Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant
Short Stories of Guy de MaupassantIntroductionTWO FRIENDSTHE LANCER'S WIFETHE PRISONERSTWO LITTLE SOLDIERSA COUP D'ETATTHE HORRIBLEA DUELEPIPHANYTHE MUSTACHETHE QUESTION OF LATINTHE BLIND MANA FAMILY AFFAIRBESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSETHE DISPENSER OF HOLY WATERTHE DOORTHE IMPOLITE SEXTHE MORIBUNDTHE WRONG HOUSEFAREWELL!THE WOLFTOMBSTONESCLAIR DE LUNEUSELESS BEAUTYA TRESS OF HAIRMOONLIGHTTHE FIRST SNOWFALLSUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOISTHE EFFEMINATESTHE DEVILTHE DIARY OF A MADMANTHE MASKCopyright
Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Maupassant
Introduction
"I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a
thunderbolt." These words of Maupassant to Jose Maria de Heredia on
the occasion of a memorable meeting are, in spite of their morbid
solemnity, not an inexact summing up of the brief career during
which, for ten years, the writer, by turns undaunted and sorrowful,
with the fertility of a master hand produced poetry, novels,
romances and travels, only to sink prematurely into the abyss of
madness and death. . . . .
In the month of April, 1880, an article appeared in the "Le
Gaulois" announcing the publication of the Soirees de Medan. It was
signed by a name as yet unknown: Guy de Maupassant. After a
juvenile diatribe against romanticism and a passionate attack on
languorous literature, the writer extolled the study of real life,
and announced the publication of the new work. It was picturesque
and charming. In the quiet of evening, on an island, in the Seine,
beneath poplars instead of the Neapolitan cypresses dear to the
friends of Boccaccio, amid the continuous murmur of the valley, and
no longer to the sound of the Pyrennean streams that murmured a
faint accompaniment to the tales of Marguerite's cavaliers, the
master and his disciples took turns in narrating some striking or
pathetic episode of the war. And the issue, in collaboration, of
these tales in one volume, in which the master jostled elbows with
his pupils, took on the appearance of a manifesto, the tone of a
challenge, or the utterance of a creed.
In fact, however, the beginnings had been much more simple, and
they had confined themselves, beneath the trees of Medan, to
deciding on a general title for the work. Zola had contributed the
manuscript of the "Attaque du Moulin," and it was at Maupassant's
house that the five young men gave in their contributions. Each one
read his story, Maupassant being the last. When he had finished
Boule de Suif, with a spontaneous impulse, with an emotion they
never forgot, filled with enthusiasm at this revelation, they all
rose and, without superfluous words, acclaimed him as a
master.
He undertook to write the article for the Gaulois and, in
cooperation with his friends, he worded it in the terms with which
we are familiar, amplifying and embellishing it, yielding to an
inborn taste for mystification which his youth rendered excusable.
The essential point, he said, is to "unmoor" criticism.
It was unmoored. The following day Wolff wrote a polemical
dissertation in the Figaro and carried away his colleagues. The
volume was a brilliant success, thanks to Boule de Suif. Despite
the novelty, the honesty of effort, on the part of all, no mention
was made of the other stories. Relegated to the second rank, they
passed without notice. From his first battle, Maupassant was master
of the field in literature.
At once the entire press took him up and said what was appropriate
regarding the budding celebrity. Biographers and reporters sought
information concerning his life. As it was very simple and
perfectly straightforward, they resorted to invention. And thus it
is that at the present day Maupassant appears to us like one of
those ancient heroes whose origin and death are veiled in
mystery.
I will not dwell on Guy de Maupassant's younger days. His
relatives, his old friends, he himself, here and there in his
works, have furnished us in their letters enough valuable
revelations and touching remembrances of the years preceding his
literary debut. His worthy biographer, H. Edouard Maynial, after
collecting intelligently all the writings, condensing and comparing
them, has been able to give us some definite information regarding
that early period.
I will simply recall that he was born on the 5th of August, 1850,
near Dieppe, in the castle of Miromesnil which he describes in Une
Vie. . . .
