A Woman's Life Page #26

"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.

								

gradually slipping away from her, and she thought each breath she drew
would be her last.

"I am going to die! I am going to die!" she thought; and, in her terror,
she jumped out of bed, and rang for Rosalie.

No one came; she rang again, and again waited for an answer, shuddering
and half-frozen; but she waited in vain. Perhaps the maid was sleeping
too heavily for the bell to arouse her, and, almost beside herself with
fear, Jeanne rushed out onto the landing without putting anything around
her, and with bare feet. She went noiselessly up the dark stairs, felt
for Rosalie's door, opened it, and called "Rosalie!" then went into the
room, stumbled against the bed, passed her hands over it, and found it
empty and quite cold, as if no one had slept in it that night.

"Surely she cannot have gone out in such weather as this," she thought.

Her heart began to beat so violently that it almost suffocated her, and
she went downstairs to rouse Julien, her legs giving way under her as
she walked. She burst open her husband's door, and hurried across the
room, spurred on by the idea that she was going to die and the fear that
she would become unconscious before she could see him again.

Suddenly she stopped with a shriek, for by the light of the dying fire
she saw Rosalie's head on the pillow beside her husband's. At her cry
they both started up, but she had already recovered from the first shock
of her discovery, and fled to her room, while Julien called after her,
"Jeanne! Jeanne!" She felt she could not see him or listen to his
excuses and his lies, and again rushing out of her room she ran
downstairs. The staircase was in total darkness, but filled with the
desire of flight, of getting away without seeing or hearing any more,
she never stayed to think that she might fall and break her limbs on the
stone stairs.

On the last step she sat down, unable to think, unable to reason, her
head in a whirl. Julien had jumped out of bed, and was hastily dressing
himself. She heard him moving about, and she started up to escape from
him. He came downstairs, crying: "Jeanne, do listen to me!"

No, she would not listen; he should not degrade her by his touch. She
dashed into the dining-room as if a murderer were pursuing her, looked
round for a hiding-place or some dark corner where she might conceal
herself, and then crouched down under the table. The door opened, and
Julien came in with a light in his hand, still calling, "Jeanne!
Jeanne!" She started off again like a hunted hare, tore into the
kitchen, round which she ran twice like some wild animal at bay, then,
as he was getting nearer and nearer to her, she suddenly flung open the
garden door, and rushed out into the night.

Her bare legs sank into the snow up to her knees, and this icy contact
gave her new strength. Although she had nothing on but her chemise she
did not feel the bitter cold; her mental anguish was too great for the
consciousness of any mere bodily pain to reach her brain, and she ran on
and on, looking as white as the snow-covered earth. She did not stop
once to take breath, but rushed on across wood and plain without knowing
or thinking of what she was doing. Suddenly she found herself at the
edge of the cliff. She instinctively stopped short, and then crouched
down in the snow and lay there with her mind as powerless to think as
her body to move.

All at once she began to tremble, as does a sail when caught by the
wind. Her arms, her hands, her feet, shook and twitched convulsively,
and consciousness returned to her. Things that had happened a long time
before came back to her memory; the sail in Lastique's boat with him,
their conversation, the dawn of their love; the christening of the boat;
then her thoughts went still farther back till they reached the night of
her arrival from the convent--the night she had spent in happy dreams.
And now, now! Her life was ruined; she had had all her pleasure; there
were no joys, no happiness, in store for her; and she could see the
terrible future with all its tortures, its deceptions, and despair.
Surely it would be better to die now, at once.

She heard a voice in the distance crying:

"This way! this way! Here are her footmarks!" It was Julien looking for
her.

Oh! she could not, she would not, see him again! Never again! From the
abyss before her came the faint sound of the waves as they broke on the
rocks. She stood up to throw herself over the cliff, and in a despairing
farewell to life, she moaned out that last cry of the dying--the word
that the soldier gasps out as he lies wounded to death on the
battlefield--"Mother!"

Then the thought of how her mother would sob when she heard of her
daughter's death, and how her father would kneel in agony beside her
mangled corpse, flashed across her mind, and in that one second she
realized all the bitterness of their grief. She fell feebly back on the
snow, and Julien and old Simon came up, with Marius behind them holding
a lantern. They drew her back before they dared attempt to raise her, so
near the edge of the cliff was she; and they did with her what they
liked, for she could not move a muscle. She knew that they carried her
indoors, that she was put to bed, and rubbed with hot flannels, and
then she was conscious of nothing more.

A nightmare--but was it a nightmare?--haunted her. She thought she was
in bed in her own room; it was broad daylight, but she could not get up,
though she did not know why she could not. She heard a noise on the
boards--a scratching, rustling noise--and all at once a little gray
mouse ran over the sheet. Then another one appeared, and another which
came running towards her chest. Jeanne was not frightened; she wanted to
take hold of the little animal, and put out her hand towards it, but she
could not catch it.

Then came more mice--ten, twenty, hundreds, thousands, sprang up on all
sides. They ran up the bed-posts, and along the tapestry, and covered
the whole bed. They got under the clothes, and Jeanne could feel them
gliding over her skin, tickling her legs, running up and down her body.
She could see them coming from the foot of the bed to get inside and
creep close to her breast, but when she struggled and stretched out her
hands to catch one, she always clutched the air. Then she got angry, and
cried out, and wanted to run away; she fancied someone held her down,
and that strong arms were thrown around her to prevent her moving, but
she could not see anyone. She had no idea of the time that all this
lasted; she only knew that it seemed a very long while.

At last she became conscious again--conscious that she was tired and
aching, and yet better than she had been. She felt very, very weak. She
looked round, and did not feel at all surprised to see her mother
sitting by her bedside with a stout man whom she did not know. She had
forgotten how old she was, and thought she was a little child again, for
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