She Came to Stay

by Simone de Beauvoir

  ‘Unfortunately, I’ve got to go! Look here, I am late already,’ said Pierre.

  He jumped down from his stool and put on his trench-coat: he had given up wearing his old man’s soft silk scarf, and he looked very young and gay. Françoise put her hand out to him with tenderness, but it was a tenderness as lonely as her rancour. He was smiling, and his smile hung poised before her eyes without becoming one with the beating of her heart.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, ten o’clock at the Dôme,’ said Pierre.

  ‘Good, see you tomorrow,’ said Françoise. Indifferently, she shook his hand, and then she watched it close round Xavière’s hand. And she could see from Xavière’s smile that the pressure of his fingers was a caress.

  Pierre departed and Xavière turned to Françoise. ‘Thoughts passing through her head …’ That was easy to say, but Françoise did not believe in those thoughts, they were only a delusion; the magic word would have had to spring from the depths of her soul, but her soul was too numbed. The maleficent mist still remained suspended across the world, poisoning sounds and lights, and penetrating to the very marrow of her bones. She would have to wait until it dissipated of itself: wait, and watch, and suffer, squalidly.

  ‘What shall we do?’ she said.

  ‘Whatever you like,’ said Xavière with a charming smile.

  ‘Would you prefer a walk or shall we go to some place?’

  Xavière hesitated. She must have had a very definite idea in the back of her mind.

  ‘What would you say to going to the Negro dance-hall?’ she said.

  ‘Why, that’s a wonderful idea,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s ages since we’ve been there.’

  They left the restaurant and Françoise took Xavière’s arm. This was a very solemn occasion that Xavière was suggesting: whenever she wanted particularly to show her affection for Françoise she made a point of inviting her to dance. It was also possible that she quite simply felt in the mood to go to the Negro dance-hall for her own amusement.

  ‘Shall we walk a little?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, let’s go up the boulevard Montparnasse,’ said Xavière. She disengaged her arm. ‘I’d rather I gave you my arm,’ she explained.

  Françoise complied submissively, and as Xavière’s fingers touched her own, she gently squeezed them; the velvety suède-gloved hand surrendered to her hand with tender trust. Happiness began to dawn for Françoise, but she did not yet know if she ought really to believe in it.

  ‘Look, there’s the beautiful dark girl with her Hercules,’ said Xavière.

  They were holding hands; the wrestler’s head looked minute on the top of his tremendous shoulders; the girl was laughing resplendently.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel at home,’ said Xavière, as she glanced with pleasure over the terrace of the Dôme.

  ‘You’ve taken your time over it,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière breathed a faint sigh.

  ‘Ah! When I think of the old streets in Rouen – in the evening – all round the Cathedral, my heart breaks!’

  ‘You weren’t so fond of it when you were there,’ said Françoise.

  ‘It was so poetic,’ said Xavière.

  ‘Are you going back to see your family?’

  ‘Of course. I’m definitely going there this summer.’ Her aunt wrote to her every week. In the end, they had taken things far better than could have been expected. Suddenly, the corners of her mouth dropped, and she had the tired look of a much older woman. ‘I knew how to live alone in those days. I’m amazed when I think how I used to feel things.’

  Xavière’s regrets always covered up some resentment. Françoise put herself on the defensive.

  ‘And yet I can remember that even then you complained of being dried up,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Things weren’t as they are now,’ said Xavière in a hollow voice. She looked down and murmured: ‘Now, I’m diluted.’

  Before Françoise could reply she gaily squeezed her arm.

  ‘Why don’t you buy some of those lovely caramels?’ she said, stopping in front of a shop as pink and shiny as a baptismal gift of sugared almonds.

  In the window, a huge wooden tray was turning on its own axis, proffering to tempted eyes stuffed dates, glazed nuts and chocolate truffles.

  ‘Do buy something,’ said Xavière.

  ‘If we are to make it a wonderful solemn occasion, we mustn’t make ourselves sick, as we did the last time,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Oh! One or two tiny caramels,’ said Xavière, ‘would be quite safe.’

  She smiled. ‘This shop has such really beautiful colours, I feel as if I’m walking into a picture come to life.’

  Françoise opened the door. ‘Don’t you want anything?’ she said.

  ‘I’d like some Turkish Delight,’ said Xavière. She studied the sweets with a look of enchantment. ‘Suppose we take some of that too,’ she said, pointing to some thin sticks of barley sugar wrapped in transparent paper. ‘It has such a pretty name.’

  ‘Two of caramels, one of Turkish Delight, and half a pound of “fairy fingers”,’ said Françoise.

  The shop assistant put the sweets into a little crinkly paper bag tied with a pink ribbon run through the top as a drawstring.

  ‘I’d buy the sweets just for the bag,’ said Xavière. ‘It looks like an alms-purse. I’ve got half a dozen of them already,’ she added proudly.

  She offered Françoise a caramel, and then bit into one of the tiny gelatinous squares.

  ‘We look like two little old women offering each other delicacies,’ said Françoise. ‘It’s shameful.’