Maupassant, like Flaubert, was a Norman, through his mother, and
through his place of birth he belonged to that strange and
adventurous race, whose heroic and long voyages on tramp trading
ships he liked to recall. And just as the author of "Education
sentimentale" seems to have inherited in the paternal line the
shrewd realism of Champagne, so de Maupassant appears to have
inherited from his Lorraine ancestors their indestructible
discipline and cold lucidity.
His childhood was passed at Etretat, his beautiful childhood; it
was there that his instincts were awakened in the unfoldment of his
prehistoric soul. Years went by in an ecstasy of physical
happiness. The delight of running at full speed through fields of
gorse, the charm of voyages of discovery in hollows and ravines,
games beneath the dark hedges, a passion for going to sea with the
fishermen and, on nights when there was no moon, for dreaming on
their boats of imaginary voyages.
Mme. de Maupassant, who had guided her son's early reading, and had
gazed with him at the sublime spectacle of nature, put, off as long
as possible the hour of separation. One day, however, she had to
take the child to the little seminary at Yvetot. Later, he became a
student at the college at Rouen, and became a literary
correspondent of Louis Bouilhet. It was at the latter's house on
those Sundays in winter when the Norman rain drowned the sound of
the bells and dashed against the window panes that the school boy
learned to write poetry.
Vacation took the rhetorician back to the north of Normandy. Now it
was shooting at Saint Julien l'Hospitalier, across fields, bogs,
and through the woods. From that time on he sealed his pact with
the earth, and those "deep and delicate roots" which attached him
to his native soil began to grow. It was of Normandy, broad, fresh
and virile, that he would presently demand his inspiration, fervent
and eager as a boy's love; it was in her that he would take refuge
when, weary of life, he would implore a truce, or when he simply
wished to work and revive his energies in old-time joys. It was at
this time that was born in him that voluptuous love of the sea,
which in later days could alone withdraw him from the world, calm
him, console him.
In 1870 he lived in the country, then he came to Paris to live;
for, the family fortunes having dwindled, he had to look for a
position. For several years he was a clerk in the Ministry of
Marine, where he turned over musty papers, in the uninteresting
company of the clerks of the admiralty.
Then he went into the department of Public Instruction, where
bureaucratic servility is less intolerable. The daily duties are
certainly scarcely more onerous and he had as chiefs, or
colleagues, Xavier Charmes and Leon Dierx, Henry Roujon and Rene
Billotte, but his office looked out on a beautiful melancholy
garden with immense plane trees around which black circles of crows
gathered in winter.
Maupassant made two divisions of his spare hours, one for boating,
and the other for literature. Every evening in spring, every free
day, he ran down to the river whose mysterious current veiled in
fog or sparkling in the sun called to him and bewitched him. In the
islands in the Seine between Chatou and Port-Marly, on the banks of
Sartrouville and Triel he was long noted among the population of
boatmen, who have now vanished, for his unwearying biceps, his
cynical gaiety of good-fellowship, his unfailing practical jokes,
his broad witticisms. Sometimes he would row with frantic speed,
free and joyous, through the glowing sunlight on the stream;
sometimes, he would wander along the coast, questioning the
sailors, chatting with the ravageurs, or junk gatherers, or
stretched at full length amid the irises and tansy he would lie for
hours watching the frail insects that play on the surface of the
stream, water spiders, or white butterflies, dragon flies, chasing
each other amid the willow leaves, or frogs asleep on the
lily-pads.
The rest of his life was taken up by his work. Without ever
becoming despondent, silent and persistent, he accumulated
manuscripts, poetry, criticisms, plays, romances and novels. Every
week he docilely submitted his work to the great Flaubert, the
childhood friend of his mother and his uncle Alfred Le Poittevin.
The master had consented to assist the young man, to reveal to him
the secrets that make chefs-d'oeuvre immortal. It was he who
compelled him to make copious research and to use direct
observation and who inculcated in him a horror of vulgarity and a
contempt for facility.
Maupassant himself tells us of those severe initiations in the Rue
Murillo, or in the tent at Croisset; he has recalled the implacable
didactics of his old master, his tender brutality, the paternal
advice of his generous and candid heart. For seven years Flaubert
slashed, pulverized, the awkward attempts of his pupil whose
success remained uncertain.
