As his
observation
grows sharper and finer, it penetrates
deeper; proceeds from faces to minds, and from gestures to feelings.
deeper; proceeds from faces to minds, and from gestures to feelings.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v17 - Mai to Mom
His dramas have
the solidity of prose without its freedom. His characters and situa-
tions lack the spontaneity of nature. He is melodramatic in the
sense that his men and women are personifications of virtue or vice.
The broad via media, the highway on which the majority of mankind
is afoot, has no place in his dramas. He is blind to the half-lights
of character, - to the subtle blendings of shade and color in the minds
of men.
((
## p. 9798 (#206) ###########################################
9798
PHILIP MASSINGER
Camiola and Adorni in 'The Maid of Honour' are exceptions to this
rule. Camiola, who loves Bertoldo and is herself hopelessly beloved
of Adorni, is a small but ravishing substance. ” Her impetuous affec-
tion, like Juliet's, goes directly to its goal without subterfuge or
deviation. When she learns from the servants that Bertoldo is in
prison, abandoned by the King, the impatience of her sorrow leaps to
her lips:
« Possible! Pray you, stand off.
If I do mutter treason to myself
My heart will break; and yet I will not curse him,-
He is my King. The news you have delivered
Makes me weary of your company: we'll salute
When we meet next. I'll bring you to the door.
Nay, pray you, no more compliments. ”
Adorni is a noble and convincing figure. When commissioned by
Camiola to rescue his rival, she asks of him, «You will do this ? ” He
answers, « Faithfully, madam;" then aside, “but not live long after. ”
Massinger rarely clothes such abundance of meaning in so few words.
(The Fatal Dowry' and The Duke of Milan' are generally as
signed the first place among the tragedies of Massinger. They are
stately plays, but dreary and lifeless. His two comedies A New
Way to Pay Old Debts) and The City Madam' are comedies only
in the sense that they do not end in death and disaster. The char-
acter of Sir Giles Overreach in the former play has held the stage
until the present time. Of Massinger's classical dramas, Arthur
Symons assigns the highest place to Believe as You List,' though
the better known play (The Roman Actor' was held by the author
“to be the most perfect work of my Minerva. ”
Massinger is farthest from greatness in his depiction of women.
With the exception of Camiola, of Lidia in the Great Duke of
Florence,' of Bellisant in the Parliament of Love,' of Matilda in the
(Bashful Lover,) and of one or two others, his women are vulgar
and sensual. Their puriiy and their vice are alike unconvincing.
This defect of portrayal is common, however, to the majority of
Massinger's characters. They are uninteresting because their qualities
are imposed upon them. There is no fidelity to the hidden springs
of action.
Massinger wrote a number of plays in conjunction with other
dramatists. The best known is (The Virgin-Martyr. ' Dekker's touch
is recognizable in such lines as these: -
« I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
With my late watching. ”
## p. 9799 (#207) ###########################################
PHILIP MASSINGER
9799
Massinger was a prolific writer.
a prolific writer. Beside the plays already men-
tioned, he gave to the stage of his day “The Renegado,' 'The Bond-
man,' 'A Very Woman,' 'The Emperor of the East, The Picture,'
and "The Unnatural Combat. ' Coleridge has recommended the diction
of Massinger to the imitation of modern writers, on the ground that
it is the nearest approach to the language of real life at all com-
patible with a fixed metre. It is this very characteristic of it which
deprives it of the highest poetical quality.
Alma Mature Shall
FROM THE MAID OF HONOUR)
[Camiola, who is in love with Bertoldo, is told by his friends Antonio
and Gasparo that he is a prisoner, and that the King has refused to pay his
ransom. ]
Enter a Servant
Servant - The signiors, madam, Gasparo and Antonio,
Selected friends of the renowned Bertoldo,
Put ashore this morning.
Camiola
Without him ?
Servant
I think so.
Camiola - Never think more, then!
Servant
They have been at court,
Kissed the King's hand, and, their first duties done
To him, appear ambitious to tender
To you their second service.
Camiola
Wait. them hither.
Fear, do not rack me! Reason, now if ever
Haste with thy aids, and tell me, such a wonder
As my Bertoldo is, with such care fashioned,
Must not, nay, cannot, in Heaven's providence
So soon miscarry! -
Enter Antonio and Gasparo
Pray you, forbear: ere you take
The privilege as strangers to salute me,
(Excuse my manners) make me first understand
How it is with Bertoldo.
## p. 9800 (#208) ###########################################
9800
PHILIP MASSINGER
-
Gasparo —
The relation
Will not, I fear, deserve your thanks.
Antonio
I wish
Some other should inform you.
Camiola
Is he dead ?
You see, though with some fear, I dare inquire it.
Gasparo - Dead! Would that were the worst: a debt were paid then,
Kings in their birth owe nature.
Camiola -
Is there aught
More terrible than death?
Antonio
Yes, to a spirit
Like his: cruel imprisonment, and that
Without the hope of freedom.
Camiola -
You abuse me:
The royal King cannot, in love to virtue,
(Though all the springs of affection were dried up)
But pay his ransom.
Gasparo
When you know what 'tis,
You will think otherwise: no less will do it
Than fifty thousand crowns.
Camiola -
A petty sum,
The price weighed with the purchase: fifty thousand!
To the King 'tis nothing. He that can spare more
To his minion for a masque, cannot but ransom
Such a brother at a million.
The King's munificence.
Antonio
In your opinion;
But 'tis most certain: he does not alone
In himself refuse to pay it, but forbids
All other men.
Camiola --
Are you sure of this?
Gasparo-
You may read
The edict to that purpose, published by him.
That will resolve you.
Camiola
Possible! Pray you, stand off.
If I do mutter treason to myself
My heart will break; and yet I will not curse him,-
He is my King. The news you have delivered
Makes me weary of your company: we'll salute
When we meet next. I'll bring you to the door.
Nay, pray you, no more compliments.
You wrong
## p. 9801 (#209) ###########################################
PHILIP MASSINGER
9801
FROM A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS)
O
(Sir Giles Overreach, on fire with greed and with ambition to found a
great feudal house, treats about marrying his daughter with Lord Lovell. )
VERREACH - To my wish: we are private.
I come not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion,- that were poor and trivial:
In one word I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods,
With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have
One motive to induce you to believe
I live too long, since every year I'll add
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.
Lovell -- You are a right kind father.
Overreach
You shall have reason
To think me such. How do you like this seat?
It is well wooded and well watered,- the acres
Fertile and rich: would it not serve for change
To entertain your friends in a summer progress?
What thinks my noble lord ?
Lovell -
'Tis a wholesome air,
And well built; and she that is mistress of it
Worthy the large revenues.
Overreach -
She the mistress!
It may be so for a time; but let my lord
Say only that he but like it, and would have it,-
I say, ere long 'tis his.
Lovell -
Impossible!
Overreach-
You do conclude too fast: not knowing me,
Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone
The lady Allworth's lands;— but point out any man's
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your Lordship, and once more
I say aloud, they are yours.
Lovell -
I dare not own
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted.
My fame and credit are more dear to me,
Than so to expose 'em to be censured by
The public voice.
Ozerreach
You run, my lord, no hazard :
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now.
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill.
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours:
## p. 9802 (#210) ###########################################
9802
PHILIP MASSINGER
For though I do contemn report myself,
As a mere sound, I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honor,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestioned integrity,
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot
That may take from your innocence and candor.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right Honorable, which my lord can make her;
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the part
Your noble birth and present state require,
I do remove the burden from your shoulders,
And take it on my own; for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,
The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you.
Lovell - Are you not frighted with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices ?
Overreach
Yes, as rocks are
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
I am of a solid temper, and like these,
Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,
If called into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breathed out in bitterness: as when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbor's rights, or grand incloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold:
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right Honorable; and 'tis a powerful charm
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.
Lovell —
I admire
The toughness of your nature.
Overreach-
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble.
'Tis for you,
## p. 9803 (#211) ###########################################
9803
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
(1850-1893)
BY FIRMIN ROZ
M
HEN, after a volume of poetry, Des Vers’ (Verses: 1880), Guy
de Maupassant published in 1881 the famous story (Boule de
Suif (Tallow-Ball), he was claimed by the naturalists; and
Zola, in an enthusiastic article, introduced the author and the work
to the public. It learned that the new-comer to the Soirées de Médan
was a robust Norman, proud of his strength, skilled in physical exer-
cises. During ten years, Gustave Flaubert,
his godfather, had gradually and patiently
taught him his profession of observer and
writer. According to some, the pupil
equaled the master. He certainly excelled
a great number of those who claimed to be
enrolled in their ranks.
The document school was then in all its
glory. It was the heroic time of the so-
called realistic novel, composed of slices out
of life; of the scientific and psychologic
novel, in which the study of the passions,
the conflicts of reason with instinct, — all
the old-time psychology, in short, — was
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
replaced by the organic dissection of the
characters, atavism, the influence of environment and circumstances,–
all determinism, in a word. In this examination of facts, hearts were
neglected; and novels laboriously constructed according to the posi-
tivist method set forth by Zola in Le Roman Experimental'— novels
in which all must be explained and demonstrated, which attempted
to reproduce the very movement of life — were sometimes as false and
devoid of life as photographs, which exactly reproduce the details of
a face without catching its expression.
By temperament, by education, Guy de Maupassant was above all
a realist. He had learned from Flaubert that anything is worthy of
art when the artist knows how to fashion it. A country pharmacist,
pretentious and commonplace (Bournisien in Madame Bovary'), is
no less interesting than a scholar, a poet, or a prince. The writer
## p. 9804 (#212) ###########################################
9804
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
>
should not accord any preference to one or another of his heroes.
His impartiality guarantees the sureness of his observation. His rôle
is to express life simply and purely, without seeking its meaning,
without choosing this or that form to the exclusion of some other.
But if the vulgarity or even coarseness of the characters and environ-
ment, the crudeness of scene and language, aroused the curiosity of
the public, and assisted the author's success by winning admirations
not always addressed perhaps to what was truly admirable,—the
learned, the connoisseurs, were not deceived. They greeted him as
a master writer, an unequaled story-teller, who in spite of Zola pre-
served the classic virtues-precision, clearness, art of composition --
which are necessary to the novel, indispensable to the short story.
This alone was enough to distinguish Maupassant from the Zolaists
and the De Goncourtists, who were then swarming: his firm, alert
prose is so profoundly French, free from neologisms, strong in verbs,
sober in adjectives, every sentence standing out with no apparent
effort, no excess, like a muscle in the perfect body of a young
athlete.
