The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories

by Guy de Maupassant

  It was cold; the gutters were frozen, and the pavement dry and gray in the gas-light. When he got home he thought: “I must change my lodgings; this is no longer good enough for me.” He felt nervous and lively, capable of anything; and he said aloud, as he walked from his bed to the window: “It is fortune at last—it is fortune! I must write to father.” From time to time he wrote to his father, and the letter always brought happiness to the little Norman inn by the roadside, at the summit of the slope overlooking Rouen and the broad valley of the Seine. From time to time, too, he received a blue envelope, addressed in a large, shaky hand, and read the same unvarying lines at the beginning of the paternal epistle. “My Dear Son: This leaves your mother and myself in good health. There is not much news here. I must tell you, however,” etc. In his heart he retained a feeling of interest for the village matters, for the news of the neighbours, and the condition of the crops.

  He repeated to himself, as he tied his white tie before his little looking-glass: “I must write to father tomorrow. Wouldn’t the old fellow be staggered if he could see me this evening in the house I am going to? By Jove! I am going to have such a dinner as he never tasted.” And he suddenly saw the dark kitchen behind the empty café; the copper stewpans casting their yellow reflections on the wall; the cat on the hearth, with her nose to the fire, in sphinx-like attitude; the wooden table, greasy with time and spilt liquids, a soup tureen smoking upon it, and a lighted candle between two plates. He saw them, too—his father and mother, two slow-moving peasants, eating their soup. He knew the smallest wrinkles on their old faces, the slightest movements of their arms and heads. He knew even what they talked about every evening as they sat at supper. He thought, too: “I must really go and see them;” but his toilet being ended, he blew out his light and went downstairs.

  As he passed along the outer boulevard girls accosted him from time to time. He replied, as he pulled away his arm: “Go to the devil!” with a violent disdain, as though they had insulted him. What did they take him for? Could not these hussies tell what a man was? The sensation of his dress coat, put on in order to go to dinner with such well-known and important people, inspired him with the sentiment of a new impersonality—the sense of having become another man, a man in society, genuine society.

  He entered the ante-room, lit by tall bronze candelabra, with confidence, and handed in easy fashion his cane and overcoat to two valets who approached. All the drawing-rooms were lit up. Madame Walter received her guests in the second, the largest. She welcomed him with a charming smile, and he shook hands with two gentlemen who had arrived before him—Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu, deputies, and anonymous editors of the Vie Francaise. Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu had a special authority at the paper, due to a great influence he enjoyed in the Chamber. No one doubted his being a minister some day. Then came the Forestiers; the wife in pink, and looking charming. Duroy was stupefied to see her on terms of intimacy with the two deputies. She chatted in low tones beside the fireplace, for more than five minutes, with Monsieur Laroche-Mathieu. Charles seemed worn out. He had grown much thinner during the past month, and coughed incessantly as he repeated: “I must make up my mind to finish the winter in the south.” Norbert de Varenne and Jacques Rival made their appearance together. Then a door having opened at the further end of the room, Monsieur Walter came in with two tall young girls, of from sixteen to eighteen, one ugly and the other pretty.

  Duroy knew that the governor was the father of a family; but he was struck with astonishment. He had never thought of his daughters, save as one thinks of distant countries which one will never see. And then he had fancied them quite young, and here they were grown-up women. They held out their hands to him after being introduced, and then went and sat down at a little table, without doubt reserved to them, at which they began to turn over a number of reels of silk in a work-basket. They were still awaiting someone, and all were silent with that sense of oppression, preceding dinners, between people who do not find themselves in the same mental atmosphere after the different occupations of the day.

  Duroy having, for want of occupation, raised his eyes towards the wall, Monsieur Walter called to him from a distance, with an evident wish to show off his property: “Are you looking at my pictures? I will show them to you,” and he took a lamp, so that the details might be distinguished.

  “Here we have landscapes,” said he.

