A Woman's Life Page #18

"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.

								

right on me, and my gun dropped and rolled down to that chestnut there.
Jean's mouth was wide open, but he didn't say a word; he was dead."

The young couple stared in astonishment at this calm witness of such a
crime.

"What became of the murderer?" asked Jeanne.

Paoli coughed for some time, then he went on:

"He gained the mountain, and my brother killed him the next year. My
brother, Philippi Palabretti, the bandit, you know."

Jeanne shuddered. "Is your brother a bandit?" she asked.

The placid Corsican's eye flashed proudly.

"Yes, madame, he was a celebrated bandit, he was; he put an end to six
gendarmes. He died with Nicolas Morali after they had been surrounded
for six days, and were almost starved to death."

Then they went in to dinner, and the little woman treated them as if she
had known them twenty years. Jeanne was haunted by the fear that she
would not again experience the strange shock she had felt in Julien's
arms beside the fountain, and when they were alone in their room she was
still afraid his kisses would again leave her insensible, but she was
soon reassured, and that was her first night of love. The next day she
could hardly bear to leave this humble abode, where a new happiness had
come to her; she drew her host's little wife into her bedroom, and told
her she did not mean it as a present in return for their hospitality,
but she must absolutely insist on sending her a souvenir from Paris, and
to this souvenir she seemed to attach a superstitious importance. For a
long time the young Corsican woman refused to accept anything at all,
but at last she said:

"Well, send me a little pistol, a very little one."

Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment, and the woman added in her ear,
as though she were confiding some sweet and tender secret to her:

"It's to kill my brother-in-law with."

And with a smile on her face, she quickly unbandaged the arm she could
not use, and showed Jeanne the soft, white flesh which had been pierced
right through with a stiletto, though the wound had nearly healed.

"If I had not been as strong as he is," she said, "he would have killed
me. My husband is not jealous, for he understands me, and then he is
ill, you see, so he is not so hot-blooded; besides, I am an honest
woman, madame. But my brother-in-law believes everything that is told
him about me, and he is jealous for my husband. I am sure he will make
another attempt upon my life, but if I have a little pistol I shall feel
safe, and I shall be sure of having my revenge."

Jeanne promised to send the weapon, affectionately kissed her new friend
and said good-bye. The rest of her journey was a dream, an endless
embrace, an intoxication of caresses; she no longer saw country or
people or the places where they stopped, she had eyes only for Julien.
When they got to Bastia the guide had to be paid; Julien felt in his
pockets, and not finding what he wanted, he said to Jeanne:

"Since you don't use the two thousand francs your mother gave you, I
might as well carry them; they will be safer in my pocket, and, besides,
then I shan't have to change any notes."

They went to Leghorn, Florence, and Genoa, and, one windy morning, they
found themselves again at Marseilles. It was then the fifteenth of
October, and they had been away from Les Peuples two months. The cold
wind, which seemed to blow from Normandy, chilled Jeanne and made her
feel miserable. There had lately been a change in Julien's behavior
towards her, he seemed tired, and indifferent, and she had a vague
presentiment of evil. She persuaded him to stay at Marseilles four days
longer, for she could not bear to leave these warm, sunny lands where
she had been so happy, but at last they had to go. They intended to buy
all the things they wanted for their housekeeping at Paris, and Jeanne
was looking forward to buying all sorts of things for Les Peuples,
thanks to her mother's present; but the very first thing she meant to
purchase was the pistol she had promised to the young Corsican woman at
Evisa.

The day after they reached Paris, she said to Julien:

"Will you give me mamma's money, dear? I want to buy some things."

He looked rather cross.

"How much do you want?" he asked.

"Oh--what you like," she answered in surprise.

"I will give you a hundred francs," he answered; "and whatever you do,
don't waste it."

She did not know what to say, she felt so amazed and confused, but at
last she said in a hesitating way:

"But--I gave you that money to--"

He interrupted her.

"Yes, exactly. What does it matter whether it's in your pocket or mine
now that we share everything? I am not refusing you the money, am I? I
am going to give you a hundred francs."

She took the five pieces of gold without another word; she did not dare
ask for more, so she bought nothing but the pistol.

A week later they started for Les Peuples.

VI

When the post-chaise drove up, the baron and baroness and all the
servants were standing outside the white railings to give the travelers
a hearty welcome home. The baroness cried, Jeanne quietly wiped away two
tears, and her father walked backwards and forwards nervously. Then,
while the luggage was being brought in, the whole journey was gone over
again before the drawing-room fire. The eager words flowed from
Jeanne's lips, and in half-an-hour she had related everything, except a
few little details she forgot in her haste. Then she went to unpack,
with Rosalie, who was in a state of great excitement, to help her; when
she had finished and everything had been put away in its proper place
Rosalie left her mistress, and Jeanne sat down, feeling a little tired.
She wondered what she could do next, and she tried to think of some
occupation for her mind, some task for her fingers. She did not want to
go down to the drawing-room again to sit by her mother who was dozing,
and she thought of going for a walk, but it was so miserable out of
doors that only to glance out of the window made her feel melancholy.

Then the thought flashed across her mind that now there never would be
anything for her to do. At the convent the future had always given her
something to think about, and her dreams had filled the hours, so that
their flight had passed unnoticed; but she had hardly left the convent
when her love-dreams had been realized. In a few weeks she had met,
loved, and married a man who had borne her away in his arms without
giving her time to think of anything. But now the sweet reality of the
first few weeks of married life was going to become a daily monotony,
barring the way to all the hopes and delicious fears of an unknown
future. There was nothing more to which she could look forward, nothing
more for her to do, to-day, to-morrow, or ever. She felt all that with a
vague sensation of disillusion and melancholy. She rose and went to lean
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