise. ‘It would change your outlook on life if you were to do a little work.’

  She looked warily at Xavière. She did not really know what anyone could do for her. Suddenly she could put a name to the strange new smell she had noticed.

  ‘Why, you smell of ether,’ she said with astonishment.

  Xavière turned away without answering.

  ‘What are you doing with ether?’ asked Françoise.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Xavière.

  ‘But what are you doing?’

  ‘I inhaled a little,’ said Xavière. ‘It’s pleasant.’

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve taken it, or have you done it before?’

  ‘Oh! I’ve taken it occasionally,’ said Xavière with studied rudeness.

  Françoise had the impression that she was not sorry at having her secret discovered.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Françoise, ‘you’ll become a dope-fiend or wreck yourself completely.’

  ‘I have nothing to lose,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘I can’t get drunk any more. It makes me ill,’ said Xavière.

  ‘You’ll make yourself much more than ill,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Just think,’ said Xavière, ‘all you have to do is put a piece of cotton-wool to your nose, and then you are practically unconscious for hours.’

  Françoise took her hand.

  ‘Are you really unhappy?’ she said. ‘What’s the matter? Tell me.’

  She knew why Xavière was suffering, but she could not make her admit to it point-blank.

  ‘Except for your work, are you getting along well with Gerbert?’ she continued.

  She watched for the reply with an interest prompted not by concern for Xavière alone.

  ‘Oh, Gerbert! Yes,’ Xavière shrugged her shoulders. ‘He doesn’t matter much, you know.’

  ‘Still, you’re very fond of him,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I’m always fond of what belongs to me,’ said Xavière. She added with a fierce look, ‘It’s restful to have someone entirely to yourself.’ Her voice softened. ‘But after all, it’s just something pleasant in my existence, nothing more.’

  Françoise turned cold. She felt personally insulted by Xavière’s disdainful tone.

  ‘Then it’s not because of him that you’re depressed?’

  ‘No,’ said Xavière.

  She had s
uch a defenceless and pitiful look that Françoise’s wave of hostility subsided.

  ‘And it’s not my fault either?’ she said. ‘Are you satisfied with our relationship?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Xavière. She had a brief sweet smile that fell immediately. Suddenly her face brightened. ‘I’m bored,’ she said passionately. ‘I’m disgustingly bored.’

  Françoise did not answer. It was Pierre’s absence which was causing such a void in Xavière’s existence: he would have to be returned to her, but Françoise was very much afraid that this was impossible. She had finished her glass of tea. The café had been filling up; for some time past the musicians had been playing their reedy flutes. The dancing-girl advanced to the middle of the room and a quiver ran through her body.

  ‘What big hips she has,’ said Xavière with disgust ‘She’s put on weight.’

  ‘She’s always been stout,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Xavière. ‘I was so easily dazzled in the old days.’ She let her eyes wander slowly over the wall. ‘I’ve changed a great deal.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Françoise, ‘that’s plain bosh. Now you only like what’s truly beautiful and there’s nothing to regret in that.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Xavière. ‘Nothing whatever moves me now!’ She blinked a few times, and then she drawled, ‘I’m worn out.’

  ‘You like to think so,’ said Françoise with annoyance. ‘But they’re just words. You’re not worn out. You’re simply moody.’

  Xavière gave her an unhappy look.

  ‘You give in to yourself,’ said Françoise more gently. ‘You mustn’t go on in this way. Listen, first of all you’re going to promise me not to take any more ether.’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ said Xavière. ‘These endless days are horrible.’

  ‘It’s serious, you know. You’re going to wreck yourself completely, if you don’t stop.’

  ‘That won’t hurt anyone,’ said Xavière.

  ‘In any case it would hurt me,’ said Françoise tenderly.

  ‘Oh!’ said Xavière incredulously.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Françoise.

  ‘You can’t still set such great value on me,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise was unpleasantly surprised. Xavière did not often seem touched by her tenderness, but at least she had never seemed to question it.

  ‘What!’ said Françoise. ‘You know how very much I’ve always valued you.’

  ‘In the old days yes. You thought well of me then,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Why should I think less of you now?’

  ‘It’s just an idea I have,’ said Xavière languidly.

  ‘And yet, we’ve never seen more of each other. I’ve never sought greater intimacy with you,’ said Françoise, disconcerted.

  ‘Because you feel sorry for me,’ said Xavière. She gave an unhappy laugh. ‘That’s what I’ve come to! I’m somebody for whom people feel sorry!’

  ‘But you’re wrong,’ said Françoise. ‘Whoever put that notion into your head?’

  Xavière stared stubbornly at the end of her cigarette.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said Françoise. ‘People don’t say things like that without good reason.’

  Xavière hesitated, and again Françoise had the unpleasant feeling that, by her reticences and her silences, it was Xavière who had been responsible for the course of their conversation.

  ‘It’s only natural that you should be disgusted with me,’ said Xavière. ‘You have good reason to despise me.’

  ‘It’s always the same old story,’ said Françoise. ‘But we’ve thrashed all that out already! I thoroughly understood that you did not want to talk to me at once about your relations with Gerbert, and you agreed that, in my place, you would have kept silent just as I did.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise knew that, with her, no explanation was ever final. Xavière must still wake up at night in a fury, remembering with what ease Françoise had deceived her for three days.

  ‘You and Labrousse think so much along the same lines,’ continued Xavière. ‘And he holds such a wretchedly low opinion of me.’

