A Woman's Life Page #38

"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.

								

death not to know that she is gone."

Jeanne, in desperation, begged them to tell her what she could do, what
remedies they had better apply. The curé thought that anyhow he might
pronounce an absolution, and for two hours they watched beside the
lifeless, livid body, Jeanne, unable to contain her grief, sobbing aloud
as she knelt beside the bed. When the door opened to admit the doctor,
she thought that with him came safety and consolation and hope, and she
rushed to meet him, trying to tell him, in a voice broken with sobs, all
the details of the catastrophe.

"She was walking--like she does every day--and she seemed quite well,
better even--than usual. She had eaten some soup and two eggs for lunch,
and--quite suddenly, without any warning she fell--and turned black,
like she is now; she has not moved since, and we have--tried everything
to restore her to consciousness--everything--"

She stopped abruptly for she saw the nurse making a sign to the doctor
to intimate that it was all over. Then she refused to understand the
gesture, and went on anxiously:

"Is it anything serious? Do you think there is any danger?"

He answered at last:

"I very much fear that--that life is extinct. Be brave and try to bear
up."

For an answer Jeanne opened her arms, and threw herself on her mother's
body. Julien came in. He made no sign of grief or pity, but stood
looking simply vexed; he had been taken too much by surprise to at once
assume an expression of sorrow.

"I expected it," he whispered. "I knew she could not live long."

He drew out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, knelt down and crossed
himself as he mumbled something, then rose and attempted to raise his
wife. She was clinging to the corpse, almost lying on it as she
passionately kissed it; they had to drag her away for she was nearly mad
with grief, and she was not allowed to go back for an hour.

Then every shadow of hope had vanished, and the room had been arranged
fittingly for its dead occupant. The day was drawing to a close, and
Julien and the priest were standing near one of the windows, talking in
whispers. The Widow Dentu, thoroughly accustomed to death, was already
comfortably dozing in an armchair. The curé went to meet Jeanne as she
came into the room, and taking both her hands in his, he exhorted her to
be brave under this sorrow, and attempted to comfort her with the
consolation of religion. Then he spoke of her dead mother's good life,
and offered to pass the night in prayers beside the body.

But Jeanne refused this offer as well as she could for her tears. She
wanted to be alone, quite alone, with her mother this last night.

"That cannot be," interposed Julien; "we will watch beside her
together."

She shook her head, unable to speak for some moments; then she said:

"She was my mother, and I want to watch beside her alone."

"Let her do as she wants," whispered the doctor; "the nurse can stay in
the next room," and Julien and the priest, thinking of their night's
rest, gave in.

The Abbé Picot knelt down, prayed for a few moments, then rose and went
out of the room, saying, "She was a saintly woman," in the same tone as
he always said, "Dominus vobiscum."

"Won't you have some dinner?" asked the vicomte in a perfectly ordinary
voice.

Jeanne, not thinking he was speaking to her, made no answer.

"You would feel much better if you would eat something," he went on
again.

"Let someone go for papa, directly," she said as if she had not heard
what he said; and he went out of the room to dispatch a mounted
messenger to Rouen.

Jeanne sank into a sort of stupor, as if she were waiting to give way to
her passion of regret until she should be alone with her mother. The
room became filled with shadows. The Widow Dentu moved noiselessly
about, arranging everything for the night, and at last lighted two
candles which she placed at the head of the bed on a small table covered
with a white cloth. Jeanne seemed unconscious of everything; she was
waiting until she should be alone.

When he had dined, Julien came upstairs again and asked for the second
time:

"Won't you have something to eat?"

His wife shook her head, and he sat down looking more resigned than sad,
and did not say anything more. They all three sat apart from one
another; the nurse dropped off to sleep every now and then, snored for a
little while, then awoke with a start. After some time Julien rose and
went over to his wife.

"Do you still want to be left alone?" he asked.

She eagerly took his hand in hers: "Oh, yes; do leave me," she answered.

He kissed her on the forehead, whispered, "I shall come and see you
during the night," then went away with the Widow Dentu, who wheeled her
armchair into the next room.

Jeanne closed the door and put both windows wide open. A warm breeze,
laden with the sweet smell of the hay, blew into the room, and on the
lawn, which had been mown the day before, she could see the heaps of dry
grass lying in the moonlight. She turned away from the window and went
back to the bed, for the soft, beautiful night seemed to mock her grief.

Her mother was no longer swollen as she had been when she died; she
looked simply asleep, only her sleep was more peaceful than it had ever
been before; the wind made the candles flicker, and the changing shadows
made the dead face look as though it moved and lived again. As Jeanne
gazed at it the memories of her early childhood came crowding into her
mind. She could see again her mother sitting in the convent parlor,
holding out the bag of cakes she had brought for her little girl; she
thought of all her little ways, her affectionate words, the way she used
to move, the wrinkles that came round her eyes when she laughed, the
deep sigh she always heaved when she sat down, and all her little, daily
habits, and as she stood gazing at the dead body she kept repeating,
almost mechanically: "She is dead; she is dead;" until at last she
realized all the horror of that word.

The woman who was lying there--mamma--little mother--Madame Adélaïde,
was dead! She would never move, never speak, never laugh, never say,
"Good morning, Jeannette"; never sit opposite her husband at the dinner
table again. She was dead. She would be enclosed in a coffin, placed
beneath the ground, and that would be the end; they would never see her
again. It could not be possible! What! She, her daughter, had now no
mother! Had she indeed lost for ever this dear face, the first she had
ever looked upon, the first she had ever loved, this kindly loving
mother, whose place in her heart could never be filled? And in a few
hours even this still, unconscious face would have vanished, and then
there would be nothing left her but a memory. She fell on her knees in
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes