The Guy De Maupassant Megapack (R)
Page 192
“You will write today?” he said.
“Directly. Now; at once. I will go and do so. I do not care for any coffee this morning; I am too nervous.”
He rose and left the room.
Then Jean turned to his mother:
“And you, mother, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I do not know.”
“Will you come with me to call on Mme. Rosemilly?”
“Why, yes—yes.”
“You know I must positively go to see her today.”
“Yes, yes. To be sure.”
“Why must you positively?” asked Roland, whose habit it was never to understand what was said in his presence.
“Because I promised her I would.”
“Oh, very well. That alters the case.” And he began to fill his pipe, while the mother and son went upstairs to make ready.
When they were in the street Jean said:
“Will you take my arm, mother?”
He was never accustomed to offer it, for they were in the habit of walking side by side. She accepted and leaned on him.
For some time they did not speak; then he said:
“You see that Pierre is quite ready and willing to go away.”
She murmured:
“Poor boy!”
“But why ‘poor boy’? He will not be in the least unhappy on board the Lorraine.”
“No—I know. But I was thinking of so many things.”
And she thought for a long time, her head bent, accommodating her step to her son’s; then, in the peculiar voice in which we sometimes give utterance to the conclusion of long and secret meditations, she exclaimed:
“How horrible life is! If by any chance we come across any sweetness in it, we sin in letting ourselves be happy, and pay dearly for it afterward.”
He said in a whisper:
“Do not speak of that any more, mother.”
“Is that possible? I think of nothing else.”
“You will forget it.”
Again she was silent; then with deep regret she said:
“How happy I might have been, married to another man!”
She was visiting it on Roland now, throwing all the responsibility of her sin on his ugliness, his stupidity, his clumsiness, the heaviness of his intellect, and the vulgarity of his person. It was to this that it was owing that she had betrayed him, had driven one son to desperation, and had been forced to utter to the other the most agonizing confession that can make a mother’s heart bleed. She muttered: “It is so frightful for a young girl to have to marry such a husband as mine.”
Jean made no reply. He was thinking of the man he had hitherto believed to be his father; and possibly the vague notion he had long since conceived, of that father’s inferiority, with his brother’s constant irony, the scornful indifference of others, and the very maid-servant’s contempt for Roland, had somewhat prepared his mind for his mother’s terrible avowal. It had all made it less dreadful to him to find that he was another man’s son; and if, after the great shock and agitation of the previous evening, he had not suffered the reaction of rage, indignation, and rebellion which Mme. Roland had feared, it was because he had long been unconsciously chafing under the sense of being the child of this well-meaning lout.
They had now reached the dwelling of Mme. Rosemilly.
She lived on the road to Sainte-Adresse, on the second floor of a large tenement which she owned. The windows commanded a view of the whole roadstead.
On seeing Mme. Roland, who entered first, instead of merely holding out her hands as usual, she put her arms round her and kissed her, for she divined the purpose of her visit.
The furniture of this drawing-room, all in stamped velvet, was always shrouded in chair-covers. The walls, hung with flowered paper, were graced by four engravings, the purchase of her late husband, the captain. They represented sentimental scenes of seafaring life. In the first a fisherman’s wife was seen, waving a handkerchief on shore, while the vessel which bore away her husband vanished on the horizon. In the second the same woman, on her knees on the same shore, under a sky shot with lightning, wrung her arms as she gazed into the distance at her husband’s boat which was going to the bottom amid impossible waves.
The others represented similar scenes in a higher rank of society. A young lady with fair hair, resting her elbows on the ledge of a large steamship quitting the shore, gazed at the already distant coast with eyes full of tears and regret. Whom is she leaving behind?
Then the same young lady sitting by an open widow with a view of the sea, had fainted in an arm-chair; a letter she had dropped lay at her feet. So he is dead! What despair!
Visitors were generally much moved and charmed by the commonplace pathos of these obvious and sentimental works. They were at once intelligible without question or explanation, and the poor women were to be pitied, though the nature of the grief of the more elegant of the two was not precisely known. But this very doubt contributed to the sentiment. She had, no doubt, lost her lover. On entering the room the eye was immediately attracted to these four pictures, and riveted as if fascinated. If it wandered it was only to return and contemplate the four expressions on the faces of the two women, who were as like each other as two sisters. And the very style of these works, in their shining frames, crisp, sharp, and highly finished, with the elegance of a fashion plate, suggested a sense of cleanliness and propriety which was confirmed by the rest of the fittings. The seats were always in precisely the same order, some against the wall and some round the circular centre-table. The immaculately white curtains hung in such straight and regular pleats that one longed to crumple them a little; and never did a grain of dust rest on the shade under which the gilt clock, in the taste of the first empire—a terrestrial globe supported by Atlas on his knees—looked like a melon left there to ripen.
The two women as they sat down somewhat altered the normal position of their chairs.
“You have not been out this morning?” asked Mme. Roland.
“No. I must own to being rather tired.”
And she spoke as if in gratitude to Jean and his mother, of all the pleasure she had derived from the expedition and the prawn-fishing.
“I ate my prawns this morning,” she added, “and they were excellent. If you felt inclined we might go again one of these days.”
The young man interrupted her:
“Before we start on a second fishing excursion, suppose we complete the first?”
“Complete it? It seems to me quite finished.”
“Nay, madame, I, for my part, caught something on the rocks of Saint Jouain which I am anxious to carry home with me.”
She put on an innocent and knowing look.
“You? What can it be? What can you have found?”
“A wife. And my mother and I have come to ask you whether she had changed her mind this morning.”
She smiled: “No, monsieur. I never change my mind.”
And then he held out his hand, wide open, and she put hers into it with a quick, determined movement. Then he said: “As soon as possible, I hope.”
“As soon as you like.”
“In six weeks?”
“I have no opinion. What does my future mother-in-law say?”
Mme. Roland replied with a rather melancholy smile:
“I? Oh, I can say nothing. I can only thank you for having accepted Jean, for you will make him very happy.”
“We will do our best, mamma.”
Somewhat overcome, for the first time, Mme. Rosemilly rose, and throwing her arms round Mme. Roland, kissed her a long time as a child of her own might have done; and under this new embrace the poor woman’s sick heart swelled with deep emotion. She could not have expressed the feeling; it was at once sad and sweet. She had lost her son, her big boy, but in return she had found a daughter, a grown-up daughter.
When they faced each other again, and were seated, they took hands and remained so, looking at each and smiling, while they seeme
d to have forgotten Jean.
Then they discussed a number of things which had to be thought of in view of an early marriage, and when everything was settled and decided Mme. Rosemilly seemed suddenly to remember a further detail and asked: “You have consulted M. Roland, I suppose?”
A flush of colour mounted at the same instant on the face of both mother and son. It was the mother who replied:
“Oh, no, it is quite unnecessary!” Then she hesitated, feeling that some explanation was needed, and added: “We do everything without saying anything to him. It is enough to tell him what we have decided on.”
Mme. Rosemilly, not in the least surprised, only smiled, taking it as a matter of course, for the good man counted for so little.
When Mme. Roland was in the street again with her son she said:
“Suppose we go to your rooms for a little while. I should be glad to rest.”
She felt herself homeless, shelterless, her own house being a terror to her.
They went into Jean’s apartments.
As soon as the door was closed upon her she heaved a deep sigh, as if that bolt had placed her in safety, but then, instead of resting as she had said, she began to open the cupboards, to count the piles of linen, the pocket-handkerchiefs, and socks. She changed the arrangement to place them in more harmonious order, more pleasing to her housekeeper’s eye; and when she had put everything to her mind, laying out the towels, the shirts, and the drawers on their several shelves and dividing all the linen into three principal classes, body-linen, household-linen, and table-linen, she drew back and contemplated the results, and called out:
“Come here, Jean, and see how nice it looks.”
He went and admired it to please her.
On a sudden, when he had sat down again, she came softly up behind his arm-chair, and putting her right arm round his neck she kissed him, while she laid on the chimney-shelf a small packet wrapped in white paper which she held in the other hand.
“What is that?” he asked. Then, as she made no reply, he understood, recognising the shape of the frame.
“Give it me!” he said.
She pretended not to hear him, and went back to the linen cupboards. He got up hastily, took the melancholy relic, and going across the room, put it in the drawer of his writing-table, which he locked and double locked. She wiped away a tear with the tip of her finger, and said in a rather quavering voice: “Now I am going to see whether your new servant keeps the kitchen in good order. As she is out I can look into everything and make sure.”
CHAPTER IX
Letters of recommendation from Professors Mas-Roussel, Remusot, Flache, and Borriquel, written in the most flattering terms with regard to Dr. Pierre Roland, their pupil, had been submitted by M. Marchand to the directors of the Transatlantic Shipping Co., seconded by M. Poulin, judge of the Chamber of Commerce, M. Lenient, a great ship-owner, and Mr. Marival, deputy to the Mayor of Havre, and a particular friend of Captain Beausires’s. It proved that no medical officer had yet been appointed to the Lorraine, and Pierre was lucky enough to be nominated within a few days.
The letter announcing it was handed to him one morning by Josephine, just as he was dressed. His first feeling was that of a man condemned to death who is told that his sentence is commuted; he had an immediate sense of relief at the thought of his early departure and of the peaceful life on board, cradled by the rolling waves, always wandering, always moving. His life under his father’s roof was now that of a stranger, silent and reserved. Ever since the evening when he allowed the shameful secret he had discovered to escape him in his brother’s presence, he had felt that the last ties to his kindred were broken. He was harassed by remorse for having told this thing to Jean. He felt that it was odious, indecent, and brutal, and yet it was a relief to him to have uttered it.
He never met the eyes either of his mother or his brother; to avoid his gaze theirs had become surprisingly alert, with the cunning of foes who fear to cross each other. He was always wondering: “What can she have said to Jean? Did she confess or deny it? What does my brother believe? What does he think of her—what does he think of me?” He could not guess, and it drove him to frenzy. And he scarcely ever spoke to them, excepting when Roland was by, to avoid his questioning.
As soon as he received the letter announcing his appointment he showed it at once to his family. His father, who was prone to rejoicing over everything, clapped his hands. Jean spoke seriously, though his heart was full of gladness: “I congratulate you with all my heart, for I know there were several other candidates. You certainly owe it to your professors’ letters.”
His mother bent her head and murmured:
“I am very glad you have been successful.”
After breakfast he went to the Company’s offices to obtain information on various particulars, and he asked the name of the doctor on board the Picardie, which was to sail next day, to inquire of him as to the details of his new life and any details he might think useful.
Dr. Pirette having gone on board, Pierre went to the ship, where he was received in a little state-room by a young man with a fair beard, not unlike his brother. They talked together a long time.
In the hollow depths of the huge ship they could hear a confused and continuous commotion; the noise of bales and cases pitched down into the hold mingling with footsteps, voices, the creaking of the machinery lowering the freight, the boatswain’s whistle, and the clatter of chains dragged or wound on to capstans by the snorting and panting engine which sent a slight vibration from end to end of the great vessel.
But when Pierre had left his colleague and found himself in the street once more, a new form of melancholy came down on him, enveloping him like the fogs which roll over the sea, coming up from the ends of the world and holding in their intangible density something mysteriously impure, as it were the pestilential breath of a far-away, unhealthy land.
In his hours of greatest suffering he had never felt himself so sunk in a foul pit of misery. It was as though he had given the last wrench; there was no fibre of attachment left. In tearing up the roots of every affection he had not hitherto had the distressful feeling which now came over him, like that of a lost dog. It was no longer a torturing mortal pain, but the frenzy of a forlorn and homeless animal, the physical anguish of a vagabond creature without a roof for shelter, lashed by the rain, the wind, the storm, all the brutal forces of the universe. As he set foot on the vessel, as he went into the cabin rocked by the waves, the very flesh of the man, who had always slept in a motionless and steady bed, had risen up against the insecurity henceforth of all his morrows. Till now that flesh had been protected by a solid wall built into the earth which held it, by the certainty of resting in the same spot, under a roof which could resist the gale. Now all that, which it was a pleasure to defy in the warmth of home, must become a peril and a constant discomfort. No earth under foot, only the greedy, heaving, complaining sea; no space around for walking, running, losing the way, only a few yards of planks to pace like a convict among other prisoners; no trees, no gardens, no streets, no houses; nothing but water and clouds. And the ceaseless motion of the ship beneath his feet. On stormy days he must lean against the wainscot, hold on to the doors, cling to the edge of the narrow berth to save himself from rolling out. On calm days he would hear the snorting throb of the screw, and feel the swift flight of the ship, bearing him on in its unpausing, regular, exasperating race.
And he was condemned to this vagabond convict’s life solely because his mother had yielded to a man’s caresses.
He walked on, his heart sinking with the despairing sorrow of those who are doomed to exile. He no longer felt a haughty disdain and scornful hatred of the strangers he met, but a woeful impulse to speak to them, to tell them all that he had to quit France, to be listened to and comforted. There was in the very depths of his heart the shame-faced need of a beggar who would fain hold out his hand—a timid but urgent need to feel that some one would grieve at his departing.
When he entered the shop, the druggist, who was pounding powders in a marble mortar, started and left his work.
“You are never to be seen nowadays,” said he.
Pierre explained that he had had a great many serious matters to attend to, but without giving the reason, and he took a seat, asking:
“Well, and how is business doing?”
Business was not doing at all. Competition was fearful, and rich folks rare in that workmen’s quarter. Nothing would sell but cheap drugs, and the doctors did not prescribe the costlier and more complicated remedies on which a profit is made of five hundred per cent. The old fellow ended by saying: “If this goes on for three months I shall shut up shop. If I did not count on you, dear good doctor, I should have turned shoe-black by this time.”
Pierre felt a pang, and made up his mind to deal the blow at once, since it must be done.
“I—oh, I cannot be of any use to you. I am leaving Havre early next month.”
Marowsko took off his spectacles, so great was his agitation.
“You! You! What are you saying?”
“I say that I am going away, my poor friend.”
The old man was stricken, feeling his last hope slipping from under him, and he suddenly turned against this man, whom he had followed, whom he loved, whom he had so implicitly trusted, and who forsook him thus.
He stammered out:
“You are surely not going to play me false—you?”
Pierre was so deeply touched that he felt inclined to embrace the old fellow.
“I am not playing you false. I have not found anything to do here, and I am going as medical officer on board a Transatlantic passenger boat.”
“O Monsieur Pierre! And you always promised you would help me to make a living!”
“What can I do? I must make my own living. I have not a farthing in the world.”
Marowsko said: “It is wrong; what you are doing is very wrong. There is nothing for me but to die of hunger. At my age this is the end of all things. It is wrong. You are forsaking a poor old man who came here to be with you. It is wrong.”