  In the center of the wall was a large canvas by Guillemet, a bit of the Normandy coast under a lowering sky. Below it a wood, by Harpignies, and a plain in Algeria, by Guillemet, with a camel on the horizon, a tall camel with long legs, like some strange monument. Monsieur Walter passed on to the next wall, and announced in a grave tone, like a master of the ceremonies: “High Art.” There were four: “A Hospital Visit,” by Gervex; “A Harvester,” by Bastien-Lepage; “A Widow,” by Bouguereau; and “An Execution,” by Jean Paul Laurens. The last work represented a Vendean priest shot against the wall of his church by a detachment of Blues. A smile flitted across the governor’s grave countenance as he indicated the next wall. “Here the fanciful school.” First came a little canvas by Jean Beraud, entitled, “Above and Below.” It was a pretty Parisian mounting to the roof of a tramcar in motion. Her head appeared on a level with the top, and the gentlemen on the seats viewed with satisfaction the pretty face approaching them, while those standing on the platform below considered the young woman’s legs with a different expression of envy and desire. Monsieur Walter held the lamp at arm’s length, and repeated, with a sly laugh: “It is funny, isn’t it?” Then he lit up “A Rescue,” by Lambert. In the middle of a table a kitten, squatted on its haunches, was watching with astonishment and perplexity a fly drowning in a glass of water. It had its paw raised ready to fish out the insect with a rapid sweep of it. But it had not quite made up its mind. It hesitated. What would it do? Then the governor showed a Detaille, “The Lesson,” which represented a soldier in a barrack-room teaching a poodle to play the drum, and said: “That is very witty.”

  Duroy laughed a laugh of approbation, and exclaimed: “It is charming, charm—” He stopped short on hearing behind him the voice of Madame de Marelle, who had just come in.

  The governor continued to light up the pictures as he explained them. He now showed a water-color by Maurice Leloir, “The Obstacle.” It was a sedan chair checked on its way, the street being blocked by a fight between two laborers, two fellows struggling like Hercules. From out of the window of the chair peered the head of a charming woman, who watched without impatience, without alarm, and with a certain admiration, the combat of these two brutes. Monsieur Walter continued: “I have others in the adjoining rooms, but they are by less known men. I buy of the young artists now, the very young ones, and hang their works in the more private rooms until they become known.” He then went on in a low tone: “Now is the time to buy! The painters are all dying of hunger! They have not a sou, not a sou!”

  But Duroy saw nothing, and heard without understanding. Madame de Marelle was there behind him. What ought he to do? If he spoke to her, might she not turn her back on him, or treat him with insolence? If he did not approach her, what would people think? He said to himself: “I will gain time, at any rate.” He was so moved that for a moment he thought of feigning a sudden illness, which would allow him to withdraw. The examination of the walls was over. The governor went to put down his lamp and welcome the last comer, while Duroy began to re-examine the pictures as if he could not tire of admiring them. He was quite upset. What should he do? Madame Forestier called to him: “Monsieur Duroy.” He went to her. It was to speak to him of a friend of hers who was about to give a fête, and who would like to have a line to that effect in the Vie Francaise. He gasped out: “Certainly, Madame, certainly.”

  Madame de Marelle was now quite close to him. He dared not turn round to go away. All at once he thought he was going mad; she had said aloud: “Good evening, Pretty-boy. So you no longer recognize me.”

  He ra
pidly turned on his heels. She stood before him smiling, her eyes beaming with sprightliness and affection, and held out her hand. He took it tremblingly, still fearing some trick, some perfidy. She added, calmly: “What has become of you? One no longer sees anything of you.”

  He stammered, without being able to recover his coolness: “I have a great deal to do, Madame, a great deal to do. Monsieur Walter has entrusted me with new duties which give me a great deal of occupation.”

  She replied, still looking him in the face, but without his being able to discover anything save good will in her glance: “I know it. But that is no reason for forgetting your friends.”

  They were separated by a lady who came in, with red arms and red face, a stout lady in a very low dress, got up with pretentiousness, and walking so heavily that one guessed by her motions the size and weight of her legs. As she seemed to be treated with great attention, Duroy asked Madame Forestier: “Who is that lady?”