Suddenly, in a flight of spontaneous perfection, he wrote Boule de
Suif. His master's joy was great and overwhelming. He died two
months later.
Until the end Maupassant remained illuminated by the reflection of
the good, vanished giant, by that touching reflection that comes
from the dead to those souls they have so profoundly stirred. The
worship of Flaubert was a religion from which nothing could
distract him, neither work, nor glory, nor slow moving waves, nor
balmy nights.
At the end of his short life, while his mind was still clear: he
wrote to a friend: "I am always thinking of my poor Flaubert, and I
say to myself that I should like to die if I were sure that anyone
would think of me in the same manner."
During these long years of his novitiate Maupassant had entered the
social literary circles. He would remain silent, preoccupied; and
if anyone, astonished at his silence, asked him about his plans he
answered simply: "I am learning my trade." However, under the
pseudonym of Guy de Valmont, he had sent some articles to the
newspapers, and, later, with the approval and by the advice of
Flaubert, he published, in the "Republique des Lettres," poems
signed by his name.
These poems, overflowing with sensuality, where the hymn to the
Earth describes the transports of physical possession, where the
impatience of love expresses itself in loud melancholy appeals like
the calls of animals in the spring nights, are valuable chiefly
inasmuch as they reveal the creature of instinct, the fawn escaped
from his native forests, that Maupassant was in his early youth.
But they add nothing to his glory. They are the "rhymes of a prose
writer" as Jules Lemaitre said. To mould the expression of his
thought according to the strictest laws, and to "narrow it down" to
some extent, such was his aim. Following the example of one of his
comrades of Medan, being readily carried away by precision of style
and the rhythm of sentences, by the imperious rule of the ballad,
of the pantoum or the chant royal, Maupassant also desired to write
in metrical lines. However, he never liked this collection that he
often regretted having published. His encounters with prosody had
left him with that monotonous weariness that the horseman and the
fencer feel after a period in the riding school, or a bout with the
foils.
Such, in very broad lines, is the story of Maupassant's literary
apprenticeship.
The day following the publication of "Boule de Suif," his
reputation began to grow rapidly. The quality of his story was
unrivalled, but at the same time it must be acknowledged that there
were some who, for the sake of discussion, desired to place a young
reputation in opposition to the triumphant brutality of Zola.
From this time on, Maupassant, at the solicitation of the entire
press, set to work and wrote story after story. His talent, free
from all influences, his individuality, are not disputed for a
moment. With a quick step, steady and alert, he advanced to fame, a
fame of which he himself was not aware, but which was so universal,
that no contemporary author during his life ever experienced the
same. The "meteor" sent out its light and its rays were prolonged
without limit, in article after article, volume on volume.
He was now rich and famous . . . . He is esteemed all the more as
they believe him to be rich and happy. But they do not know that
this young fellow with the sunburnt face, thick neck and salient
muscles whom they invariably compare to a young bull at liberty,
and whose love affairs they whisper, is ill, very ill. At the very
moment that success came to him, the malady that never afterwards
left him came also, and, seated motionless at his side, gazed at
him with its threatening countenance. He suffered from terrible
headaches, followed by nights of insomnia. He had nervous attacks,
which he soothed with narcotics and anesthetics, which he used
freely. His sight, which had troubled him at intervals, became
affected, and a celebrated oculist spoke of abnormality, asymetry
of the pupils. The famous young man trembled in secret and was
haunted by all kinds of terrors.
The reader is charmed at the saneness of this revived art and yet,
here and there, he is surprised to discover, amid descriptions of
nature that are full of humanity, disquieting flights towards the
supernatural, distressing conjurations, veiled at first, of the
most commonplace, the most vertiginous shuddering fits of fear, as
old as the world and as eternal as the unknown. But, instead of
being alarmed, he thinks that the author must be gifted with
infallible intuition to follow out thus the taints in his
characters, even through their most dangerous mazes. The reader
does not know that these hallucinations which he describes so
minutely were experienced by Maupassant himself; he does not know
that the fear is in himself, the anguish of fear "which is not
caused by the presence of danger, or of inevitable death, but by
certain abnormal conditions, by certain mysterious influences in
presence of vague dangers," the "fear of fear, the dread of that
horrible sensation of incomprehensible terror."
How can one explain these physical sufferings and this morbid
distress that were known for some time to his intimates alone?
Alas! the explanation is only too simple. All his life, consciously
or unconsciously, Maupassant fought this malady, hidden as yet,
which was latent in him.
As his malady began to take a more definite form, he turned his
steps towards the south, only visiting Paris to see his physicians
and publishers. In the old port of Antibes beyond the causeway of
Cannes, his yacht, Bel Ami, which he cherished as a brother, lay at
anchor and awaited him. He took it to the white cities of the
Genoese Gulf, towards the palm trees of Hyeres, or the red bay
trees of Antheor.
After several tragic weeks in which, from instinct, he made a
desperate fight, on the 1st of January, 1892, he felt he was
hopelessly vanquished, and in a moment of supreme clearness of
intellect, like Gerard de Nerval, he attempted suicide. Less
fortunate than the author of Sylvia, he was unsuccessful. But his
mind, henceforth "indifferent to all unhappiness," had entered into
eternal darkness.
He was taken back to Paris and placed in Dr. Meuriot's sanatorium,
where, after eighteen months of mechanical existence, the "meteor"
quietly passed away.
TWO FRIENDS
Besieged Paris was in the throes of famine. Even the sparrows on
the roofs and the rats in the sewers were growing scarce. People
were eating anything they could get.
As Monsieur Morissot, watchmaker by profession and idler for the
nonce, was strolling along the boulevard one bright January
morning, his hands in his trousers pockets and stomach empty, he
suddenly came face to face with an acquaintance—Monsieur Sauvage, a
fishing chum.
Before the war broke out Morissot had been in the habit, every
Sunday morning, of setting forth with a bamboo rod in his hand and
a tin box on his back. He took the Argenteuil train, got out at
Colombes, and walked thence to the Ile Marante. The moment he
arrived at this place of his dreams he began fishing, and fished
till nightfall.
Every Sunday he met in this very spot Monsieur Sauvage, a stout,
jolly, little man, a draper in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and
also an ardent fisherman. They often spent half the day side by
side, rod in hand and feet dangling over the water, and a warm
friendship had sprung up between the two.
Some days they did not speak; at other times they chatted; but they
understood each other perfectly without the aid of words, having
similar tastes and feelings.
In the spring, about ten o'clock in the morning, when the early sun
caused a light mist to float on the water and gently warmed the
backs of the two enthusiastic anglers, Morissot would occasionally
remark to his neighbor:
"My, but it's pleasant here."
To which the other would reply:
"I can't imagine anything better!"
And these few words sufficed to make them understand and appreciate
each other.
In the autumn, toward the close of day, when the setting sun shed a
blood-red glow over the western sky, and the reflection of the
crimson clouds tinged the whole river with red, brought a glow to
the faces of the two friends, and gilded the trees, whose leaves
were already turning at the first chill touch of winter, Monsieur
Sauvage would sometimes smile at Morissot, and say:
"What a glorious spectacle!"
And Morissot would answer, without taking his eyes from his
float:
"This is much better than the boulevard, isn't it?"
As soon as they recognized each other they shook hands cordially,
affected at the thought of meeting under such changed
circumstances.
Monsieur Sauvage, with a sigh, murmured:
"These are sad times!"
Morissot shook his head mournfully.
"And such weather! This is the first fine day of the year."
The sky was, in fact, of a bright, cloudless blue.
They walked along, side by side, reflective and sad.
"And to think of the fishing!" said Morissot. "What good times we
used to have!"
"When shall we be able to fish again?" asked Monsieur
Sauvage.
They entered a small cafe and took an absinthe together, then
resumed their walk along the pavement.
Morissot stopped suddenly.
"Shall we have another absinthe?" he said.
"If you like," agreed Monsieur Sauvage.
And they entered another wine shop.
They were quite unsteady when they came out, owing to the effect of
the alcohol on their empty stomachs. It was a fine, mild day, and a
gentle breeze fanned their faces.
The fresh air completed the effect of the alcohol on Monsieur
Sauvage. He stopped suddenly, saying:
"Suppose we go there?"
"Where?"
"Fishing."
"But where?"
"Why, to the old place. The French outposts are close to Colombes.