In less than twelve years Guy de Maupassant published ten collec-
tions of short stories and tales: Mademoiselle Fifi, Miss Harriett,'
Au Soleil' (In the Sunshine), Les Sæurs Rondoli? (The Sisters
Rondoli), Contes de la Bécasse,' (M. Parent,' (L'Inutile Beauté' (Vain
Beauty), etc. ; and six novels: “Une Vie) (A Life: 1883), Mont-Oriol,'
(Bel-Ami? (1885), Pierre et Jean' (Peter and John: 1888), 'Fort comme
la Mort' (Strong as Death: 1889), Notre Ceur' (Our Heart: 1893). *
Guy de Maupassant's place, then, is in the first rank of the real-
ists, and nearer to Flaubert than to De Goncourt and Zola. For the
purest expression of naturalism, one must seek him and his master.
He has that sense of the real which so many naturalists lack, and
which the care for exact detail does not replace. Beside the con-
gealed works of that school his work lives, not as a representation of
life but as life itself, - interior life expressed by exterior life, life of
men and of animals, the complex and multiform life of the universe
weighed down by eternal fatalities. And in the least little stories,
most often far from gay,— between two phrases of Rachel Rondoli or
of M. Parent; through evocation of a sky, a perfume, a landscape, -
one experiences the disquiet of physical mysteries, the shudder of
love or of death. This living realism is absolutely pure with Guy de
Maupassant. There is no longer any trace of that romantic heredity
which is still apparent with the author of Salammbô' and of 'La
Tentation de Saint Antoine. He was rarely even tempted toward
the study and description of what are called the upper classes; or by
the luxury which fascinated Balzac. His predilection for ordinary
* Published by V. Havard in nine volumes; by Ollendorff in eight volumes.
## p. 9805 (#213) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9805
-
scenes and ordinary types is everywhere evident; he uses all kinds
of settings,- a café, a furnished room, a farm-yard, seen in their act-
ual character without poetic transfiguration, with all their vulgarity,
their poverty, their ugliness. And he uses too all kinds of charac-
ters,-clerks, peasants of Normandy, petty bourgeois of Paris and of
the country. They live the empty, tragic, or grotesque hours of their
lives; are sometimes touching, sometimes odious; and never achieve
greatness either in heroism or in wickedness.
They are not gay, these stories; and the kind of amusement they
afford is strongly mixed with irony, pity, and contempt. Gayety,
whether brutal, frank, mocking, or delicate, never leaves this bitter
taste in the heart. How pitiful in its folly, in its vanity, in its weak-
ness, is the humanity which loves, weeps, or agitates in the tales of
Maupassant! There, virtue if awkward is never recompensed, nor vice
if skillful punished; mothers are not always saints, nor sons always
grateful and respectful; the guilty are often ignorant of remorse.
Then are these beings immoral ? To tell the truth, they are guided
by their instincts, by events, submissive to the laws of necessity, and
apparently released by the author from all responsibility.
Such is the individual humor of Guy de Maupassant, - a humor
rarely joyous, without sparkling shocks of repartee; a humor tinged
with bitterness and contempt, arising usually from the seriousness of
ridiculous people and from the ridiculousness of serious people, and
nearly always from the universal powerlessness to advance beyond
mediocrity. And if Maupassant is cruel to his heroes, he would
doubtless say that it is because life too is cruel, unjust, sad, deceiv-
ing; and that beauty, virtue, and happiness are only exceptions.
Thence the pessimistic tendency of his work. Nothing shows this
original pessimism - rough and lucid, emotional without lyricism --
better than the novel Une Vie. ' It is the story of a co
commonplace
existence: the life of a country woman, married to a brutal and ava-
ricious country squire, delivered from him through a neighbor's ven-
geance, deceived by her son as well as by her husband, and fixing
her obstinate hope upon the grandchild, who perhaps, if death does
not liberate her in time, will add one supreme deception to all the
others. This woman, who believes herself the victim of a special
fatality, has against her nothing but the chance of a bad choice,
and the weakness of her own tender spirit, incapable of struggle or
action. She is good, pure, and perhaps more sympathetic than any
other of Maupassant's heroines. Her life is like many other lives,
and doubtless the sadness which emanates from it widens to infinity.
In the short stories, this pessimistic tendency grows finer and
sharper so as sometimes to find expression in a tragic element.
But with Maupassant the tragic is of very special essence, and not
## p. 9806 (#214) ###########################################
9806
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
>
expressed in grand melodramatic effects or catastrophes as in roman-
ticism. Nor does it consist in the classic debate between duty and
passion. No, it consists rather in a wholly physical emotion, excited
by the wretchedness of certain destinies, and evoking in its turn the
mysterious menaces which hover over us. Disease, madness, death,
are in ambush behind every door of our house; and no
one has
expressed better than Maupassant the terror of the being who feels
their breath or sees them face to face. No one has felt with deeper
sorrow behind this human misery, the frightful solitude of man
among men; the black chasm which separates us from those whom
we love; the impossibility of uniting two hearts or two thoughts;
the slow succession of the little miseries of life; the fatal disorgan-
ization of a solitary existence whose dreams have vanished; and the
reason of those tragic endings which only nervous, sensitive minds
can understand.
This enables us to grasp the very principle of Maupassant's pes-
simism, and of this disorganization in which his clear and vigorous
intellect foundered. Even his first volume, Des Vers,' showed this
haunting thought of death, this sadness of the supersensitive soul har-
assed and unsatisfied, powerless to take pleasure in the joys which
are scattered through the universe. In the two little poems (La
Venus Rustique (The Country Venus) and (Au Bord de l'Eau' (On
the Water's Brink), there is as it were an intoxication with life, which
at first appears the sane and happy expression of a robust tempera-
ment, but which quickly ends in nostalgia and horror of nothingness.
And here is the keynote to Maupassant's sensualism: it is the fran-
tic desire to concentrate in the senses of a single man all that the
material world contains of delight,— colors, sounds, perfumes, beauty
under all its forms; it is the adoration of matter, and it is the de-
spair of a being crushed by the blind, implacable, and eternal divinity
which it has chosen. What does feeling become in this pagan joy,
this mother of pains and slaveries? It is easy to see: love is as fatal
as death. It is a force of nature which we can neither control nor
avoid, nor fix according to our wish; and its very nature explains
the derangements of hearts, the betrayals, the jealousies, which deck
it in fictitious sentimentality. Final conclusion: our free will, our
liberty, are illusions; and morality is suppressed at the same time
that remorses, internal conflicts, duties are reduced to mere conven-
tions useful to society.
This is the principle of Maupassant's pessimism. As is evident, it
springs directly from his naturalism. His conception of art and his
conception of life are closely allied. This pessimism became more
and more accentuated from one work to another; from Une Vie'
(1883) to Notre Cour) (1892). But in the measure of the novelist's
## p. 9807 (#215) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9807
more and more profound investigation of life, he imperceptibly and to
a certain degree substituted psychological study for realism according
to Flaubert's formula. This evolution of Guy de Maupassant's talent
asserts itself in Pierre et Jean (1888), and is still more clearly
delineated in Fort comme la Mort' and Notre Cæur. ' We are far
away from the Boule de Suifs' and the like. His observation has
become acuter, his language better shaded. There is a more flexible
precision in the study of more delicate sentiments and of more
complicated minds. Is not the love of the old painter Bertin for
the daughter of the woman he has passionately loved an exceptional
sentiment ? It was a ticklish subject; and the author presented it
very ably, without brutalities. We cannot help pitying the woman
who feels herself growing old, the man who cherished in his friend's
daughter the young beauty of the mother whom he once loved. But
the charming child is ignorant of the harm she is innocently doing.
She marries, and the old painter bears his passion with him 'in death;
while Madame de Guilleroy burns the old letters, their love letters,
found in a drawer, and Olivier's resigned agony is lighted up by the
reflection of their blazing leaves.
This novel was less successful than its predecessors. The ordi-
nary public, who had enjoyed Maître Hauchecorne) and Mademoi-
selle Fifi,' thought that its author had been changed. It asserted
that the success of the psychologic novel had fascinated Maupassant.
Perhaps we should see in this new phase of his talent only a conse-
quence of the modification which years and the events of his inti-
mate life had little by little brought about. Notre Cour) would
confirm this view. It resembles an autobiography. It is the eternal
misunderstanding between man and woman, — drawing near for an
ant, never united, and never giving the same words the same
meaning. What an exquisite charming face is that of Michelle de
Burne! a costly flower blossoming after centuries of extreme civiliza-
tion; a positive, gently egoistic being, in whom nothing is left of
primitive woman except the need of dazzling others and of being
adored. Simple sincere Elizabeth may console André Mariolle; but
neither brilliant orchid nor humble daisy can replace or make the
other forgotten. That is why André, uniting the two in a single
bouquet, renounces the torturing dream of one only love.
Thus Guy
de Maupassant had been led by the progress of his observation and
his analysis to penetrate into the intimate regions of the heart, where
our most secret and most diverse sentiments hide, struggle, suppli-
cate, and contend with each other. This progress of the novelist is
natural.
As his observation grows sharper and finer, it penetrates
deeper; proceeds from faces to minds, and from gestures to feelings.
Psychological analysis appears, and with it reflection. The mind falls
## p. 9808 (#216) ###########################################
9808
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
back upon itself; the man returns to his own thoughts, his dreams,
his emotions. He descends into his own heart, and irony becomes pity
and tenderness. His art is perhaps more human.
Neither Fort comme la Mort) nor Notre Cour,' Guy de Mau-
passant's last two novels, shows any trace of insanity. Yet when
the world learned in 1893 that this terrible disease had seized the
famous novelist, those who had read and studied his work were only
half surprised. It was then some years since the reading of Horla'
had made them anxious.
What is Horla’? – It is not a spirit, it is not a phantom of the
imagination. It is not any kind of a creature either natural or su-
pernatural. It is not even an illusion of sick senses, a hallucination
of fever. No; it is something both more real and less real, less dis-
quieting and more so: it is the unknown hostility surrounding one in
the invisible. It is everywhere,- in the bed curtains, in the water
pitcher, in the fire lighted to drive it from the house. Dream of a
madman, whom the wing of insanity had brushed! Already in 1884,
in the story entitled Lui, there had been signs of this fear of fears,
fear of the spasms of a wandering mind, fear of that horrible sensa-
tion of incomprehensible terror:-“I am afraid of the walls, of the
furniture, of the familiar objects which seem to me to assume a kind
of animal life. Above all I fear the horrible confusion of my thought,
of my reason escaping, entangled and scattered by an invisible and
mysterious anguish. ”
Sensuality, pessimism, obsession of nothingness, hallucinations of
the strange,- these different states cruelly asserted their logical
dependence in the intellectual history of Guy de Maupassant. The
mind which had seemed so profoundly sane and free from any mor-
bid germ became disordered, and then shattered entirely. The uni-
verse of forms, sounds, colors, and perfumes, to which he had so
complaisantly surrendered himself, became uninhabitable. Perhaps it
is necessary that in its attitude toward matter the mind should
always retain a kind of distrust, and dominate it without yielding
completely to its sorceries and enchantments. To this feast Maupas-
sant had opened all his senses. The day came when he felt his ideas
flying around him, he said, like butterflies. With his habitual grasp
he still sought to seize them while they were already far from his
empty brain.
Guy de Maupassant died in 1893, when forty-three
years old. His robust constitution could not resist the excessive ex-
penditure of all his energies.
Firmin Roz
## p. 9809 (#217) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9809
THE LAST YEARS OF MADAME JEANNE
From A Life)
J
EANNE did not go out any more. She hardly bestirred herself.
Each morning she got up at the same hour; took notice of
the weather outside; and then went down and seated her-
self before the fire in the hall.
She would remain there whole days, immovable, her eyes
fixed upon the flame, giving course to lamentable thoughts, fol-
lowing the melancholy retrospect of her sorrows. Little by little
darkness would invade the small room as the day closed, without
her having made any other movement than to put more wood on
the fire. Then Rosalie would bring the lamp, exclaiming to her,
"Come, come, Madame Jeanne! You must shake yourself up a
bit, or really you won't have any appetite this evening for sup-
per. ”
__
Often, too, she was persecuted by fixed ideas, which besieged
and tortured her; by insignificant preoccupations,— mere trifles
which took in her dim brain a false importance.
More than anything else she took to living over the past, –
her past that lay furthest back, haunted by the early days of
her life, - by her wedding trip, over there in Corsica. Suddenly
there would rise up before her, landscapes of that island so long
forgotten, seen now in the embers of the fireplace: she would
recall all the details, all the trivial little episodes, every face
once met in that time; the fine head of the guide that they had
employed — Jean Ravoli — kept coming before her, and she some-
times fancied that she heard his voice.
Then too she would fall into a revery upon the happy years
of her son's childhood, when she and Aunt Lison, with Paul, had
worked in the salad-bed together, kneeling side by side in the soft
ground, the two women rivals in their effort to amuse the child
as they toiled among the young plants.
So musing, her lips would murmur, “Poulet, Poulet! my little
Poulet,” — as if she were speaking to him; and, her revery broken
as she spoke, she would try during whole hours to write the boy's
name in the air, shaping with her outstretched finger these letters.
She would trace them slowly in space before the fire, sometimes
imagining that she really saw them, then believing that her eyes
had deceived her; and so she would rewrite the capital P again,
her old arm trembling with fatigue, but forcing herself to trace
XV11-614
## p. 9810 (#218) ###########################################
9810
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
was
the name to its end; then when she had finished it she would
write it over again. At last she could not write it any more.
She would confuse everything,— form other words at random,
enfeebled almost to idiocy.
All the little manias of those who live solitary took hold of
her. The least change in her surroundings irritated her,
Rosalie would often insist upon making her walk about, and
even carry her off to the roadside: but Jeanne at the end of
twenty minutes would always end up by saying, “No, I am too
tired out, my good girl;” and then she would sit down on the
edge of the green roadside.
Indeed, movement of any
kind soon distasteful to her,
and she would stay in bed in the morning as late as possible.
Ever since her infancy one particular habit had remained tena-
ciously with her,—that of jumping up out of bed just as soon as
she had swallowed her morning coffee. She was very much set
on that way of breakfasting, and the privation would have been
felt more than anything else. Each morning she would await
Rosalie's arrival at her bedside with an exaggerated impatience;
and just as soon as the cup was put upon the table at her side,
she would start up and empty it almost greedily, and then begin
to dress herself at once.
But now, little by little, she had grown into the habit of
dreamily waiting some seconds after she had put back the cup
into the plate; then she would settle herself again in her bed;
and then, little by little, would lengthen her idleness from day
to day, until Rosalie would come back furious at such delay, and
would dress her mistress almost by force.
Besides all this, she did not seem to have now any appear-
ance of a will about matters; and each time that Rosalie would
ask her opinion as to whether something was to be one way or
another, she would answer, “Do as you think best, my girl. ”
She fancied herself directly pursued by obstinate misfortune,
against which she made herself as fatalistic as an Oriental: the
habit of seeing her dreams evaporate, and her hopes come to
nothing, put her into the attitude of being afraid to undertake
anything; and she hesitated whole days before accomplishing the
most simple affair, convinced that she would only set out the
wrong way to do it, and that it would turn out badly. She
repeated continually, "I have never had any luck in my life. ”
Then it was Rosalie's turn to cry to her, “What would you say
## p. 9811 (#219) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9811
if you had had to work for your bread, - if you were obliged to
get up every morning at six o'clock and go out for your day's
doings? There are lots of people who are obliged to do that,
nevertheless; and when such people becoine too old, they have to
die - just of their poverty. ”
A little more strength came to her when the air softened into
the first days of spring; but she used this new activity only to
throw herself more and more into sombre thoughts.
One morning, when she had climbed up into the garret to
hunt for something, she happened to open a trunk full of old
calendars; somebody had kept them, as certain country people
have a habit of doing. It seemed to her that in finding them
she found the very years themselves of her past life; and she
remained stricken with a strange and confused emotion before
that pile of cardboard squares.
She took them up and carried them down-stairs. They were
of all shapes, big and little. She began to arrange them year
by year, upon the table; and then, all at once, she found the very
first one that had belonged to her,— the same one that she had
brought to Peuples. She looked at this one a long time, with
the dates marked off by her the morning of her departure from
Rouen, the day after her going away from the convent. She
wept over it. Sadly and slowly the tears fell; the bitter tears
of an old woman whose life was spread out before her on that
table.
With the calendars came to her an idea that soon became a
sort of obsession; terrible, incessant, inexorable. She would try to
remember just whatever she had done from day to day during
all her life. She pinned the calendars against the walls and on
the carpet one after the other — those faded pieces of cardboard;
and so she came to pass hours face to face with them, continually
asking herself, “Now let me see, - what was it happened to me
that month ? ”
She had checked certain memorable days in the course of her
life, hence now and then she was able to recall the episodes of
an entire month, bringing them up one by one, grouping them
together, connecting one by another all those little matters which
had preceded or followed some important event. She succeeded
by sheer force of attention, by force of memory and of concen-
trated will, in bringing back to mind almost completely her two
first years at Peuples. Far-away souvenirs of her life returned to
## p. 9812 (#220) ###########################################
9812
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
her with a singular facility, and with a kind of relief in them;
but the later years gradually seemed to lose themselves in a
mist, - to become mixed one with another: and so Jeanne would
remain now and then an indefinite time, her head bowed toward
one of the calendars, her mind spellbound by the past, without
being able to remember whether it was in this or that calendar
that such or such a remembrance ought to be decided. She
ranged them around the room like the religious pictures that
point out the Way of the Cross in a church, - these tableaux
of days that were no more. Then she would abruptly set down
her chair before one of them; and there she would sit until
night came, immobile, staring at it, buried in her vague re-
searches.
All at once, when the sap began to awaken in the boughs
beneath the warmth of the sun; when the crops began to spring
up in the fields, the trees to become verdant; when the apple-
trees in the orchard swelled out roundly like rosy balls, and per-
fumed the plain,--then a great counter-agitation came over her;
she could not seem to stay still. She went and came; she left
the house and returned to it twenty times a day, and even took
now and then a stroll the length of the farming tracts, excited
to a sort of fever of regret. The sight of a daisy blossoming in
a tuft of grass, the flash of a ray of sun slipping down between
the leaves, the glittering of a strip of water in which the blue
sky was mirrored, -all moved her; awakened a tenderness in
her; gave her sensations very far away, like an echo of her
emotions as a young girl, when she went dreaming about the
country-side.
One morning the faithful Rosalie came later than usual into
her room, and said, setting down upon the table the bowl of cof-
fee: Come now, drink this. Denis is down-stairs waiting for us
at the door. We will go over to Peuples to-day: I've got some
business to attend to over there. ”
Jeanne thought that she was going to faint, so deep was her
emotion at the sound of that name, at the thought of going to
the home of her girlhood. She dressed herself, trembling with
emotion, frightened and tremulous at the mere idea of seeing
again that dear house.
A radiant sky spread out above over all the world; the horse,
in fits and starts of liveliness, sometimes went almost at a gallop.
When they entered into the commune of Etouvent, Jeanne could
## p. 9813 (#221) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9813
hardly breathe, so much did her heart beat; and when she saw
from a distance the brick pillars of the boundary-line of her old
home, she exclaimed in a low voice two or three times, and as if
in spite of herself, “Qh! --oh! -oh! ” as if before things that
threatened to revolutionize all her heart.
They left the wagon with the Couillard family: then, while
Rosalie and her son went off to attend to their business, the care-
takers offered Jeanne the chance of taking a little turn around
the château, the present owners of it being absent; so they gave
her the keys.
Alone she set out; and when she was fairly before the old
manor house by the seaside, she stopped to look at its outside
once again. It had changed in nothing outside. The large,
grayish building that day showed upon its old walls the smile of
the sunshine. All the shutters were closed.
A bit of a dead branch fell from above upon her dress. She
raised her eyes. It came from the plane-tree. She drew near
the big tree with its smooth, pale bark; she caressed it with her
hand almost as if it had been an animal. Her foot struck some-
thing in the grass,-a fragment of rotten wood; lo! it was the
last fragment of the very bench on which she had sat so often
with those of her own family about her, so many years ago; the
very bench which had been set in place on the same day that
Julien had made his first visit.
She turned then to the double doors of the vestibule of the
house, and she had great trouble to open them; for the heavy
key, grown rusty, refused to turn in the lock. At length the
lock yielded with a heavy grinding of its springs; and the door,
a little obstinate itself, gave her entrance with a cloud of dust.
At once, and almost running, she went up-stairs to find what
had been her own room. She could hardly recognize it, hung
as it was with a light new paper: but throwing open a window,
she looked out and stood motionless, stirred even to the depth of
her being at the sight of all that landscape so much beloved; the
thicket, the elm-trees, the flat reaches, and the sea dotted with
brown sails, seeming motionless in the distance.
She began prowling about the great empty, lonely dwelling.
She even stopped to look at the discolorations on the walls; spots
familiar to her eyes. Once she stood before a little hole crushed
in the plaster by her father himself; who had often amused him-
self with making passages at arms, cane in hand, against the
partition wall, when he would happen to be passing this spot.
## p. 9814 (#222) ###########################################
9814
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
Her mother's room -in it she found, stuck behind the door
in a dark corner near the bed, a fine gold hairpin; one which
she herself had stuck there so long ago, and which she had often
tried to find during the past years. Nobody had ever come across
it. She drew it out as a relic beyond all price, and kissed it,
and carried it away with her. Everywhere about the house she
walked, recognizing almost invisible marks in the hangings of
the rooms that had not been changed; she made out once more
those curious faces that a childish imagination gives often to the
patterns and stuffs, to marbles, and to shadings of the ceilings,
grown dingy with time. On she walked, with soundless footsteps,
wholly alone in the immense, silent house, as one who crosses a
cemetery. All her life was buried in it.
She went down-stairs to the drawing-room. It was sombre
behind the closed shutters: for some time she could not distin-
guish anything; then her eyes became accustomed to the darkness.
She recognized, little by little, the tall hangings with their pat-
terns of birds flitting about. Two arm-chairs were set before the
chimney, as if people had just quitted them; and even the odor
of the room, an odor which it had always kept, – that old vague,
sweet odor belonging to some old houses, - entered Jeanne's very
being, enwrapt her in souvenirs, intoxicated her memory. She
remained gasping, breathing in that breath of the past, and with
her eyes fixed upon those two chairs; for suddenly, in a sort of
hallucination which gave place to a positive idea, she saw — as
she had so often seen them - her father and her mother, sitting
there warming their feet by the fire. She drew back terrified,
struck her back against the edge of the door, caught at it to
keep herself from falling, but with her eyes still fixed upon the
chairs.
The vision disappeared. She remained forgetful of everything
during some moments; then slowly she recovered her self-pos-
session, and would have fled from the room, fearful of losing her
very senses. By chance, her glance fell against the door-post on
which she chanced to be leaning; and lo! before her eyes were
the marks that had been made to keep track of Poulet's height
as he was growing up!
The little marks climbed the painted wood with unequal in-
tervals; figures traced with the penknife noted down the different
ages and growths during the boy's life. Sometimes the jottings
were in the handwriting of her father, a large hand; sometimes
they were in her own smaller hand; sometimes in that of Aunt
## p. 9815 (#223) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9815
Lison, a little tremulous. It seemed to her that the child of
other days was actually there, standing before her with his blond
hair, pressing his little forehead against the wall so that his
height could be measured; and the Baron was crying, “Why,
Jeanne! he has grown a whole centimetre since six weeks ago! '
She kissed the piece of wood in a frenzy of love and desolate-
ness.
But some one was calling her from outside. It was Rosalie's
voice: “Madame Jeanne, Madame Jeanne! We are waiting for
you, to have luncheon. ” She hurried away from the room half
out of her senses. She hardly understood anything that the oth-
ers said to her at luncheon. She ate the things that they put
on her plate; she listened without knowing what she heard, talk-
ing mechanically with the farming-women, who inquired about
her health; she let them embrace her, and herself saluted the
cheeks that were held out to her; and then got into the wagon
again.
When the high roof of the château was lost to her sight
across the trees, she felt in her very heart a direful wrench. It
seemed to her in her innermost spirit that now she had said
farewell forever to her old home!
Translated for (A Library of the World's Best Literature, by
E. Irenæus Stevenson
A NORMANDY OUTING: JEAN ROLAND'S LOVE-MAKING
From Pierre and Jean. Copyright 1890, by Hugh Craig. Published by
Home Book Company
T"
HE harvest was ripe. Beside the dull green of the clover
and the bright green of the beets, the yellow stalks of
wheat illuminated the plains with a tawny golden gleam.
They seemed to have imbibed the sunlight that fell upon them.
Here and there the reapers were at work; and in the fields
attacked by the scythe the laborers were seen, swinging rhythmi-
cally as they swept the huge, wing-shaped blade over the surface
of the ground.
After a drive of two hours, the break turned to the left,
passed near a windmill in motion,- a gray melancholy wreck,
half rotten and condemned, the last survivor of the old mills, -
## p. 9816 (#224) ###########################################
9816
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
and then entered a pretty court-yard and drew up before a gay
little house, a celebrated inn of the district.
They started out, net on shoulder and basket on back. Ma-
dame Rosémilly was charming in this costume, with an unex-
pected, rustic, fearless style of beauty.
The petticoat borrowed from Alphonsine, coquettishly raised
and held by a few stitches, so as to enable the wearer to run
and leap without fear among the rocks, displayed her ankle and
the lower part of the calf — the firm calf of a woman at once
agile and strong. Her figure was loose, to leave all her move-
ments easy; and she had found, to cover her head, an immense
gardener's hat of yellow straw, with enormous flaps, to which a
sprig of tamarisk, holding one side cocked up, gave the daunt-
less air of a dashing mousquetaire.
Jean, since receiving his legacy, had asked himself every day
whether he should marry her or no. Every time he saw her,
he felt decided to make her his wife; but when he was alone,
he thought that meanwhile there was time to reflect.
She was
now not as rich as he was, for she possessed only twelve thou-
sand francs a year; — but in real-estate farms, and lots in Havre
on the docks, and these might in time be worth a large sum.
Their fortunes, then, were almost equivalent; and the young
widow assuredly pleased him much.
As he saw her walking before him on this day, he thought,
«Well, I must decide. Beyond question, I could not do bet-
ter. ”
They followed the slope of a little valley, descending from the
village to the cliff; and the cliff at the end of this valley looked
down on the sea from a height of nearly three hundred feet.
Framed in by the green coast, sinking away to the left and
right, a spacious triangle of water, silvery blue in the sunlight,
was visible; and a sail, scarcely perceptible, looked like an insect
down below. The sky, filled with radiance, was so blended with
the water that the eye could not distinguish where one ended and
the other began; and the two ladies, who were in front of the
three men, cast on this clear horizon the clear outline of their
compact figures.
Jean, with ardent glance, saw speeding before him the enti-
cing hat of Madame Rosémilly. Every movement urged him to
those decisive resolutions which the timid and the hesitating take
abruptly. The warm air, in which was blended the scent of the
## p. 9817 (#225) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9817
coast, of the reeds, the clover, the grasses, and the marine odor
of the rocks exposed by the tide, animated him with a gentle
intoxication; and he decided, more and more at every step, at
every second, at every look he cast on the graceful outline of
the young woman - he decided to hesitate no longer, to tell her
that he loved her and wanted to marry her. The fishing party
would be of service: it would render a tête-à-tête more easy; and
besides, it would furnish a pretty background, a pretty scene for
words of love, with their feet in a basin of limpid water, as they
watched the long feelers of the shrimps darting through the sea.
weeds.
When they reached the end of the valley at the edge of the
bluff, they perceived a little path that ran down the cliff; and
below them, between the sea and the foot of the precipice, about
half-way down, a wondrous chaos of enormous rocks, that had
fallen or been hurled down, heaped on each other on
a kind
of grassy broken plain which disappeared toward the south, and
which had been formed by ancient landslips. In the long strip
of brushwood and turf, tossed, one might say, by the throes of a
volcano, the fallen rocks resembled the ruins of a great vanished
city that once on a time had looked down on the ocean, itself
dominated by the white and endless wall of the cliff.
“How beautiful! ” said Madame Rosémilly, pausing.
Jean joined her, and with beating heart offered his hand to
guide her down the narrow steps cut in the rock.
They went on in front; while Beausire, stiffening himself on
his short legs, held out his bent arm to Madame Roland, who
was dazed by the blank depth.
Roland and Pierre came last; and the doctor had to support
his father, who was so troubled by vertigo that he sat down, and
thus slid from step to step.
The young people, who descended at the head of the party,
went rapidly, and suddenly caught sight of a streamlet of pure
water springing from a little hole in the cliff, by the side of a
wooden bench, which formed a resting-place about the middle of
the slope. The streamlet at first spread into a basin about the
size of a wash-hand bowl, which it had excavated for itself; and
then, falling in a cascade of about two feet in height, flowed
across the path where a carpet of cress had grown, and then
disappeared in the reeds and grass, across the level where the
landslips were heaped up.
"How thirsty I am! ” cried Madame Rosémilly.
## p. 9818 (#226) ###########################################
9818
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
)
But how to drink? She tried to collect in the hollow of her
hand the water which escaped between her fingers. Jean had a
bright idea; he placed a stone in the road, and she knelt on it to
drink from the very source with her lips, which were thus raised
to the same height.
When she raised her head, covered with glittering drops
sprinkled by thousands over her face, her hair, her eyelashes, her
bust, - Jean, bending toward her, whispered:-
“How pretty you are! ”
She replied in the tone one assumes to scold a child:
“Will you hold your tongue ? ”
These were the first words of flirtation which they had ex-
changed.
“Come,” said Jean, rather discomfited, “let us be off before
they overtake us. "
In fact, he was aware that Captain Beausire was quite close
to them, and was descending backwards in order to support
Madame Roland with both hands; while, higher up and farther
away, M. Roland, in a sitting posture, was dragging himself down
by his feet and elbows with the speed of a tortoise, and Pierre
went before him to superintend his movements.
The path became less steep, and formed now a sloping road
that skirted the enormous blocks that had fallen from above.
Madame Rosémilly and Jean began to run, and were soon on the
shingle. They crossed it to gain the rocks, which extended in a
long and flat surface covered with seaweed, in which innumerable
flashes of water glittered. The tide was low and far out, behind
this slimy plain of sea-wrack with its shining green and black
growths.
Jean rolled up his trousers to the knee and his sleeves to the
elbow, so as to wet himself with impunity, and cried “Forward! ”
as he boldly leaped into the first pool that presented itself.
With more prudence, though with equal determination to wade
into the water at once, the young woman went around the narrow
basin with timid steps,- for she slipped on the slimy weeds.
"Do you see anything ? ” she said.
“Yes, I see your face reflected in the water.
“If you only see that, you will not have any fishing to boast
of. ”
He said in a tender voice:
"Ah, that is fishing I shall prefer over all!