  “The Viscomtesse de Percemur, who signs her articles ‘Lily Fingers.’”

  He was astounded, and seized on by an inclination to laugh.

  “‘Lily Fingers!’ ‘Lily Fingers!’ and I imagined her young like yourself. So that is ‘Lily Fingers.’ That is very funny, very funny.”

  A servant appeared in the doorway and announced dinner. The dinner was commonplace and lively, one of those dinners at which people talk about everything, without saying anything. Duroy found himself between the elder daughter of the master of the house, the ugly one, Mademoiselle Rose and Madame de Marelle. The neighborhood of the latter made him feel very ill at ease, although she seemed very much at her ease, and chatted with her usual vivacity. He was troubled at first, constrained, hesitating, like a musician who has lost the keynote. By degrees, however, he recovered his assurance, and their eyes continually meeting questioned one another, exchanging looks in an intimate, almost sensual, fashion as of old. All at once he thought he felt something brush against his foot under the table. He softly pushed forward his leg and encountered that of his neighbor, which did not shrink from the contact. They did not speak, each being at that moment turned towards their neighbor. Duroy, his heart beating, pushed a little harder with his knee. A slight pressure replied to him. Then he understood that their loves were beginning anew. What did they say then? Not much, but their lips quivered every time that they looked at one another.

  The young fellow, however, wishing to do the amiable to his employer’s daughter, spoke to her from time to time. She replied as the mother would have done, never hesitating as to what she should say. On the right of Monsieur Walter the Viscomtesse de Percemur gave herself the airs of a princess, and Duroy, amused at watching her, said in a low voice to Madame de Marelle. “Do you know the other, the one who signs herself ‘Pink Domino’?”

  “Yes, very well, the Baroness de Livar.”

  “Is she of the same breed?”

  “No, but quite as funny. A tall, dried-up woman of sixty, false curls, projecting teeth, ideas dating from the Restoration, and toilets of the same epoch.”

  “Where did they unearth these literary phenomena?”

  “The scattered waifs of the nobility are always sheltered by enriched cits.”

  “No other reason?”

  “None.”

  Then a political discussion began between the master of the house, the two deputies, Norbert de Varenne, and Jacques Rival, and lasted till dessert.

  When they returned to the drawing-room, Duroy again approached Madame de Marelle, and looking her in the eyes, said: “Shall I see you home tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Monsieur Laroche Mathieu, who is my neighbor, drops me at my door every time I dine here.”

  “When shall I see you?”

  “Come and lunch with me tomorrow.”

  And they separated without saying anything more.

  Duroy did not remain late, finding the evening dull. As he went downstairs he overtook Norbert de Varenne, who was also leaving. The old poet took him by the arm. No longer having to fear any rivalry as regards the paper, their work being essentially different, he now manifested a fatherly kindness towards the young fellow.

  “Well, will you walk home a bit of my way with me?” said he.

  “With pleasure, my dear master,” replied Duroy.

  And they went out, walking slowly along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Paris was almost deserted that night—a cold night—one of those nights that seem vaster, as it were, than others, when the stars seem higher above, and the air seems to bear on its icy breath something coming from further than even the stars. The two men did not speak at first. Then Duroy, in order to say something, remarked: “Monsieur Laroche Mathieu seems very intelligent and well informed.”

  The old poet murmured: “Do you think so?”

  The young fellow, surprised at this remark, hesitated in replying: “Yes; besides, he passes for one of the most capable men in the Chamber.”

  “It is possible. In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king. All these people are commonplace because their mind is shut in between two walls, money and politics. They are dullards, my dear fellow, with whom it is impossible to talk about anything we care for. Their minds are at the bottom mud, or rather sewage; like the Seine Asnières. Ah! how difficult it is to find a man with breadth of thought, one who causes you the same sensation as the breeze from across the broad ocean one breathes on the seashore. I have known some such; they are dead.”