I know Colonel Dumoulin, and we shall easily get leave to
pass."
Morissot trembled with desire.
"Very well. I agree."
And they separated, to fetch their rods and lines.
An hour later they were walking side by side on the-highroad.
Presently they reached the villa occupied by the colonel. He smiled
at their request, and granted it. They resumed their walk,
furnished with a password.
Soon they left the outposts behind them, made their way through
deserted Colombes, and found themselves on the outskirts of the
small vineyards which border the Seine. It was about eleven
o'clock.
Before them lay the village of Argenteuil, apparently lifeless. The
heights of Orgement and Sannois dominated the landscape. The great
plain, extending as far as Nanterre, was empty, quite empty-a waste
of dun-colored soil and bare cherry trees.
Monsieur Sauvage, pointing to the heights, murmured:
"The Prussians are up yonder!"
And the sight of the deserted country filled the two friends with
vague misgivings.
The Prussians! They had never seen them as yet, but they had felt
their presence in the neighborhood of Paris for months past—ruining
France, pillaging, massacring, starving them. And a kind of
superstitious terror mingled with the hatred they already felt
toward this unknown, victorious nation.
"Suppose we were to meet any of them?" said Morissot.
"We'd offer them some fish," replied Monsieur Sauvage, with that
Parisian light-heartedness which nothing can wholly quench.
Still, they hesitated to show themselves in the open country,
overawed by the utter silence which reigned around them.
At last Monsieur Sauvage said boldly:
"Come, we'll make a start; only let us be careful!"
And they made their way through one of the vineyards, bent double,
creeping along beneath the cover afforded by the vines, with eye
and ear alert.
A strip of bare ground remained to be crossed before they could
gain the river bank. They ran across this, and, as soon as they
were at the water's edge, concealed themselves among the dry
reeds.
Morissot placed his ear to the ground, to ascertain, if possible,
whether footsteps were coming their way. He heard nothing. They
seemed to be utterly alone.
Their confidence was restored, and they began to fish.
Before them the deserted Ile Marante hid them from the farther
shore. The little restaurant was closed, and looked as if it had
been deserted for years.
Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Monsieur Morissot the
second, and almost every moment one or other raised his line with a
little, glittering, silvery fish wriggling at the end; they were
having excellent sport.
They slipped their catch gently into a close-meshed bag lying at
their feet; they were filled with joy—the joy of once more
indulging in a pastime of which they had long been deprived.
The sun poured its rays on their backs; they no longer heard
anything or thought of anything. They ignored the rest of the
world; they were fishing.
But suddenly a rumbling sound, which seemed to come from the bowels
of the earth, shook the ground beneath them: the cannon were
resuming their thunder.
Morissot turned his head and could see toward the left, beyond the
banks of the river, the formidable outline of Mont-Valerien, from
whose summit arose a white puff of smoke.
The next instant a second puff followed the first, and in a few
moments a fresh detonation made the earth tremble.
Others followed, and minute by minute the mountain gave forth its
deadly breath and a white puff of smoke, which rose slowly into the
peaceful heaven and floated above the summit of the cliff.
Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders.
"They are at it again!" he said.
Morissot, who was anxiously watching his float bobbing up and down,
was suddenly seized with the angry impatience of a peaceful man
toward the madmen who were firing thus, and remarked
indignantly:
"What fools they are to kill one another like that!"
"They're worse than animals," replied Monsieur Sauvage.
And Morissot, who had just caught a bleak, declared:
"And to think that it will be just the same so long as there are
governments!"
"The Republic would not have declared war," interposed Monsieur
Sauvage.
Morissot interrupted him:
"Under a king we have foreign wars; under a republic we have civil
war."
And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the
sound common sense of peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens—agreeing on
one point: that they would never be free. And Mont-Valerien
thundered ceaselessly, demolishing the houses of the French with
its cannon balls, grinding lives of men to powder, destroying many
a dream, many a cherished hope, many a prospective happiness;
ruthlessly causing endless woe and suffering in the hearts of
wives, of daughters, of mothers, in other lands.
"Such is life!" declared Monsieur Sauvage.
"Say, rather, such is death!" replied Morissot, laughing.