  ‘When we’re eighty, we’ll slowly totter along to the sweetshop, and we’ll stand for two hours in front of the window arguing about the flavour of the Turkish Delight and slobbering a little,’ said Xavière. ‘The people of the neighbourhood will point their fingers at us.’

  ‘And we’ll shake our heads and say: “These aren’t like the caramels we used to buy!”’ said Françoise. ‘We won’t be going along much more slowly than we are now.’

  They smiled at each other. Whenever they strolled along the boulevard, they were apt to slip into an octogenarian’s pace.

  ‘Would it bore you to look at those hats?’ said Xavière stopping in front of a milliner’s shop.

  ‘Would you by any chance like to buy yourself one?’

  Xavière laughed.

  ‘It’s not that I dislike them, it’s my face that objects. No, I was looking for you.’

  ‘Would you like me to wear a hat?’ said Françoise.

  ‘You’d look so lovely in one of those little sailor hats,’ said Xavière in a pleading tone. ‘Just think of your face under it. And when you go to a smart party you could put on a big veil and tie it in a huge bow at the back.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘Oh! Do promise that you’ll do it.’

  ‘A veil! I’m a little frightened of that,’ said Françoise.

  ‘But you can wear anything.’ said Xavière, back to her pleading. ‘Ah! If only you’d let me choose your clothes!’

  ‘Well!’ said Françoise gaily. ‘You’ll choose my spring wardrobe. I’ll put myself in your hands.’

  She squeezed Xavière’s hand. How delightful she could be! One had to excuse her abrupt changes of mood; the situation was not an easy one, and she was so young. Françoise looked at her with tenderness: she did so want Xavière to have a beautiful, happy life.

  ‘What exactly did you mean just now when you complained you were being diluted?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Oh! No more than that,’ said Xavière.

  ‘But what did you mean?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘I do so want you to be satisfied with your existence,’ said Françoise.

  Xavière did not reply. All her cheerfulness had suddenly faded.

  ‘Do you find that by living so intimately with other people you lose something of yourself?’ Françoise enquired.

  ‘Yes,’ said Xavière. ‘You become a parasite.�
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  Her voice was deliberately cutting. Françoise thought that, in point of fact, it had not been so displeasing to her to live among people. She even grew quite angry when Pierre and Françoise went out without her.

  ‘And yet you still have a great many moments alone,’ she said.

  ‘But that’s no longer the same thing,’ said Xavière. ‘That’s no longer truly being alone.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Françoise. ‘Now, these are only blank intervals, while before they were filled.’

  ‘That’s quite right,’ said Xavière sadly.

  Françoise thought for a moment. ‘But don’t you think it would be different if you tried to make something of yourself? That’s the best way of not becoming diluted.’

  ‘And what am I to do?’ said Xavière.

  She looked quite crestfallen. Françoise wanted with all her heart to help her; but it was difficult to help Xavière. She smiled.

  ‘Become an actress, for example,’ she said.

  ‘Ah! an actress,’ said Xavière.

  ‘I’m so sure that you could be one, if only you would work,’ said Françoise warmly.

  ‘Oh! no,’ said Xavière wearily.

  ‘You can’t be certain of it.’

  ‘That’s just it. It’s so pointless to work without knowing,’ Xavière shrugged her shoulders. ‘Even the most insignificant of those girls believes that she will be an actress.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove that you won’t be one.’

  ‘The chances are one in a hundred,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise squeezed her arm more tightly.

  ‘What strange reasoning,’ she said. ‘Listen, I don’t think it’s possible to calculate your chances. On the one hand, there’s everything to gain, and on the other, nothing to lose. You must bank on success.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve already told me that,’ said Xavière. She shook her head mistrustfully. ‘I don’t like acts of faith.’

  ‘It’s not an act of faith. It’s a bet.’

  ‘It’s all the same thing’ Xavière made a little face. ‘That’s how Canzetti and Eloy console themselves.’

  ‘Yes, those are the compensatory myths; it’s nauseating,’ said Françoise. ‘But it’s not a question of dreaming, it’s a question of willing. That’s different!’

  ‘Elisabeth wants to be a great artist,’ said Xavière. ‘That’s a pretty sight!’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Françoise. ‘I have a feeling that she puts the myth into action the better to believe it, but that she’s incapable of really willing anything.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You think that you’re something ready-made once and for all, but I don’t think so. I think you make yourself what you are of your own free will. It wasn’t pure chance that Pierre was so ambitious in his youth. You know what was said about Victor Hugo? That he was a lunatic who thought he was Victor Hugo’

  ‘I can’t bear Victor Hugo,’ said Xavière. She quickened her pace. ‘Couldn’t we walk a little faster? It’s cold, don’t you think?’

  ‘Let’s walk faster,’ said Françoise. She continued: ‘I do so want to convince you. Why have you so little confidence in yourself?’

  ‘I don’t want to lie to myself,’ said Xavière. ‘I think it’s disgraceful to have blind faith; nothing is certain except what you can put your hand on.’

  She looked at her closed fist with a queer bitter sneer. Françoise looked at her uneasily. What was going on in her mind? Surely during these weeks of peaceful happiness she had not been dormant. A thousand things had been going on inside her, behind her smiles. She had forgotten none of them; they were all there, tucked away, and after throwing off a few sparks, they would cause an explosion one fine day.