  Norbert de Varenne spoke with a clear but restrained voice, which would have rung out in the silence of the night had he given it rein. He seemed excited and sad, and went on: “What matter, besides, a little more or less talent, since all must come to an end.”

  He was silent, and Duroy, who felt light hearted that evening, said with a smile: “You are gloomy today, dear master.”

  The poet replied: “I am always so, my lad, so will you be in a few years. Life is a hill. As long as one is climbing up one looks towards the summit and is happy, but when one reaches the top one suddenly perceives the descent before one, and its bottom, which is death. One climbs up slowly, but one goes down quickly. At your age a man is happy. He hopes for many things, which, by the way, never come to pass. At mine, one no longer expects anything—but death.”

  Duroy began to laugh: “You make me shudder all over.”

  Norbert de Varenne went on: “No, you do not understand me now, but later on you will remember what I am saying to you at this moment. A day comes, and it comes early for many, when there is an end to mirth, for behind everything one looks at one sees death. You do not even understand the word. At your age it means nothing; at mine it is terrible. Yes, one understands it all at once, one does not know how or why, and then everything in life changes its aspect. For fifteen years I have felt death assail me as if I bore within me some gnawing beast. I have felt myself decaying little by little, month by month, hour by hour, like a house crumbling to ruin. Death has disfigured me so completely that I do not recognize myself. I have no longer anything about me of myself—of the fresh, strong man I was at thirty. I have seen death whiten my black hairs, and with what skillful and spiteful slowness. Death has taken my firm skin, my muscles, my teeth, my whole body of old, only leaving me a despairing soul, soon to be taken too. Every step brings me nearer to death, every moment, every breath hastens his odious work. To breathe, sleep, drink, eat, work, dream, everything we do is to die. To live, in short, is to die. I now see death so near that I often want to stretch my arms to push it back. I see it everywhere. The insects crushed on the path, the falling leaves, the white hair in a friend’s head, rend my heart and cry to me, “Behold it!” It spoils for me all I do, all I see, all that I eat and drink, all that I love; the bright moonlight, the sunrise, the broad ocean, the noble rivers, and the soft summer evening air so sweet to breathe.”

  He walked on slowly, dreaming aloud, almost forgetting that he had a listener: “And no one ever returns—
never. The model of a statue may be preserved, but my body, my face, my thoughts, my desires will never reappear again. And yet millions of beings will be born with a nose, eyes, forehead, cheeks, and mouth like me, and also a soul like me, without my ever returning, without even anything recognizable of me appearing in these countless different beings. What can we cling to? What can we believe in? All religions are stupid, with their puerile morality and their egoistical promises, monstrously absurd. Death alone is certain.”

  He stopped, reflected for a few moments, and then, with a look of resignation, said: “I am a lost creature. I have neither father nor mother, nor sister nor brother; no wife, no children, no God.”

  He added, after a pause: “I have only verse.”

  They reached the Pont de la Concorde, crossed it in silence, and walked past the Palais Bourbon. Norbert de Varenne began to speak again, saying: “Marry, my friend; you do not know what it is to live alone at my age. Solitude now fills me with horrible agony—solitude at home by the fireside of a night. It is so profound, so sad; the silence of the room in which one dwells alone. It is not alone silence about the body, but silence about the soul; and when the furniture creaks I shudder to the heart, for no sound but is unexpected in my gloomy dwelling.” He was silent again for a moment, and then added: “When one is old it is well, all the same, to have children.”

  They had got half way down the Rue de Bourgoyne. The poet halted in front of a tall house, rang the bell, shook Duroy by the hand, and said: “Forget all this old man’s doddering, youngster, and live as befits your age. Good-night.”

  And he disappeared in the dark passage.

  Duroy resumed his route with a pain at his heart. It seemed to him as though he had been shown a hole filled with bones, an unavoidable gulf into which all must fall one day. He muttered: “By Jove, it can’t be very lively in his place. I should not care for a front seat to see the procession of his thoughts go by. The deuce, no.”