A Woman's Life Page #14

"A Woman's Life" (French: "Une vie") by Guy de Maupassant tells the poignant story of Jeanne, a young noblewoman in the 19th century, as she navigates the complexities of love, marriage, and societal expectations. Spanning her life from a romanticized youth to a disillusioned adulthood, the novel explores themes of gender, class, and the harsh realities faced by women. Through Jeanne's experiences, Maupassant critiques the constraints imposed by society and highlights the emotional turmoil that often accompanies personal choices. The narrative is both a reflection on the individual's struggle for autonomy and a subtle commentary on the limitations placed on women of the era.

								

she certainly seemed a great deal more affected than her mistress. But
Jeanne did not notice her maid's tears; she felt as though she had
entered another world, and was separated from all she had known and
loved. Everything in her life seemed turned upside down; the strange
idea came to her: "Did she really love her husband?" He suddenly seemed
some stranger she hardly knew. Three months before she had not even been
aware of his existence, and now she was his wife. How had it happened?
Did people always plunge into marriage as they might into some uncovered
hole lying in their path? When she was in her night-dress she slipped
into bed, and the cold sheets made her shiver, and increased the
sensation of cold, and sadness and loneliness which had weighed on her
mind for two hours. Rosalie went away still sobbing, and Jeanne lay
still, anxiously awaiting the revelation she had partly guessed, and
that her father had hinted at in confused words--awaiting the unveiling
of love's great secret.

There came three soft knocks at the door, though she had heard no one
come upstairs. She started violently, and made no answer; there was
another knock, and then the door-handle was turned. She hid her head
under the clothes as if a thief had got into her room, and then came a
noise of boots on the boards, and all at once some one touched the bed.
She started again, and gave a little cry; then, uncovering her head, she
saw Julien standing beside the bed, looking at her with a smile.

"Oh, how you frightened me!" she said.

"Did you not expect me, then?" he asked.

She made no answer, feeling horribly ashamed of being seen in bed by
this man, who looked so grave and correct in his evening-dress. They did
not know what to say or do next; they hardly dared to look at one
another, in this decisive hour, on which the intimate happiness of their
life depended. Perhaps he vaguely felt what perfect self-possession,
what affectionate stratagems are needed not to hurt the modesty, the
extreme delicacy of a maiden's heart. He gently took her hand and kissed
it; then, kneeling by the bed as he would before an altar, he murmured,
in a voice soft as a sigh:

"Will you love me?"

She felt a little reassured, and raised her head, which was covered with
a cloud of lace.

"I love you already, dear," she said, with a smile.

He took his wife's little slender fingers in his mouth, and, his voice
changed by this living gag, he asked:

"Will you give me a proof of your love?"

The question frightened her again, and, only remembering her father's
words, and not quite understanding what she said:

"I am yours, dear," she answered.

He covered her hand with humid kisses, and, slowly rising, he bent
towards her face, which she again began to hide. Suddenly he threw one
arm across the bed, winding it around his wife over the clothes, and
slipped his other arm under the bolster, which he raised with her head
upon it; then he asked, in a low whisper:

"Then you will make room for me beside you?"

She had an instinctive fear, and stammered out: "Oh, not yet, I entreat
you."

He seemed disappointed and a little hurt; then he went on in a voice
that was still pleading, but a little more abrupt:

"Why not now, since we have got to come to it sooner or later?"

She did not like him for saying that, but, perfectly resigned and
submissive, she said, for the second time:

"I am yours, dear."

Then he went quickly into his dressing-room, and she could distinctly
hear the rustling of his clothes as he took them off, the jingling of
the money in his pockets, the noise his boots made as he let them drop
on the floor. All at once he ran across the room in his drawers and
socks to put his watch on the mantelpiece; then he returned to the other
room, where he moved about a little while longer. Jeanne turned quickly
over to the other side and shut her eyes when she heard him coming. She
nearly started out of bed when she felt a cold, hairy leg slide against
hers, and, distractedly hiding her face in her hands, she moved right to
the edge of the bed, almost crying with fear and horror. He took her in
his arms, although her back was turned to him, and eagerly kissed her
neck, the lace of her nightcap, and the embroidered collar of her
night-dress. Filled with a horrible dread, she did not move, and then
she felt his strong hands caressing her. She gasped for breath at this
brutal touch, and felt an intense longing to escape and hide herself
somewhere out of this man's reach. Soon he lay still, and she could feel
the warmth of his body against her back. She did not feel so frightened
then, and all at once the thought flashed across her mind that she had
only to turn round and her lips would touch his.

At last he seemed to get impatient, and, in a sorrowful voice, he said:

"Then you will not be my little wife?"

"Am I not your wife already?" she said, through her hands.

"Come now, my dear, don't try to make a fool of me," he answered, with a
touch of bad temper in his voice.

She felt very sorry when she heard him speak like that, and with a
sudden movement she turned towards him to ask his pardon. He
passionately seized her in his arms and imprinted burning kisses all
over her face and neck. She had taken her hands from her face and lay
still, making no response to his efforts, her thoughts so confused that
she could understand nothing, until suddenly she felt a sharp pain, and
then she began to moan and writhe in his arms.

What happened next? She did not know, for her head was in a whirl. She
was conscious of nothing more until she felt him raining grateful kisses
on her lips. Then he spoke to her and she had to answer; then he made
other attempts, which she repelled with horror, and as she struggled she
felt against her chest the thick hair she had already felt against her
leg, and she drew back in dismay. Tired at last of entreating her
without effect, he lay still on his back; then she could think. She had
expected something so different, and this destruction of her hopes, this
shattering of her expectations of delight, filled her with despair, and
she could only say to herself: "That, then, is what he calls being his
wife; that is it, that is it."

For a long time she lay thus, feeling very miserable, her eyes wandering
over the tapestry on the walls, with its tale of love. As Julien did not
speak or move, she slowly turned her head towards him, and then she saw
that he was asleep, with his mouth half opened and his face quite calm.
Asleep! she could hardly believe it, and it made her feel more
indignant, more outraged than his brutal passion had done. How could he
sleep on such a night? There was no novelty for him, then, in what had
passed between them? She would rather he had struck her, or bruised her
with his odious caresses till she had lost consciousness, than that he
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