A Woman's Life Page #23

"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 had drunk her husband's kisses with the water.

There were no leaves, no climbing plants, in the copse now, only the
rustling of the branches, and that dry, crackling noise that seems to
fill every wood in winter.

They reached the little village and went along the empty, silent
streets, which smelt of fish and of seaweed. The big brown nets were
hanging before the doors, or stretched out on the beach as of old;
towards Fécamp the green rocks at the foot of the cliff could be seen,
for the tide was going out, and all along the beach the big boats lay on
their sides looking like huge fish.

As night drew on, the fishermen, walking heavily in their big sea-boots,
began to come down on the shingle in groups, their necks well wrapped up
with woolen scarfs, and carrying a liter of brandy in one hand, and the
boat-lantern in the other. They busied themselves round the boats,
putting on board, with true Normandy slowness, their nets, their buoys,
a big loaf, a jar of butter, and the bottle of brandy and a glass. Then
they pushed off the boats, which went down the beach with a harsh noise,
then rushed through the surf, balanced themselves on the crest of a wave
for a few seconds, and spread their brown wings and disappeared into the
night, with their little lights shining at the bottom of the masts. The
sailors' wives, their big, bony frames shown off by their thin dresses,
stayed until the last fisherman had gone off, and then went back to the
hushed village, where their noisy voices roused the sleeping echoes of
the gloomy streets.

The baron and Jeanne stood watching these men go off into the darkness,
as they went off every night, risking their lives to keep themselves
from starving, and yet gaining so little that they could never afford to
eat meat.

"What a terrible, beautiful thing is the ocean!" said the baron. "How
many lives are at this very moment in danger on it, and yet how
exquisite it looks now, with the shadows falling over it! Doesn't it,
Jeannette?"

"This is not so pretty as the Mediterranean," she answered with a watery
smile.

"The Mediterranean!" exclaimed the baron scornfully. "Why, the
Mediterranean's nothing but oil or sugared water, while this sea is
terrific with its crests of foam and its wild waves. And think of those
men who have just gone off on it, and who are already out of sight."

Jeanne gave in.

"Yes, perhaps you are right," she said with a sigh, for the word
"Mediterranean" had sent a pang through her heart, and turned her
thoughts to those far-away countries where all her dreams lay buried.

They did not go back through the wood, but walked along the road; they
walked in silence, for both were saddened by the thought of the morrow's
parting. As they passed the farmhouses, they could smell the crushed
apples--that scent of new cider which pervades all Normandy at this time
of the year--or the strong odor of cows and the healthy, warm smell of a
dunghill. The dwelling houses could be distinguished by their little
lighted windows, and these tiny lights, scattered over the country, made
Jeanne think of the loneliness of human creatures, and how everything
tends to separate and tear them away from those they love, and her heart
seemed to grow bigger and more capable of understanding the mysteries of
existence.

"Life is not always gay," she said in tones of resignation.

The baron sighed.

"That is true, my child," he replied; "but we cannot help it."

The next day the baron and baroness went away, leaving Jeanne and Julien
alone.

VII

The young couple got into the habit of playing cards; every day after
lunch Jeanne played several games of bezique with her husband, while he
smoked his pipe and drank six or eight glasses of brandy. When they had
finished playing, Jeanne went upstairs to her bedroom, and, sitting by
the window, worked at a petticoat flounce she was embroidering, while
the wind and rain beat against the panes. When her eyes ached she looked
out at the foamy, restless sea, gazed at it for a few minutes, and then
took up her work again.

She had nothing else to do, for Julien had taken the entire management
of the house into his hands, that he might thoroughly satisfy his
longing for authority and his mania for economy. He was exceedingly
stingy; he never gave the servants anything beyond their exact wages,
never allowed any food that was not strictly necessary. Every morning,
ever since she had been at Les Peuples, the baker had made Jeanne a
little Normandy cake, but Julien cut off this expense, and Jeanne had to
content herself with toast.

Wishing to avoid all arguments and quarrels, she never made any remark,
but each fresh proof of her husband's avarice hurt her like the prick of
a needle. It seemed so petty, so odious to her, brought up as she had
been in a family where money was never thought of any importance. How
often she had heard her mother say: "Money is made to be spent"; but now
Julien kept saying to her: "Will you never be cured of throwing money
away?" Whenever he could manage to reduce a salary or a bill by a few
pence he would slip the money into his pocket, saying, with a pleased
smile:

"Little streams make big rivers."

Jeanne would sometimes find herself dreaming as she used to do before
she was married. She would gradually stop working, and with her hands
lying idle in her lap and her eyes fixed on space, she built castles in
the air as if she were a young girl again. But the voice of Julien,
giving an order to old Simon, would call her back to the realities of
life, and she would take up her work, thinking, "Ah, that is all over
and done with now," and a tear would fall on her fingers as they pushed
the needle through the stuff.

Rosalie, who used to be so gay and lively, always singing snatches of
songs as she went about her work, gradually changed also. Her plump
round cheeks had fallen in and lost their brightened color, and her skin
was muddy and dark. Jeanne often asked her if she were ill, but the
little maid always answered with a faint blush, "No, madame," and got
away as quickly as she could. Instead of tripping along as she had
always done, she now dragged herself painfully from room to room, and
seemed not even to care how she looked, for the peddlers in vain spread
out their ribbons and corsets and bottles of scent before her; she never
bought anything from them now.

At the end of January, the heavy clouds came across the sea from the
north, and there was a heavy fall of snow. In one night the whole plain
was whitened, and, in the morning the trees looked as if a mantle of
frozen foam had been cast over them.

Julien put on his high boots, and passed his time in the ditch between
the wood and the plain, watching for the migrating birds. Every now and
then his shots would break the frozen silence of the fields, and hordes
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