She laughed.
the solidity of prose without its freedom. His characters and situa-
tions lack the spontaneity of nature. He is melodramatic in the
sense that his men and women are personifications of virtue or vice.
The broad via media, the highway on which the majority of mankind
is afoot, has no place in his dramas. He is blind to the half-lights
of character, - to the subtle blendings of shade and color in the minds
of men.
((
## p. 9798 (#206) ###########################################
9798
PHILIP MASSINGER
Camiola and Adorni in 'The Maid of Honour' are exceptions to this
rule. Camiola, who loves Bertoldo and is herself hopelessly beloved
of Adorni, is a small but ravishing substance. ” Her impetuous affec-
tion, like Juliet's, goes directly to its goal without subterfuge or
deviation. When she learns from the servants that Bertoldo is in
prison, abandoned by the King, the impatience of her sorrow leaps to
her lips:
« Possible! Pray you, stand off.
If I do mutter treason to myself
My heart will break; and yet I will not curse him,-
He is my King. The news you have delivered
Makes me weary of your company: we'll salute
When we meet next. I'll bring you to the door.
Nay, pray you, no more compliments. ”
Adorni is a noble and convincing figure. When commissioned by
Camiola to rescue his rival, she asks of him, «You will do this ? ” He
answers, « Faithfully, madam;" then aside, “but not live long after. ”
Massinger rarely clothes such abundance of meaning in so few words.
(The Fatal Dowry' and The Duke of Milan' are generally as
signed the first place among the tragedies of Massinger. They are
stately plays, but dreary and lifeless. His two comedies A New
Way to Pay Old Debts) and The City Madam' are comedies only
in the sense that they do not end in death and disaster. The char-
acter of Sir Giles Overreach in the former play has held the stage
until the present time. Of Massinger's classical dramas, Arthur
Symons assigns the highest place to Believe as You List,' though
the better known play (The Roman Actor' was held by the author
“to be the most perfect work of my Minerva. ”
Massinger is farthest from greatness in his depiction of women.
With the exception of Camiola, of Lidia in the Great Duke of
Florence,' of Bellisant in the Parliament of Love,' of Matilda in the
(Bashful Lover,) and of one or two others, his women are vulgar
and sensual. Their puriiy and their vice are alike unconvincing.
This defect of portrayal is common, however, to the majority of
Massinger's characters. They are uninteresting because their qualities
are imposed upon them. There is no fidelity to the hidden springs
of action.
Massinger wrote a number of plays in conjunction with other
dramatists. The best known is (The Virgin-Martyr. ' Dekker's touch
is recognizable in such lines as these: -
« I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes,
With my late watching. ”
## p. 9799 (#207) ###########################################
PHILIP MASSINGER
9799
Massinger was a prolific writer.
a prolific writer. Beside the plays already men-
tioned, he gave to the stage of his day “The Renegado,' 'The Bond-
man,' 'A Very Woman,' 'The Emperor of the East, The Picture,'
and "The Unnatural Combat. ' Coleridge has recommended the diction
of Massinger to the imitation of modern writers, on the ground that
it is the nearest approach to the language of real life at all com-
patible with a fixed metre. It is this very characteristic of it which
deprives it of the highest poetical quality.
Alma Mature Shall
FROM THE MAID OF HONOUR)
[Camiola, who is in love with Bertoldo, is told by his friends Antonio
and Gasparo that he is a prisoner, and that the King has refused to pay his
ransom. ]
Enter a Servant
Servant - The signiors, madam, Gasparo and Antonio,
Selected friends of the renowned Bertoldo,
Put ashore this morning.
Camiola
Without him ?
Servant
I think so.
Camiola - Never think more, then!
Servant
They have been at court,
Kissed the King's hand, and, their first duties done
To him, appear ambitious to tender
To you their second service.
Camiola
Wait. them hither.
Fear, do not rack me! Reason, now if ever
Haste with thy aids, and tell me, such a wonder
As my Bertoldo is, with such care fashioned,
Must not, nay, cannot, in Heaven's providence
So soon miscarry! -
Enter Antonio and Gasparo
Pray you, forbear: ere you take
The privilege as strangers to salute me,
(Excuse my manners) make me first understand
How it is with Bertoldo.
## p. 9800 (#208) ###########################################
9800
PHILIP MASSINGER
-
Gasparo —
The relation
Will not, I fear, deserve your thanks.
Antonio
I wish
Some other should inform you.
Camiola
Is he dead ?
You see, though with some fear, I dare inquire it.
Gasparo - Dead! Would that were the worst: a debt were paid then,
Kings in their birth owe nature.
Camiola -
Is there aught
More terrible than death?
Antonio
Yes, to a spirit
Like his: cruel imprisonment, and that
Without the hope of freedom.
Camiola -
You abuse me:
The royal King cannot, in love to virtue,
(Though all the springs of affection were dried up)
But pay his ransom.
Gasparo
When you know what 'tis,
You will think otherwise: no less will do it
Than fifty thousand crowns.
Camiola -
A petty sum,
The price weighed with the purchase: fifty thousand!
To the King 'tis nothing. He that can spare more
To his minion for a masque, cannot but ransom
Such a brother at a million.
The King's munificence.
Antonio
In your opinion;
But 'tis most certain: he does not alone
In himself refuse to pay it, but forbids
All other men.
Camiola --
Are you sure of this?
Gasparo-
You may read
The edict to that purpose, published by him.
That will resolve you.
Camiola
Possible! Pray you, stand off.
If I do mutter treason to myself
My heart will break; and yet I will not curse him,-
He is my King. The news you have delivered
Makes me weary of your company: we'll salute
When we meet next. I'll bring you to the door.
Nay, pray you, no more compliments.
You wrong
## p. 9801 (#209) ###########################################
PHILIP MASSINGER
9801
FROM A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS)
O
(Sir Giles Overreach, on fire with greed and with ambition to found a
great feudal house, treats about marrying his daughter with Lord Lovell. )
VERREACH - To my wish: we are private.
I come not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion,- that were poor and trivial:
In one word I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods,
With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have
One motive to induce you to believe
I live too long, since every year I'll add
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.
Lovell -- You are a right kind father.
Overreach
You shall have reason
To think me such. How do you like this seat?
It is well wooded and well watered,- the acres
Fertile and rich: would it not serve for change
To entertain your friends in a summer progress?
What thinks my noble lord ?
Lovell -
'Tis a wholesome air,
And well built; and she that is mistress of it
Worthy the large revenues.
Overreach -
She the mistress!
It may be so for a time; but let my lord
Say only that he but like it, and would have it,-
I say, ere long 'tis his.
Lovell -
Impossible!
Overreach-
You do conclude too fast: not knowing me,
Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone
The lady Allworth's lands;— but point out any man's
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your Lordship, and once more
I say aloud, they are yours.
Lovell -
I dare not own
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted.
My fame and credit are more dear to me,
Than so to expose 'em to be censured by
The public voice.
Ozerreach
You run, my lord, no hazard :
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now.
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill.
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours:
## p. 9802 (#210) ###########################################
9802
PHILIP MASSINGER
For though I do contemn report myself,
As a mere sound, I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honor,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestioned integrity,
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot
That may take from your innocence and candor.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right Honorable, which my lord can make her;
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the part
Your noble birth and present state require,
I do remove the burden from your shoulders,
And take it on my own; for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,
The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you.
Lovell - Are you not frighted with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices ?
Overreach
Yes, as rocks are
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
I am of a solid temper, and like these,
Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,
If called into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breathed out in bitterness: as when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbor's rights, or grand incloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold:
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right Honorable; and 'tis a powerful charm
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.
Lovell —
I admire
The toughness of your nature.
Overreach-
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble.
'Tis for you,
## p. 9803 (#211) ###########################################
9803
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
(1850-1893)
BY FIRMIN ROZ
M
HEN, after a volume of poetry, Des Vers’ (Verses: 1880), Guy
de Maupassant published in 1881 the famous story (Boule de
Suif (Tallow-Ball), he was claimed by the naturalists; and
Zola, in an enthusiastic article, introduced the author and the work
to the public. It learned that the new-comer to the Soirées de Médan
was a robust Norman, proud of his strength, skilled in physical exer-
cises. During ten years, Gustave Flaubert,
his godfather, had gradually and patiently
taught him his profession of observer and
writer. According to some, the pupil
equaled the master. He certainly excelled
a great number of those who claimed to be
enrolled in their ranks.
The document school was then in all its
glory. It was the heroic time of the so-
called realistic novel, composed of slices out
of life; of the scientific and psychologic
novel, in which the study of the passions,
the conflicts of reason with instinct, — all
the old-time psychology, in short, — was
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
replaced by the organic dissection of the
characters, atavism, the influence of environment and circumstances,–
all determinism, in a word. In this examination of facts, hearts were
neglected; and novels laboriously constructed according to the posi-
tivist method set forth by Zola in Le Roman Experimental'— novels
in which all must be explained and demonstrated, which attempted
to reproduce the very movement of life — were sometimes as false and
devoid of life as photographs, which exactly reproduce the details of
a face without catching its expression.
By temperament, by education, Guy de Maupassant was above all
a realist. He had learned from Flaubert that anything is worthy of
art when the artist knows how to fashion it. A country pharmacist,
pretentious and commonplace (Bournisien in Madame Bovary'), is
no less interesting than a scholar, a poet, or a prince. The writer
## p. 9804 (#212) ###########################################
9804
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
>
should not accord any preference to one or another of his heroes.
His impartiality guarantees the sureness of his observation. His rôle
is to express life simply and purely, without seeking its meaning,
without choosing this or that form to the exclusion of some other.
But if the vulgarity or even coarseness of the characters and environ-
ment, the crudeness of scene and language, aroused the curiosity of
the public, and assisted the author's success by winning admirations
not always addressed perhaps to what was truly admirable,—the
learned, the connoisseurs, were not deceived. They greeted him as
a master writer, an unequaled story-teller, who in spite of Zola pre-
served the classic virtues-precision, clearness, art of composition --
which are necessary to the novel, indispensable to the short story.
This alone was enough to distinguish Maupassant from the Zolaists
and the De Goncourtists, who were then swarming: his firm, alert
prose is so profoundly French, free from neologisms, strong in verbs,
sober in adjectives, every sentence standing out with no apparent
effort, no excess, like a muscle in the perfect body of a young
athlete.
In less than twelve years Guy de Maupassant published ten collec-
tions of short stories and tales: Mademoiselle Fifi, Miss Harriett,'
Au Soleil' (In the Sunshine), Les Sæurs Rondoli? (The Sisters
Rondoli), Contes de la Bécasse,' (M. Parent,' (L'Inutile Beauté' (Vain
Beauty), etc. ; and six novels: “Une Vie) (A Life: 1883), Mont-Oriol,'
(Bel-Ami? (1885), Pierre et Jean' (Peter and John: 1888), 'Fort comme
la Mort' (Strong as Death: 1889), Notre Ceur' (Our Heart: 1893). *
Guy de Maupassant's place, then, is in the first rank of the real-
ists, and nearer to Flaubert than to De Goncourt and Zola. For the
purest expression of naturalism, one must seek him and his master.
He has that sense of the real which so many naturalists lack, and
which the care for exact detail does not replace. Beside the con-
gealed works of that school his work lives, not as a representation of
life but as life itself, - interior life expressed by exterior life, life of
men and of animals, the complex and multiform life of the universe
weighed down by eternal fatalities. And in the least little stories,
most often far from gay,— between two phrases of Rachel Rondoli or
of M. Parent; through evocation of a sky, a perfume, a landscape, -
one experiences the disquiet of physical mysteries, the shudder of
love or of death. This living realism is absolutely pure with Guy de
Maupassant. There is no longer any trace of that romantic heredity
which is still apparent with the author of Salammbô' and of 'La
Tentation de Saint Antoine. He was rarely even tempted toward
the study and description of what are called the upper classes; or by
the luxury which fascinated Balzac. His predilection for ordinary
* Published by V. Havard in nine volumes; by Ollendorff in eight volumes.
## p. 9805 (#213) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9805
-
scenes and ordinary types is everywhere evident; he uses all kinds
of settings,- a café, a furnished room, a farm-yard, seen in their act-
ual character without poetic transfiguration, with all their vulgarity,
their poverty, their ugliness. And he uses too all kinds of charac-
ters,-clerks, peasants of Normandy, petty bourgeois of Paris and of
the country. They live the empty, tragic, or grotesque hours of their
lives; are sometimes touching, sometimes odious; and never achieve
greatness either in heroism or in wickedness.
They are not gay, these stories; and the kind of amusement they
afford is strongly mixed with irony, pity, and contempt. Gayety,
whether brutal, frank, mocking, or delicate, never leaves this bitter
taste in the heart. How pitiful in its folly, in its vanity, in its weak-
ness, is the humanity which loves, weeps, or agitates in the tales of
Maupassant! There, virtue if awkward is never recompensed, nor vice
if skillful punished; mothers are not always saints, nor sons always
grateful and respectful; the guilty are often ignorant of remorse.
Then are these beings immoral ? To tell the truth, they are guided
by their instincts, by events, submissive to the laws of necessity, and
apparently released by the author from all responsibility.
Such is the individual humor of Guy de Maupassant, - a humor
rarely joyous, without sparkling shocks of repartee; a humor tinged
with bitterness and contempt, arising usually from the seriousness of
ridiculous people and from the ridiculousness of serious people, and
nearly always from the universal powerlessness to advance beyond
mediocrity. And if Maupassant is cruel to his heroes, he would
doubtless say that it is because life too is cruel, unjust, sad, deceiv-
ing; and that beauty, virtue, and happiness are only exceptions.
Thence the pessimistic tendency of his work. Nothing shows this
original pessimism - rough and lucid, emotional without lyricism --
better than the novel Une Vie. ' It is the story of a co
commonplace
existence: the life of a country woman, married to a brutal and ava-
ricious country squire, delivered from him through a neighbor's ven-
geance, deceived by her son as well as by her husband, and fixing
her obstinate hope upon the grandchild, who perhaps, if death does
not liberate her in time, will add one supreme deception to all the
others. This woman, who believes herself the victim of a special
fatality, has against her nothing but the chance of a bad choice,
and the weakness of her own tender spirit, incapable of struggle or
action. She is good, pure, and perhaps more sympathetic than any
other of Maupassant's heroines. Her life is like many other lives,
and doubtless the sadness which emanates from it widens to infinity.
In the short stories, this pessimistic tendency grows finer and
sharper so as sometimes to find expression in a tragic element.
But with Maupassant the tragic is of very special essence, and not
## p. 9806 (#214) ###########################################
9806
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
>
expressed in grand melodramatic effects or catastrophes as in roman-
ticism. Nor does it consist in the classic debate between duty and
passion. No, it consists rather in a wholly physical emotion, excited
by the wretchedness of certain destinies, and evoking in its turn the
mysterious menaces which hover over us. Disease, madness, death,
are in ambush behind every door of our house; and no
one has
expressed better than Maupassant the terror of the being who feels
their breath or sees them face to face. No one has felt with deeper
sorrow behind this human misery, the frightful solitude of man
among men; the black chasm which separates us from those whom
we love; the impossibility of uniting two hearts or two thoughts;
the slow succession of the little miseries of life; the fatal disorgan-
ization of a solitary existence whose dreams have vanished; and the
reason of those tragic endings which only nervous, sensitive minds
can understand.
This enables us to grasp the very principle of Maupassant's pes-
simism, and of this disorganization in which his clear and vigorous
intellect foundered. Even his first volume, Des Vers,' showed this
haunting thought of death, this sadness of the supersensitive soul har-
assed and unsatisfied, powerless to take pleasure in the joys which
are scattered through the universe. In the two little poems (La
Venus Rustique (The Country Venus) and (Au Bord de l'Eau' (On
the Water's Brink), there is as it were an intoxication with life, which
at first appears the sane and happy expression of a robust tempera-
ment, but which quickly ends in nostalgia and horror of nothingness.
And here is the keynote to Maupassant's sensualism: it is the fran-
tic desire to concentrate in the senses of a single man all that the
material world contains of delight,— colors, sounds, perfumes, beauty
under all its forms; it is the adoration of matter, and it is the de-
spair of a being crushed by the blind, implacable, and eternal divinity
which it has chosen. What does feeling become in this pagan joy,
this mother of pains and slaveries? It is easy to see: love is as fatal
as death. It is a force of nature which we can neither control nor
avoid, nor fix according to our wish; and its very nature explains
the derangements of hearts, the betrayals, the jealousies, which deck
it in fictitious sentimentality. Final conclusion: our free will, our
liberty, are illusions; and morality is suppressed at the same time
that remorses, internal conflicts, duties are reduced to mere conven-
tions useful to society.
This is the principle of Maupassant's pessimism. As is evident, it
springs directly from his naturalism. His conception of art and his
conception of life are closely allied. This pessimism became more
and more accentuated from one work to another; from Une Vie'
(1883) to Notre Cour) (1892). But in the measure of the novelist's
## p. 9807 (#215) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9807
more and more profound investigation of life, he imperceptibly and to
a certain degree substituted psychological study for realism according
to Flaubert's formula. This evolution of Guy de Maupassant's talent
asserts itself in Pierre et Jean (1888), and is still more clearly
delineated in Fort comme la Mort' and Notre Cæur. ' We are far
away from the Boule de Suifs' and the like. His observation has
become acuter, his language better shaded. There is a more flexible
precision in the study of more delicate sentiments and of more
complicated minds. Is not the love of the old painter Bertin for
the daughter of the woman he has passionately loved an exceptional
sentiment ? It was a ticklish subject; and the author presented it
very ably, without brutalities. We cannot help pitying the woman
who feels herself growing old, the man who cherished in his friend's
daughter the young beauty of the mother whom he once loved. But
the charming child is ignorant of the harm she is innocently doing.
She marries, and the old painter bears his passion with him 'in death;
while Madame de Guilleroy burns the old letters, their love letters,
found in a drawer, and Olivier's resigned agony is lighted up by the
reflection of their blazing leaves.
This novel was less successful than its predecessors. The ordi-
nary public, who had enjoyed Maître Hauchecorne) and Mademoi-
selle Fifi,' thought that its author had been changed. It asserted
that the success of the psychologic novel had fascinated Maupassant.
Perhaps we should see in this new phase of his talent only a conse-
quence of the modification which years and the events of his inti-
mate life had little by little brought about. Notre Cour) would
confirm this view. It resembles an autobiography. It is the eternal
misunderstanding between man and woman, — drawing near for an
ant, never united, and never giving the same words the same
meaning. What an exquisite charming face is that of Michelle de
Burne! a costly flower blossoming after centuries of extreme civiliza-
tion; a positive, gently egoistic being, in whom nothing is left of
primitive woman except the need of dazzling others and of being
adored. Simple sincere Elizabeth may console André Mariolle; but
neither brilliant orchid nor humble daisy can replace or make the
other forgotten. That is why André, uniting the two in a single
bouquet, renounces the torturing dream of one only love.
Thus Guy
de Maupassant had been led by the progress of his observation and
his analysis to penetrate into the intimate regions of the heart, where
our most secret and most diverse sentiments hide, struggle, suppli-
cate, and contend with each other. This progress of the novelist is
natural.
As his observation grows sharper and finer, it penetrates
deeper; proceeds from faces to minds, and from gestures to feelings.
Psychological analysis appears, and with it reflection. The mind falls
## p. 9808 (#216) ###########################################
9808
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
back upon itself; the man returns to his own thoughts, his dreams,
his emotions. He descends into his own heart, and irony becomes pity
and tenderness. His art is perhaps more human.
Neither Fort comme la Mort) nor Notre Cour,' Guy de Mau-
passant's last two novels, shows any trace of insanity. Yet when
the world learned in 1893 that this terrible disease had seized the
famous novelist, those who had read and studied his work were only
half surprised. It was then some years since the reading of Horla'
had made them anxious.
What is Horla’? – It is not a spirit, it is not a phantom of the
imagination. It is not any kind of a creature either natural or su-
pernatural. It is not even an illusion of sick senses, a hallucination
of fever. No; it is something both more real and less real, less dis-
quieting and more so: it is the unknown hostility surrounding one in
the invisible. It is everywhere,- in the bed curtains, in the water
pitcher, in the fire lighted to drive it from the house. Dream of a
madman, whom the wing of insanity had brushed! Already in 1884,
in the story entitled Lui, there had been signs of this fear of fears,
fear of the spasms of a wandering mind, fear of that horrible sensa-
tion of incomprehensible terror:-“I am afraid of the walls, of the
furniture, of the familiar objects which seem to me to assume a kind
of animal life. Above all I fear the horrible confusion of my thought,
of my reason escaping, entangled and scattered by an invisible and
mysterious anguish. ”
Sensuality, pessimism, obsession of nothingness, hallucinations of
the strange,- these different states cruelly asserted their logical
dependence in the intellectual history of Guy de Maupassant. The
mind which had seemed so profoundly sane and free from any mor-
bid germ became disordered, and then shattered entirely. The uni-
verse of forms, sounds, colors, and perfumes, to which he had so
complaisantly surrendered himself, became uninhabitable. Perhaps it
is necessary that in its attitude toward matter the mind should
always retain a kind of distrust, and dominate it without yielding
completely to its sorceries and enchantments. To this feast Maupas-
sant had opened all his senses. The day came when he felt his ideas
flying around him, he said, like butterflies. With his habitual grasp
he still sought to seize them while they were already far from his
empty brain.
Guy de Maupassant died in 1893, when forty-three
years old. His robust constitution could not resist the excessive ex-
penditure of all his energies.
Firmin Roz
## p. 9809 (#217) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9809
THE LAST YEARS OF MADAME JEANNE
From A Life)
J
EANNE did not go out any more. She hardly bestirred herself.
Each morning she got up at the same hour; took notice of
the weather outside; and then went down and seated her-
self before the fire in the hall.
She would remain there whole days, immovable, her eyes
fixed upon the flame, giving course to lamentable thoughts, fol-
lowing the melancholy retrospect of her sorrows. Little by little
darkness would invade the small room as the day closed, without
her having made any other movement than to put more wood on
the fire. Then Rosalie would bring the lamp, exclaiming to her,
"Come, come, Madame Jeanne! You must shake yourself up a
bit, or really you won't have any appetite this evening for sup-
per. ”
__
Often, too, she was persecuted by fixed ideas, which besieged
and tortured her; by insignificant preoccupations,— mere trifles
which took in her dim brain a false importance.
More than anything else she took to living over the past, –
her past that lay furthest back, haunted by the early days of
her life, - by her wedding trip, over there in Corsica. Suddenly
there would rise up before her, landscapes of that island so long
forgotten, seen now in the embers of the fireplace: she would
recall all the details, all the trivial little episodes, every face
once met in that time; the fine head of the guide that they had
employed — Jean Ravoli — kept coming before her, and she some-
times fancied that she heard his voice.
Then too she would fall into a revery upon the happy years
of her son's childhood, when she and Aunt Lison, with Paul, had
worked in the salad-bed together, kneeling side by side in the soft
ground, the two women rivals in their effort to amuse the child
as they toiled among the young plants.
So musing, her lips would murmur, “Poulet, Poulet! my little
Poulet,” — as if she were speaking to him; and, her revery broken
as she spoke, she would try during whole hours to write the boy's
name in the air, shaping with her outstretched finger these letters.
She would trace them slowly in space before the fire, sometimes
imagining that she really saw them, then believing that her eyes
had deceived her; and so she would rewrite the capital P again,
her old arm trembling with fatigue, but forcing herself to trace
XV11-614
## p. 9810 (#218) ###########################################
9810
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
was
the name to its end; then when she had finished it she would
write it over again. At last she could not write it any more.
She would confuse everything,— form other words at random,
enfeebled almost to idiocy.
All the little manias of those who live solitary took hold of
her. The least change in her surroundings irritated her,
Rosalie would often insist upon making her walk about, and
even carry her off to the roadside: but Jeanne at the end of
twenty minutes would always end up by saying, “No, I am too
tired out, my good girl;” and then she would sit down on the
edge of the green roadside.
Indeed, movement of any
kind soon distasteful to her,
and she would stay in bed in the morning as late as possible.
Ever since her infancy one particular habit had remained tena-
ciously with her,—that of jumping up out of bed just as soon as
she had swallowed her morning coffee. She was very much set
on that way of breakfasting, and the privation would have been
felt more than anything else. Each morning she would await
Rosalie's arrival at her bedside with an exaggerated impatience;
and just as soon as the cup was put upon the table at her side,
she would start up and empty it almost greedily, and then begin
to dress herself at once.
But now, little by little, she had grown into the habit of
dreamily waiting some seconds after she had put back the cup
into the plate; then she would settle herself again in her bed;
and then, little by little, would lengthen her idleness from day
to day, until Rosalie would come back furious at such delay, and
would dress her mistress almost by force.
Besides all this, she did not seem to have now any appear-
ance of a will about matters; and each time that Rosalie would
ask her opinion as to whether something was to be one way or
another, she would answer, “Do as you think best, my girl. ”
She fancied herself directly pursued by obstinate misfortune,
against which she made herself as fatalistic as an Oriental: the
habit of seeing her dreams evaporate, and her hopes come to
nothing, put her into the attitude of being afraid to undertake
anything; and she hesitated whole days before accomplishing the
most simple affair, convinced that she would only set out the
wrong way to do it, and that it would turn out badly. She
repeated continually, "I have never had any luck in my life. ”
Then it was Rosalie's turn to cry to her, “What would you say
## p. 9811 (#219) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9811
if you had had to work for your bread, - if you were obliged to
get up every morning at six o'clock and go out for your day's
doings? There are lots of people who are obliged to do that,
nevertheless; and when such people becoine too old, they have to
die - just of their poverty. ”
A little more strength came to her when the air softened into
the first days of spring; but she used this new activity only to
throw herself more and more into sombre thoughts.
One morning, when she had climbed up into the garret to
hunt for something, she happened to open a trunk full of old
calendars; somebody had kept them, as certain country people
have a habit of doing. It seemed to her that in finding them
she found the very years themselves of her past life; and she
remained stricken with a strange and confused emotion before
that pile of cardboard squares.
She took them up and carried them down-stairs. They were
of all shapes, big and little. She began to arrange them year
by year, upon the table; and then, all at once, she found the very
first one that had belonged to her,— the same one that she had
brought to Peuples. She looked at this one a long time, with
the dates marked off by her the morning of her departure from
Rouen, the day after her going away from the convent. She
wept over it. Sadly and slowly the tears fell; the bitter tears
of an old woman whose life was spread out before her on that
table.
With the calendars came to her an idea that soon became a
sort of obsession; terrible, incessant, inexorable. She would try to
remember just whatever she had done from day to day during
all her life. She pinned the calendars against the walls and on
the carpet one after the other — those faded pieces of cardboard;
and so she came to pass hours face to face with them, continually
asking herself, “Now let me see, - what was it happened to me
that month ? ”
She had checked certain memorable days in the course of her
life, hence now and then she was able to recall the episodes of
an entire month, bringing them up one by one, grouping them
together, connecting one by another all those little matters which
had preceded or followed some important event. She succeeded
by sheer force of attention, by force of memory and of concen-
trated will, in bringing back to mind almost completely her two
first years at Peuples. Far-away souvenirs of her life returned to
## p. 9812 (#220) ###########################################
9812
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
her with a singular facility, and with a kind of relief in them;
but the later years gradually seemed to lose themselves in a
mist, - to become mixed one with another: and so Jeanne would
remain now and then an indefinite time, her head bowed toward
one of the calendars, her mind spellbound by the past, without
being able to remember whether it was in this or that calendar
that such or such a remembrance ought to be decided. She
ranged them around the room like the religious pictures that
point out the Way of the Cross in a church, - these tableaux
of days that were no more. Then she would abruptly set down
her chair before one of them; and there she would sit until
night came, immobile, staring at it, buried in her vague re-
searches.
All at once, when the sap began to awaken in the boughs
beneath the warmth of the sun; when the crops began to spring
up in the fields, the trees to become verdant; when the apple-
trees in the orchard swelled out roundly like rosy balls, and per-
fumed the plain,--then a great counter-agitation came over her;
she could not seem to stay still. She went and came; she left
the house and returned to it twenty times a day, and even took
now and then a stroll the length of the farming tracts, excited
to a sort of fever of regret. The sight of a daisy blossoming in
a tuft of grass, the flash of a ray of sun slipping down between
the leaves, the glittering of a strip of water in which the blue
sky was mirrored, -all moved her; awakened a tenderness in
her; gave her sensations very far away, like an echo of her
emotions as a young girl, when she went dreaming about the
country-side.
One morning the faithful Rosalie came later than usual into
her room, and said, setting down upon the table the bowl of cof-
fee: Come now, drink this. Denis is down-stairs waiting for us
at the door. We will go over to Peuples to-day: I've got some
business to attend to over there. ”
Jeanne thought that she was going to faint, so deep was her
emotion at the sound of that name, at the thought of going to
the home of her girlhood. She dressed herself, trembling with
emotion, frightened and tremulous at the mere idea of seeing
again that dear house.
A radiant sky spread out above over all the world; the horse,
in fits and starts of liveliness, sometimes went almost at a gallop.
When they entered into the commune of Etouvent, Jeanne could
## p. 9813 (#221) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9813
hardly breathe, so much did her heart beat; and when she saw
from a distance the brick pillars of the boundary-line of her old
home, she exclaimed in a low voice two or three times, and as if
in spite of herself, “Qh! --oh! -oh! ” as if before things that
threatened to revolutionize all her heart.
They left the wagon with the Couillard family: then, while
Rosalie and her son went off to attend to their business, the care-
takers offered Jeanne the chance of taking a little turn around
the château, the present owners of it being absent; so they gave
her the keys.
Alone she set out; and when she was fairly before the old
manor house by the seaside, she stopped to look at its outside
once again. It had changed in nothing outside. The large,
grayish building that day showed upon its old walls the smile of
the sunshine. All the shutters were closed.
A bit of a dead branch fell from above upon her dress. She
raised her eyes. It came from the plane-tree. She drew near
the big tree with its smooth, pale bark; she caressed it with her
hand almost as if it had been an animal. Her foot struck some-
thing in the grass,-a fragment of rotten wood; lo! it was the
last fragment of the very bench on which she had sat so often
with those of her own family about her, so many years ago; the
very bench which had been set in place on the same day that
Julien had made his first visit.
She turned then to the double doors of the vestibule of the
house, and she had great trouble to open them; for the heavy
key, grown rusty, refused to turn in the lock. At length the
lock yielded with a heavy grinding of its springs; and the door,
a little obstinate itself, gave her entrance with a cloud of dust.
At once, and almost running, she went up-stairs to find what
had been her own room. She could hardly recognize it, hung
as it was with a light new paper: but throwing open a window,
she looked out and stood motionless, stirred even to the depth of
her being at the sight of all that landscape so much beloved; the
thicket, the elm-trees, the flat reaches, and the sea dotted with
brown sails, seeming motionless in the distance.
She began prowling about the great empty, lonely dwelling.
She even stopped to look at the discolorations on the walls; spots
familiar to her eyes. Once she stood before a little hole crushed
in the plaster by her father himself; who had often amused him-
self with making passages at arms, cane in hand, against the
partition wall, when he would happen to be passing this spot.
## p. 9814 (#222) ###########################################
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GUY DE MAUPASSANT
Her mother's room -in it she found, stuck behind the door
in a dark corner near the bed, a fine gold hairpin; one which
she herself had stuck there so long ago, and which she had often
tried to find during the past years. Nobody had ever come across
it. She drew it out as a relic beyond all price, and kissed it,
and carried it away with her. Everywhere about the house she
walked, recognizing almost invisible marks in the hangings of
the rooms that had not been changed; she made out once more
those curious faces that a childish imagination gives often to the
patterns and stuffs, to marbles, and to shadings of the ceilings,
grown dingy with time. On she walked, with soundless footsteps,
wholly alone in the immense, silent house, as one who crosses a
cemetery. All her life was buried in it.
She went down-stairs to the drawing-room. It was sombre
behind the closed shutters: for some time she could not distin-
guish anything; then her eyes became accustomed to the darkness.
She recognized, little by little, the tall hangings with their pat-
terns of birds flitting about. Two arm-chairs were set before the
chimney, as if people had just quitted them; and even the odor
of the room, an odor which it had always kept, – that old vague,
sweet odor belonging to some old houses, - entered Jeanne's very
being, enwrapt her in souvenirs, intoxicated her memory. She
remained gasping, breathing in that breath of the past, and with
her eyes fixed upon those two chairs; for suddenly, in a sort of
hallucination which gave place to a positive idea, she saw — as
she had so often seen them - her father and her mother, sitting
there warming their feet by the fire. She drew back terrified,
struck her back against the edge of the door, caught at it to
keep herself from falling, but with her eyes still fixed upon the
chairs.
The vision disappeared. She remained forgetful of everything
during some moments; then slowly she recovered her self-pos-
session, and would have fled from the room, fearful of losing her
very senses. By chance, her glance fell against the door-post on
which she chanced to be leaning; and lo! before her eyes were
the marks that had been made to keep track of Poulet's height
as he was growing up!
The little marks climbed the painted wood with unequal in-
tervals; figures traced with the penknife noted down the different
ages and growths during the boy's life. Sometimes the jottings
were in the handwriting of her father, a large hand; sometimes
they were in her own smaller hand; sometimes in that of Aunt
## p. 9815 (#223) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9815
Lison, a little tremulous. It seemed to her that the child of
other days was actually there, standing before her with his blond
hair, pressing his little forehead against the wall so that his
height could be measured; and the Baron was crying, “Why,
Jeanne! he has grown a whole centimetre since six weeks ago! '
She kissed the piece of wood in a frenzy of love and desolate-
ness.
But some one was calling her from outside. It was Rosalie's
voice: “Madame Jeanne, Madame Jeanne! We are waiting for
you, to have luncheon. ” She hurried away from the room half
out of her senses. She hardly understood anything that the oth-
ers said to her at luncheon. She ate the things that they put
on her plate; she listened without knowing what she heard, talk-
ing mechanically with the farming-women, who inquired about
her health; she let them embrace her, and herself saluted the
cheeks that were held out to her; and then got into the wagon
again.
When the high roof of the château was lost to her sight
across the trees, she felt in her very heart a direful wrench. It
seemed to her in her innermost spirit that now she had said
farewell forever to her old home!
Translated for (A Library of the World's Best Literature, by
E. Irenæus Stevenson
A NORMANDY OUTING: JEAN ROLAND'S LOVE-MAKING
From Pierre and Jean. Copyright 1890, by Hugh Craig. Published by
Home Book Company
T"
HE harvest was ripe. Beside the dull green of the clover
and the bright green of the beets, the yellow stalks of
wheat illuminated the plains with a tawny golden gleam.
They seemed to have imbibed the sunlight that fell upon them.
Here and there the reapers were at work; and in the fields
attacked by the scythe the laborers were seen, swinging rhythmi-
cally as they swept the huge, wing-shaped blade over the surface
of the ground.
After a drive of two hours, the break turned to the left,
passed near a windmill in motion,- a gray melancholy wreck,
half rotten and condemned, the last survivor of the old mills, -
## p. 9816 (#224) ###########################################
9816
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
and then entered a pretty court-yard and drew up before a gay
little house, a celebrated inn of the district.
They started out, net on shoulder and basket on back. Ma-
dame Rosémilly was charming in this costume, with an unex-
pected, rustic, fearless style of beauty.
The petticoat borrowed from Alphonsine, coquettishly raised
and held by a few stitches, so as to enable the wearer to run
and leap without fear among the rocks, displayed her ankle and
the lower part of the calf — the firm calf of a woman at once
agile and strong. Her figure was loose, to leave all her move-
ments easy; and she had found, to cover her head, an immense
gardener's hat of yellow straw, with enormous flaps, to which a
sprig of tamarisk, holding one side cocked up, gave the daunt-
less air of a dashing mousquetaire.
Jean, since receiving his legacy, had asked himself every day
whether he should marry her or no. Every time he saw her,
he felt decided to make her his wife; but when he was alone,
he thought that meanwhile there was time to reflect.
She was
now not as rich as he was, for she possessed only twelve thou-
sand francs a year; — but in real-estate farms, and lots in Havre
on the docks, and these might in time be worth a large sum.
Their fortunes, then, were almost equivalent; and the young
widow assuredly pleased him much.
As he saw her walking before him on this day, he thought,
«Well, I must decide. Beyond question, I could not do bet-
ter. ”
They followed the slope of a little valley, descending from the
village to the cliff; and the cliff at the end of this valley looked
down on the sea from a height of nearly three hundred feet.
Framed in by the green coast, sinking away to the left and
right, a spacious triangle of water, silvery blue in the sunlight,
was visible; and a sail, scarcely perceptible, looked like an insect
down below. The sky, filled with radiance, was so blended with
the water that the eye could not distinguish where one ended and
the other began; and the two ladies, who were in front of the
three men, cast on this clear horizon the clear outline of their
compact figures.
Jean, with ardent glance, saw speeding before him the enti-
cing hat of Madame Rosémilly. Every movement urged him to
those decisive resolutions which the timid and the hesitating take
abruptly. The warm air, in which was blended the scent of the
## p. 9817 (#225) ###########################################
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
9817
coast, of the reeds, the clover, the grasses, and the marine odor
of the rocks exposed by the tide, animated him with a gentle
intoxication; and he decided, more and more at every step, at
every second, at every look he cast on the graceful outline of
the young woman - he decided to hesitate no longer, to tell her
that he loved her and wanted to marry her. The fishing party
would be of service: it would render a tête-à-tête more easy; and
besides, it would furnish a pretty background, a pretty scene for
words of love, with their feet in a basin of limpid water, as they
watched the long feelers of the shrimps darting through the sea.
weeds.
When they reached the end of the valley at the edge of the
bluff, they perceived a little path that ran down the cliff; and
below them, between the sea and the foot of the precipice, about
half-way down, a wondrous chaos of enormous rocks, that had
fallen or been hurled down, heaped on each other on
a kind
of grassy broken plain which disappeared toward the south, and
which had been formed by ancient landslips. In the long strip
of brushwood and turf, tossed, one might say, by the throes of a
volcano, the fallen rocks resembled the ruins of a great vanished
city that once on a time had looked down on the ocean, itself
dominated by the white and endless wall of the cliff.
“How beautiful! ” said Madame Rosémilly, pausing.
Jean joined her, and with beating heart offered his hand to
guide her down the narrow steps cut in the rock.
They went on in front; while Beausire, stiffening himself on
his short legs, held out his bent arm to Madame Roland, who
was dazed by the blank depth.
Roland and Pierre came last; and the doctor had to support
his father, who was so troubled by vertigo that he sat down, and
thus slid from step to step.
The young people, who descended at the head of the party,
went rapidly, and suddenly caught sight of a streamlet of pure
water springing from a little hole in the cliff, by the side of a
wooden bench, which formed a resting-place about the middle of
the slope. The streamlet at first spread into a basin about the
size of a wash-hand bowl, which it had excavated for itself; and
then, falling in a cascade of about two feet in height, flowed
across the path where a carpet of cress had grown, and then
disappeared in the reeds and grass, across the level where the
landslips were heaped up.
"How thirsty I am! ” cried Madame Rosémilly.
## p. 9818 (#226) ###########################################
9818
GUY DE MAUPASSANT
)
But how to drink? She tried to collect in the hollow of her
hand the water which escaped between her fingers. Jean had a
bright idea; he placed a stone in the road, and she knelt on it to
drink from the very source with her lips, which were thus raised
to the same height.
When she raised her head, covered with glittering drops
sprinkled by thousands over her face, her hair, her eyelashes, her
bust, - Jean, bending toward her, whispered:-
“How pretty you are! ”
She replied in the tone one assumes to scold a child:
“Will you hold your tongue ? ”
These were the first words of flirtation which they had ex-
changed.
“Come,” said Jean, rather discomfited, “let us be off before
they overtake us. "
In fact, he was aware that Captain Beausire was quite close
to them, and was descending backwards in order to support
Madame Roland with both hands; while, higher up and farther
away, M. Roland, in a sitting posture, was dragging himself down
by his feet and elbows with the speed of a tortoise, and Pierre
went before him to superintend his movements.
The path became less steep, and formed now a sloping road
that skirted the enormous blocks that had fallen from above.
Madame Rosémilly and Jean began to run, and were soon on the
shingle. They crossed it to gain the rocks, which extended in a
long and flat surface covered with seaweed, in which innumerable
flashes of water glittered. The tide was low and far out, behind
this slimy plain of sea-wrack with its shining green and black
growths.
Jean rolled up his trousers to the knee and his sleeves to the
elbow, so as to wet himself with impunity, and cried “Forward! ”
as he boldly leaped into the first pool that presented itself.
With more prudence, though with equal determination to wade
into the water at once, the young woman went around the narrow
basin with timid steps,- for she slipped on the slimy weeds.
"Do you see anything ? ” she said.
“Yes, I see your face reflected in the water.
“If you only see that, you will not have any fishing to boast
of. ”
He said in a tender voice:
"Ah, that is fishing I shall prefer over all!
She laughed.