  They turned the corner of the rue Blomet. The big red cigar of the café-tobacco-shop came into view.

  ‘Have one of these sweets,’ said Françoise, by way of a diversion.

  ‘No, I don’t like them,’ said Xavière.

  Françoise pressed one of the thin transparent sticks of barley sugar between her fingers.

  ‘I think they have a pleasant taste,’ she said. ‘A dry, pure taste.’

  ‘But I loathe purity,’ said Xavière, screwing up her mouth.

  Again Françoise was struck with anguish. What was too pure? The life in which they were imprisoning Xavière? Pierre’s kisses? She herself? ‘You have such a pure profile,’ Xavière had said to her from time to time. They had reached a door on which was written in bold white letters: Bal Colonial. They went in. A crowd was surging round the pay desk: black, pale yellow, and café-au-lait faces: Françoise got in line to buy two tickets: seven francs for ladies, nine francs for men: the rumba going on behind the wooden partition was throwing all her thoughts into confusion. What precisely had happened? Naturally, it was always inadequate to explain Xavière’s reactions on the basis of a momentary caprice: to find the key to it, she would have had to think back over the events of these past two months; all the same, the old, carefully buried grievances never came to life except through the perversity of the moment. Françoise tried to remember. Along the boulevard Montparnasse, the conversation had been light and easy: and then, instead of continuing, Françoise had suddenly jumped to serious subjects. It happened to be prompted by tenderness, but did she know how to be tender only with words at a time when she had Xavière’s velvety hand in her own and her perfumed hair brushing against her cheek? Was that it? Was it that, was it really her ill-adjusted sense of purity?

  ‘Look, there’s the whole crowd from Dominique’s,’ said Xavière as she walked into the large hall.

  There was the Chanaud girl, Lise Malan, Dourdin, Chaillet … Françoise nodded to them and smiled, while Xavière cast a sleepy glance in their direction; she had not let go of Françoise’s arm, for she did not dislike having people take them for a couple when they entered a place: it was the kind of provocation which gave her amusement.

  ‘That table over there will be fine,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll have a Martinique punch,’ said Françoise.

  ‘I’ll have one too,’ said Xavière. She added contemptuously: ‘I can’t understand how people can stare at one with such bovine vulgarity. And I don’t care a damn, anyway.’

  Françoise experienced real pleasure at feeling herself included in the stupid spite of the whole of that bunch of gossips; she felt that they were being cut off together from the rest of the world and imprisoned in an impassioned tête-à-tête.

  ‘You know, I’ll dance as soon as you like,’ said Françoise. ‘I feel inspired this evening.’ Excepting rumbas, she danced well enough not to look foolish. Xavière’s face brightened.

  ‘Really? It won’t bore you?’

  Xavière put her arm firmly around her. She danced with an absorbed look and without glancing about her, but she was not bovine: she knew how to see without appearing to look; it was even one of the talents in which she took such pride. She found it very gratifying to attract attention and she was not unintentionally holding Françoise tighter than usual, and smiling at her with decided assurance. Françoise returned her smile. Dancing made her head spin a little. She felt Xavière’s beautiful warm breasts against her, she inhaled her sweet breath. Was this desire? But what did she desire? Her lips against hers? Her body surrendered in her arms? She could think of nothing. It was only a confused need to keep for ever this lover’s face turned towards hers, and to be able to say with passion: ‘She is mine.’

  ‘You danced extremely well,’ said Xavière as they reached their table.

  She remained on her feet: the orchestra had struck up a rumba and a mulatto came over and bowed to her with a courteous smile. Françoise sat down at the table with the punch now on it and drank a mouthful of the syrupy liquid. In this huge room, decorated with pale frescoes and resembling in its banality a private banqueting room, most of the faces were coloured; from ebony to pinkish ochre, every shade of skin could be found here. These Negroes danced with untrammelled obscenity, but their movements had
such pure rhythm that in its elemental simplicity the rumba kept the sacred character of a primitive rite. The whites who mingled with them were far less happy; the women, in particular, resembled either inflexible machines or hysterical creatures in a trance. Xavière was the only one whose perfect grace gave the lie to both the obscenity and the decorum.

  Xavière refused a second invitation with a shake of her head and she returned to sit down beside Françoise.

  ‘These Negresses have the very devil in them,’ she said angrily. ‘I’ll never be able to dance like that.’

  She touched her glass with her lips.

  ‘Oh! how sweet that is! I can’t drink it,’ she said.

  ‘You dance extremely well, you know,’ said Françoise.

  ‘Yes, for a civilized person,’ said Xavière scornfully. She was staring at something in the middle of the dance floor. ‘She’s still dancing with that litle creóle,’ she said. Her eyes indicated Lise Malan. ‘She hasn’t let go of him since we arrived.’ She added dolefully: ‘He’s disgracefully pretty.’

  It was quite true. He was attractive, and looked very slender in his tight-fitting fawn-pink jacket. An even more doleful groan escaped from Xavière’s lips.