A Woman's Life Page #29

"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.

								

allowance for the weakness of human nature. They never marry until they
are enceintes; never, madame. One might almost call it a local
custom," he added, with a smile. Then he went on indignantly: "Even the
children are the same. Only last year I found a little boy and girl from
my class in the cemetery together. I told their parents, and what do you
think they replied: 'Well, M'sieu l'curé, we didn't teach it them; we
can't help it.' So you see, monsieur, your maid has only done like the
others--"

"The maid!" interrupted the baron, trembling with excitement. "The maid!
What do I care about her? It's Julien's conduct which I think so
abominable, and I shall certainly take my daughter away with me." He
walked up and down the room, getting more and more angry with every step
he took. "It is infamous the way he has deceived my daughter, infamous!
He's a wretch, a villain, and I will tell him so to his face. I'll
horsewhip him within an inch of his life."

The curé was slowly enjoying a pinch of snuff as he sat beside the
baroness, and thinking how he could make peace. "Come now, M. le baron,
between ourselves he has only done like everyone else. I am quite sure
you don't know many husbands who are faithful to their wives, do you
now?" And he added in a sly, good-natured way: "I bet you, yourself,
have played your little games; you can't say conscientiously that you
haven't, I know. Why, of course you have! And who knows but what you
have made the acquaintance of some little maid just like Rosalie. I tell
you every man is the same. And your escapades didn't make your wife
unhappy, or lessen your affection for her; did they?"

The baron stood still in confusion. It was true that he had done the
same himself, and not only once or twice, but as often as he had got the
chance; his wife's presence in the house had never made any difference,
when the servants were pretty. And was he a villain because of that?
Then why should he judge Julien's conduct so severely when he had never
thought that any fault could be found with his own?

Though her tears were hardly dried, the idea of her husband's pranks
brought a slight smile to the baroness's lip, for she was one of those
good-natured, tender-hearted, sentimental women to whom love adventures
are an essential part of existence.

Jeanne lay back exhausted, thinking, with open unseeing eyes, of all
this painful episode. The expression that had wounded her most in
Rosalie's confession was: "I never said anything about it because I
thought he was nice." She, his wife, had also thought him "nice," and
that was the sole reason why she had united herself to him for life, had
given up every other hope, every other project to join her destiny to
his. She had plunged into marriage, into this pit from which there was
no escape, into all this misery, this grief, this despair, simply
because, like Rosalie, she had thought him "nice."

The door was flung violently open and Julien came in, looking perfectly
wild with rage. He had seen Rosalie moaning on the landing, and guessing
that she had been forced to speak, he had come to see what was going on;
but at the sight of the priest he was taken thoroughly aback.

"What is it? What is the matter?" he asked, in a voice which trembled
in spite of his efforts to make it sound calm.

The baron, who had been so violent just before, dared say nothing after
the curé's argument, in case his son-in-law should quote his own
example; the baroness only wept more bitterly than before, and Jeanne
raised herself on her hands and looked steadily at this man who was
causing her so much sorrow. Her breath came and went quickly, but she
managed to answer:

"The matter is that we know all about your shameful conduct
ever since--ever since the day you first came here; we know
that--that--Rosalie's child is yours--like--like mine, and that they
will be--brothers."

Her grief became so poignant at this thought that she hid herself under
the bedclothes and sobbed bitterly. Julien stood open-mouthed, not
knowing what to say or do. The curé again interposed.

"Come, come, my dear young lady," he said, "you mustn't give way like
that. See now, be reasonable."

He rose, went to the bedside, and laid his cool hand on this despairing
woman's forehead. His simple touch seemed to soothe her wonderfully; she
felt calmer at once, as if the large hand of this country priest,
accustomed to gestures of absolution and sympathy, had borne with it
some strange, peace-giving power.

"Madame, we must always forgive," said the good-natured priest. "You are
borne down by a great grief, but God, in His mercy, has also sent you a
great joy, since He has permitted you to have hopes of becoming a
mother. This child will console you for all your trouble and it is in
its name that I implore, that I adjure, you to forgive M. Julien. It
will be a fresh tie between you, a pledge of your husband's future
fidelity. Can you steel your heart against the father of your unborn
child?"

Too weak to feel either anger or resentment, and only conscious of a
crushed, aching, exhausted sensation, she made no answer. Her nerves
were thoroughly unstrung, and she clung to life but by a very slender
thread.

The baroness, to whom resentment seemed utterly impossible and whose
mind was simply incapable of bearing any prolonged strain, said in a low
tone:

"Come, Jeanne!"

The curé drew Julien close to the bed and placed his hand in his wife's,
giving it a little tap as if to make the union more complete. Then,
dropping his professional pulpit tone, he said, with a satisfied air:

"There! that's done. Believe me, it is better so."

The two hands, united thus for an instant, loosed their clasp directly.
Julien, not daring to embrace Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law, then
turned on his heel, took the baron (who, in his heart, was not sorry
that everything had finished so quietly) by the arm, and drew him from
the room to go and smoke a cigar.

Then the tired invalid went to sleep and the baroness and the priest
began to chat in low tones. The abbé talked of what had just occurred
and proceeded to explain his ideas on the subject, while the baroness
assented to everything he said with a nod.

"Very well, then, it's understood," he said, in conclusion. "You give
the girl the farm at Barville and I will undertake to find her a good,
honest husband. Oh, you may be sure that with twenty thousand francs we
shall not want candidates for her hand. We shall have an embarras de
choix."

The baroness was smiling happily now, though two tears still lingered on
her cheeks.

"Barville is worth twenty thousand francs, at the very least," she said;
"and you understand that it is to be settled on the child though the
parents will have it as long as they live."
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