A Woman's Life Page #37

"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.

								

said her breathing and the heavy feeling about her heart were getting
worse, he had answered:

"Oh, no, my dear. You have always been like this."

Jeanne went to her own room and cried bitterly when she had taken her
parents upstairs. Then she went to her father and, throwing herself in
his arms, said, with her eyes still full of tears:

"Oh, how changed mother is! What is the matter with her? Do tell me what
is the matter with her?"

"Do you think she is changed?" asked the baron in surprise. "It must be
your fancy. You know I have been with her all this time, and to me she
seems just the same as she has always been; she is not any worse."

"Your mother is in a bad way," said Julien to his wife that evening. "I
don't think she's good for much now."

Jeanne burst into tears.

"Oh, good gracious!" went on Julien irritably. "I don't say that she is
dangerously ill. You always see so much more than is meant. She is
changed, that's all; it's only natural she should begin to break up at
her age."

In a week Jeanne had got accustomed to her mother's altered appearance
and thought no more about it, thrusting her fears from her, as people
always do put aside their fears and cares, with an instinctive and
natural, though selfish dislike of anything unpleasant.

The baroness, unable to walk, only went out for about half an hour every
day. When she had gone once up and down "her" avenue, she could not move
another step and asked to sit down on "her" seat. Some days she could
not walk even to the end of the avenue, and would say:

"Let us stop; my hypertrophy is too much for me to-day."

She never laughed as she used to; things which, the year before, would
have sent her into fits of laughter, only brought a faint smile to her
lips now. Her eyesight was still excellent, and she passed her time in
reading Corinne and Lamartine's Meditations over again, and in going
through her "Souvenir-drawer." She would empty on her knees the old
letters, which were so dear to her heart, place the drawer on a chair
beside her, look slowly over each "relic," and then put it back in its
place. When she was quite alone she kissed some of the letters as she
might have kissed the hair of some loved one who was dead.

Jeanne, coming into the room suddenly, sometimes found her in tears.

"What is the matter, mamma, dear?" she would ask.

"My souvenirs have upset me," the baroness would answer, with a
long-drawn sigh. "They bring to my mind so vividly the happy times which
are all over now, and make me think of people whom I had almost
forgotten. I seem to see them, to hear their voices, and it makes me
sad. You will feel the same, later on."

If the baron came in and found them talking like this, he would say:

"Jeanne, my dear, if you take my advice, you will burn all your
letters--those from your mother, mine, everyone's. There is nothing more
painful than to stir up the memories of one's youth when one is old."

But Jeanne, who had inherited her mother's sentimental instincts, though
she differed from her in nearly everything else, carefully kept all her
old letters to form a "souvenir-box" for her old age, also.

A few days after his arrival, business called the baron away again. The
baroness soon began to get better, and Jeanne, forgetting Julien's
infidelity and Gilberte's treachery, was almost perfectly happy. The
weather was splendid. Mild, starlit nights followed the soft evenings,
and dazzling sunrises commenced the glorious days. The fields were
covered with bright, sweet-smelling flowers, and the vast calm sea
glittered in the sun from morning till night.

One afternoon Jeanne went into the fields with Paul in her arms. She
felt an exquisite gladness as she looked now at her son, now at the
flowery hedgerows, and every minute she pressed her baby closely to her
and kissed him. The earth exhaled a faint perfume, and, as she walked
along, she felt as though her happiness were too great for her. Then she
thought of her child's future. What would he be? Sometimes she hoped he
would become a great and famous man. Sometimes she felt she would
rather he remained with her, passing his life in tender devotion to his
mother and unknown to the world. When she listened to the promptings of
her mother's heart, she wished him to remain simply her adored son; but
when she listened to her reason and her pride she hoped he would make a
name and become something of importance in the world.

She sat down at the edge of a ditch and studied the child's face as if
she had never really looked at it before. It seemed so strange to think
that this little baby would grow up, and walk with manly strides, that
these soft cheeks would become bearded, and the feeble murmur change to
a deep-toned voice.

Someone called her, and, looking up, she saw Marius running towards her.
Thinking he had come to announce some visitor, she got up, feeling vexed
at being disturbed. The boy was running as fast as his legs could carry
him.

"Madame!" he cried, when he was near enough to be heard. "Madame la
baronne is very ill."

Jeanne ran quickly towards the house, feeling as if a douche of cold
water had been poured down her spine. There was quite a little crowd
standing under the plane tree, which opened to let her through as she
rushed forward. There, in the midst, lay the baroness on the ground, her
head supported by two pillows, her face black, her eyes closed, and her
chest, which for the last twenty years had heaved so tumultuously,
motionless. The child's nurse was standing there; she took him from his
mother's arms, and carried him away.

"How did it happen? What made her fall?" asked Jeanne, looking up with
haggard eyes. "Send for the doctor immediately."

As she turned she saw the curé; he at once offered his services, and,
turning up his sleeves, began to rub the baroness with Eau de Cologne
and vinegar; but she showed no signs of returning consciousness.

"She ought to be undressed and put to bed," said the priest; and, with
his aid, Joseph Couillard, old Simon and Ludivine tried to raise the
baroness.

As they lifted her, her head fell backwards, and her dress, which they
were grasping, gave way under the dead weight of her huge body. They
were obliged to lay her down again, and Jeanne shrieked with horror.

At last an armchair was brought from the drawing-room; the baroness was
placed in it, carried slowly indoors, then upstairs, and laid on the
bed. The cook was undressing her as best she could when the Widow Dentu
came in, as if, like the priest, she had "smelt death," as the servants
said. Joseph Couillard hurried off for the doctor, and the priest was
going to fetch the holy oil, when the nurse whispered in his ear:

"You needn't trouble to go, Monsieur le curé. I have seen too much of
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