But they suddenly trembled with alarm at the sound of footsteps
behind them, and, turning round, they perceived close at hand four
tall, bearded men, dressed after the manner of livery servants and
wearing flat caps on their heads. They were covering the two
anglers with their rifles.
The rods slipped from their owners' grasp and floated away down the
river.
In the space of a few seconds they were seized, bound, thrown into
a boat, and taken across to the Ile Marante.
And behind the house they had thought deserted were about a score
of German soldiers.
A shaggy-looking giant, who was bestriding a chair and smoking a
long clay pipe, addressed them in excellent French with the
words:
"Well, gentlemen, have you had good luck with your fishing?"
Then a soldier deposited at the officer's feet the bag full of
fish, which he had taken care to bring away. The Prussian
smiled.
"Not bad, I see. But we have something else to talk about. Listen
to me, and don't be alarmed:
"You must know that, in my eyes, you are two spies sent to
reconnoitre me and my movements. Naturally, I capture you and I
shoot you. You pretended to be fishing, the better to disguise your
real errand. You have fallen into my hands, and must take the
consequences. Such is war.
"But as you came here through the outposts you must have a password
for your return. Tell me that password and I will let you
go."
The two friends, pale as death, stood silently side by side, a
slight fluttering of the hands alone betraying their emotion.
"No one will ever know," continued the officer. "You will return
peacefully to your homes, and the secret will disappear with you.
If you refuse, it means death-instant death. Choose!"
They stood motionless, and did not open their lips.
The Prussian, perfectly calm, went on, with hand outstretched
toward the river:
"Just think that in five minutes you will be at the bottom of that
water. In five minutes! You have relations, I presume?"
Mont-Valerien still thundered.
The two fishermen remained silent. The German turned and gave an
order in his own language. Then he moved his chair a little way
off, that he might not be so near the prisoners, and a dozen men
stepped forward, rifle in hand, and took up a position, twenty
paces off.
"I give you one minute," said the officer; "not a second
longer."
Then he rose quickly, went over to the two Frenchmen, took Morissot
by the arm, led him a short distance off, and said in a low
voice:
"Quick! the password! Your friend will know nothing. I will pretend
to relent."
Morissot answered not a word.
Then the Prussian took Monsieur Sauvage aside in like manner, and
made him the same proposal.
Monsieur Sauvage made no reply.
Again they stood side by side.
The officer issued his orders; the soldiers raised their
rifles.
Then by chance Morissot's eyes fell on the bag full of gudgeon
lying in the grass a few feet from him.
A ray of sunlight made the still quivering fish glisten like
silver. And Morissot's heart sank. Despite his efforts at
self-control his eyes filled with tears.
"Good-by, Monsieur Sauvage," he faltered.
"Good-by, Monsieur Morissot," replied Sauvage.
They shook hands, trembling from head to foot with a dread beyond
their mastery.
The officer cried:
"Fire!"
The twelve shots were as one.
Monsieur Sauvage fell forward instantaneously. Morissot, being the
taller, swayed slightly and fell across his friend with face turned
skyward and blood oozing from a rent in the breast of his
coat.
The German issued fresh orders.
His men dispersed, and presently returned with ropes and large
stones, which they attached to the feet of the two friends; then
they carried them to the river bank.
Mont-Valerien, its summit now enshrouded in smoke, still continued
to thunder.
Two soldiers took Morissot by the head and the feet; two others did
the same with Sauvage. The bodies, swung lustily by strong hands,
were cast to a distance, and, describing a curve, fell feet
foremost into the stream.
The water splashed high, foamed, eddied, then grew calm; tiny waves
lapped the shore.
A few streaks of blood flecked the surface of the river.
The officer, calm throughout, remarked, with grim humor:
"It's the fishes' turn now!"
Then he retraced his way to the house.
Suddenly he caught sight of the net full of gudgeons, lying
forgotten in the grass. He picked it up, examined it, smiled, and
called:
"Wilhelm!"
A white-aproned soldier responded to the summons, and the Prussian,
tossing him the catch of the two murdered men, said:
"Have these fish fried for me at once, while they are still alive;
they'll make a tasty dish."
Then he resumed his pipe.
THE LANCER'S WIFE