A Woman's Life Page #31

"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.

								


Nurse, mid-wife and watcher of the dead, equally ready to welcome the
new-born infant, to receive its first cry, to immerse it in its first
bath and to wrap it in its first covering, or to hear the last word, the
last death-rattle, the last moan of the dying, to clothe them in their
last garment, to sponge their wasted bodies, to draw the sheet about
their still faces, the Widow Dentu had become utterly indifferent to any
of the chances accompanying a birth or a death.

Every now and then Jeanne gave a low moan. For two hours it seemed as if
the child would not be born yet, after all; but about daybreak the
pains recommenced and soon became almost intolerable. As the involuntary
cries of anguish burst through her clenched teeth, Jeanne thought of
Rosalie who had hardly even moaned, and whose bastard child had been
born without any of the torture such as she was suffering. In her
wretched, troubled mind she drew comparisons between her maid and
herself, and she cursed God Whom, until now, she had believed just. She
thought in angry astonishment of how fate favors the wicked, and of the
unpardonable lies of those who hold forth inducements to be upright and
good.

Sometimes the agony was so great that she could think of nothing else,
her suffering absorbing all her strength, her reason, her consciousness.
In the intervals of relief her eyes were fixed on Julien, and then she
was filled with a mental anguish as she thought of the day her maid had
fallen at the foot of this very bed with her new-born child--the brother
of the infant that was now causing her such terrible pain. She
remembered perfectly every gesture, every look, every word of her
husband as he stood beside the maid, and now she could see in his
movements the same ennui, the same indifference for her suffering as
he had felt for Rosalie's; it was the selfish carelessness of a man whom
the idea of paternity irritates.

She was seized by an excruciating pain, a spasm so agonizing that she
thought, "I am going to die! I am dying!" And her soul was filled with a
furious hatred; she felt she must curse this man who was the cause of
all her agony, and this child which was killing her. She strained every
muscle in a supreme effort to rid herself of this awful burden, and then
it felt as if her whole inside were pouring away from her, and her
suffering suddenly became less.

The nurse and the doctor bent over her and took something away; and she
heard the choking noise she had heard once before, and then the low cry
of pain, the feeble whine of the new-born child filled her ears and
seemed to enter her poor, exhausted body till it reached her very soul;
and, in an unconsciousness movement she tried to hold out her arms.

With the child was born a new joy, a fresh rapture. In one second she
had been delivered from that terrible pain and made happier than she had
ever been before, and she revived in mind and body as she realized, for
the first time, the pleasure of being a mother.

She wanted to see her child. It had not any hair or nails, for it had
come before its time, but when she saw this human larva move its limbs
and open its mouth, and when she touched its wrinkled little face, her
heart overflowed with happiness, and she knew that she would never feel
weary of life again, for her love for the atom she held in her arms
would be so absorbing that it would make her indifferent to everything
else.

From that time her child was her chief, her only care, and she idolized
it more, perhaps, because she had been so deceived in her love and
disappointed in her hopes. She insisted on having the cot close to her
bed, and, when she could get up, she sat by the window the whole day
rocking the cradle with her foot. She was even jealous of the wet-nurse,
and when the hungry baby held out its arms and mouth towards the big
blue-veined breast, she felt as if she would like to tear her son from
this strong, quiet peasant woman's arms, and strike and scratch the
bosom to which he clung so eagerly.

She embroidered his fine robes herself, putting into them the most
elaborate work; he was always surrounded by a cloud of lace and wore the
handsomest caps. The only thing she could talk about was the baby's
clothes, and she was always interrupting a conversation to hold up a
band, or bib, or some especially pretty ribbon for admiration, for she
took no notice of what was being said around her as she turned and
twisted some tiny garment about in her hands, and held it up to the
light to see better how it looked.

"Don't you think he will look lovely in that?" she was always asking,
and her mother and the baron smiled at this all-absorbing affection; but
Julien would exclaim, impatiently, "What a nuisance she is with that
brat!" for his habits had been upset and his overweening importance
diminished by the arrival of this noisy, imperious tyrant, and he was
half-jealous of the scrap of humanity who now held the first place in
the house. Jeanne could hardly bear to be away from her baby for an
instant, and she even sat watching him all night through as he lay
sleeping in his cradle. These vigils and this continual anxiety began to
tell upon her health. The want of sleep weakened her and she grew
thinner and thinner, until, at last, the doctor ordered the child to be
separated from her.

It was in vain that she employed tears, commands and entreaties. Each
night the baby slept with his nurse, and each night his mother rose from
her bed and went, barefooted, to put her ear to the keyhole and listen
if he was sleeping quietly. Julien found her there one night as he was
coming in late from dining at the Fourvilles, and after that she was
locked into her room every evening to compel her to stay in bed.

The child was to be named Pierre Simon Paul (they were going to call him
Paul) and at the end of August he was christened, the baron being
godfather, and Aunt Lison godmother. At the beginning of September Aunt
Lison went away, and her absence was as unnoticed as her presence had
been.

One evening, after dinner, the curé called at the château. There seemed
an air of mystery about him, and, after a few commonplace remarks, he
asked the baron and baroness if he could speak to them in private for a
few moments. They all three walked slowly down the avenue talking
eagerly as they went, while Julien, feeling uneasy and irritated at this
secrecy, was left behind with Jeanne. He offered to accompany the priest
when he went away, and they walked off towards the church where the
angelus was ringing. It was a cool, almost cold, evening, and the others
soon went into the house. They were all beginning to feel a little
drowsy when the drawing-room door was suddenly thrown open and Julien
came in looking very vexed. Without stopping to see whether Jeanne was
there or not, he cried to the baron, as soon as he entered the room:

"Upon my soul you must be mad to go and give twenty thousand francs to
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