  ‘That’s entirely his business,’ said Françoise.

  These words cost her an effort – in regard to Pierre, they were a kind of repudiation – and yet they only expressed the truth. She had once and for all refused to take his part.

  ‘You think me far too easily influenced,’ she said. ‘Actually, he hardly ever talks to me about you.’

  ‘He must hate me so,’ said Xavière sadly.

  There was a silence.

  ‘And what about you? Do you hate him?’ said Françoise.

  Her heart sank. The whole of this conversation had had no other aim than to prompt this question. She began to catch a glimpse of the end towards which she was moving.

  ‘I?’ said Xavière. She cast a pleading glance at Françoise. ‘I don’t hate him,’ she said.

  ‘He’s convinced you do,’ said Françoise. Still under the influence of Xavière’s desire, she continued, ‘Would you agree to see him again?’

  Xavière shrugged her shoulders. ‘He has no great wish to see me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Françoise. ‘If he knew that you miss him, it would make a difference.’

  ‘Of course I miss him,’ said Xavière slowly. She added in a clumsy attempt to seem off-hand, ‘You know, Labrousse is not somebody you can stop seeing without regretting it.’

  She looked carefully at the pale swollen face which exhaled pharmaceutical essences. The pride that Xavière maintained in her distress was so piteous that Françoise said, almost in spite of herself, ‘I could perhaps try to talk to him.’

  ‘Oh! That wouldn’t do any good,’ said Xavière.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ said Françoise.

  It was done. The decision was made of its own accord, and Françoise knew that she could no longer prevent herself from implementing it. Pierre would listen to her with a scowl. He would answer her discourteously, and his cutting words would reveal to himself the extent of his hostility towards her. She bent her head, crushed.

  ‘What will you tell him?’ said Xavière in an insinuating tone.

  ‘That we talked about him,’ said Françoise. ‘That you showed no hatred, quite the contrary. That if only he would forget his grievances, you for your part would be happy to regain his friendship.’

  She stared vaguely at the variegated wall-hanging. Pierre pretended not to be interested in Xavière, but whenever her name was mentioned, she could sense that he was all attention. He had passed her once in the rue Delambre, and Françoise had noticed a wild desire to run after her dart into his eyes. Perhaps he would agree to see her again that he might torment her at closer range; perhaps, if that happened, he would again be won over by her. But neither the appeasement of his bitterness nor the resurrection of his troubled love would reconcile him with Françoise. The only possible reconciliation would be to send Xavière back to Rouen, and start life afresh without her.

  Xavière shook her head. ‘It’s not worth the effort,’ she said with woeful resignation.

  ‘I can always try.’

  Xavière shrugged her shoulders as if declining all responsibility. ‘Oh! Do as you like,’ she said.

  Françoise felt angry. It was Xavière who had brought her to this, with her smell of ether and her woebegone looks, and now she withdrew, as she always did, into a haughty indifference, thus sparing herself the shame of a failure or an obligation of gratitude.

  ‘I’m going to try,’ said Françoise.

  She no longer had any hope of achieving with Xavière that friendship which could alone have saved her, but at least she would have done everything to deserve it.

  ‘I’ll speak to Pierre at once,’ she said.

  When Françoise entered Pierre’s dressing-room, he was still seated at his desk, his pipe in his mouth, unshaven, and looking happy.

  ‘How industrious you a
re,’ she said. ‘You haven’t budged all this time?’

  ‘You’ll see. I think I’ve done a good piece of work,’ said Pierre. He pivoted round on his chair.

  ‘And what about you? Did you have a good time? Was it a good programme?’

  ‘Oh! We didn’t go to the cinema. That was to be expected. We dawdled along the streets and it was outrageously hot.’ Françoise sat down on a cushion on the balcony sill. The air had cooled off a little, and the tops of the plane trees were gently quivering. ‘I’m glad I’m going on this walking tour with Gerbert. I’m fed up with Paris.’

  ‘And I’ll hang on here, shaking in my shoes,’ said Pierre. ‘You’ll be a good girl and send me a telegram every evening: “I’m still alive.”’

  Françoise smiled at him. Pierre was satisfied with his day’s work; his face was gay and affectionate. There were moments like this when it might have seemed that nothing had changed since last summer.

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s much too early to do any real mountain climbing. We’ll go to the Cevennes or to Cantal.’

  ‘You’re not going to spend the evening making plans!’ said Pierre apprehensively.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll spare you,’ said Françoise. She smiled again, a little timidly. ‘We two will also have plans of our own to make soon.’

  ‘That’s true. We’ll be leaving in less than a month,’ said Pierre.

  ‘We really must make up our minds where we’re going,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I think well stay in France, whatever happens,’ said Pierre. ‘We must expect a period of tension towards the middle of August, and even if nothing does happen, it wouldn’t be very pleasant to find ourselves at the other end of the world.’

  ‘We’ve spoken about Cordes and the Midi,’ said Françoise. She added with a laugh, ‘Of course there won’t be many panoramas, but we’ll see lots of small towns. You do like small towns, don’t you?’

  She looked hopefully at Pierre. When just the two of them were alone, far from Paris, perhaps he would never lose that friendly and relaxed look. How she longed to take him away with her for weeks on end.

  ‘I’d love to wander with you round about Albi, Cordes and Toulouse,’ said Pierre. ‘You’ll see, I’ll really go for a long walk every once in a while.’