A Woman's Life Page #39

"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.

								

despair, wringing her hands and pressing her lips to the bed.

"Oh, mother, mother! My darling mother!" she cried, in a broken voice
which was stifled by the bed-covering.

She felt she was going mad; mad, like the night she had fled into the
snow. She rushed to the window to breathe the fresh air which had not
passed over the corpse or the bed on which it lay. The new-mown hay, the
trees, the waste land and the distant sea lay peacefully sleeping in the
moonlight, and the tears welled up into Jeanne's eyes as she looked out
into the clear, calm night. She went back to her seat by the bedside and
held her mother's dead hand in hers, as if she were lying ill instead of
dead. Attracted by the lighted candles, a big, winged insect had entered
through the open window and was flying about the room, dashing against
the wall at every moment with a faint thud. It disturbed Jeanne, and she
looked up to see where it was, but she could only see its shadow moving
over the white ceiling.

Its buzzing suddenly ceased, and then, besides the regular ticking of
the clock, Jeanne noticed another fainter rustling noise. It was the
ticking of her mother's watch, which had been forgotten when her dress
had been taken off and thrown at the foot of the bed, and the idea of
this little piece of mechanism still moving while her mother lay dead,
sent a fresh pang of anguish through her heart. She looked at the time.
It was hardly half-past ten, and as she thought of the long night to
come, she was seized with a horrible dread.

She began to think of her own life--of Rosalie, of Gilberte--of all her
illusions which had been, one by one, so cruelly destroyed. Life
contained nothing but misery and pain, misfortune and death; there was
nothing true, nothing honest, nothing but what gave rise to suffering
and tears. Repose and happiness could only be expected in another
existence, when the soul had been delivered from its early trials. Her
thoughts turned to the unfathomable mystery of the soul, but, as she
reasoned about it, her poetic theories were invariably upset by others,
just as poetic and just as unreal. Where was now her mother's soul, the
soul which had forsaken this still, cold body? Perhaps it was far away,
floating in space. But had it entirely vanished like the perfume from a
withered flower, or was it wandering like some invisible bird freed from
its cage? Had it returned to God, or was it scattered among the new
germs of creation? It might be very near; perhaps in this very room,
hovering around the inanimate body it had left, and at this thought
Jeanne fancied she felt a breath, as if a spirit had passed by her. Her
blood ran cold with terror; she did not dare turn round to look behind
her, and she sat motionless, her heart beating wildly.

At that moment the invisible insect again commenced its buzzing, noisy
flight, and Jeanne trembled from head to foot at the sound. Then, as she
recognized the noise, she felt a little reassured, and rose and looked
around. Her eyes fell on the escritoire with the sphinxes' heads, the
guardian of the "souvenirs." As she looked at it she thought it would be
fulfilling a sacred, filial duty, which would please her mother as she
looked down on her from another world, to read these letters, as she
might have done a holy book during this last watch.

She knew it was the correspondence of her grandfather and grandmother,
whom she had never known; and it seemed as if her hands would join
theirs across her mother's corpse, and so a sacred chain of affection
would be formed between those who had died so long ago, their daughter
who had but just joined them, and her child who was still on earth.

She opened the escritoire and took out the letters; they had been
carefully tied into ten little packets, which were laid side by side in
the lowest drawer. A refinement of sentimentality prompted her to place
them all on the bed in the baroness's arms; then she began to read.

They were old-fashioned letters with the perfume of another century
about them, such as are treasured up in every family. The first
commenced "My dearie"; another "My little darling"; then came some
beginning "My pet"--"My beloved daughter," then "My dear child"--"My
dear Adélaïde"--"My dear daughter," the commencements varying as the
letters had been addressed to the child, the young girl, and, later on,
to the young wife. They were all full of foolish, loving phrases, and
news about a thousand insignificant, homely events, which, to a
stranger, would have seemed too trivial to mention: "Father has an
influenza; Hortense has burnt her finger; Croquerat, the cat, is dead;
the fir tree which stood on the right-hand side of the gate has been cut
down; mother lost her mass book as she was coming home from church, she
thinks someone must have stolen it," and they talked about people whom
Jeanne had never known, but whose names were vaguely familiar to her.

She was touched by these simple details which seemed to reveal all her
mother's life and inmost thoughts to her. She looked at the corpse as it
lay there, and suddenly she began to read the letters aloud, as though
to console and gladden the dead heart once more; and a smile of
happiness seemed to light up the face. As she finished reading them,
Jeanne threw the letters on the foot of the bed, resolving to place them
all in her mother's coffin.

She untied another packet. These were in another handwriting, and the
first ran thus:

     "I cannot live without your kisses. I love you madly."

There was nothing more, not even a signature. Jeanne turned the paper
over, unable to understand it. It was addressed clearly enough to
"Madame la baronne Le Perthuis des Vauds."

She opened the next:

     "Come to-night as soon as he has gone out. We shall have at least
     one hour together. I adore you."

A third:

     "I have passed a night of longing and anguish. I fancied you in my
     arms, your mouth quivering beneath mine, your eyes looking into my
     eyes. And then I could have dashed myself from the window, as I
     thought that, at that very moment, you were sleeping beside him, at
     the mercy of his caresses."

Jeanne stopped in amazement. What did it all mean? To whom were these
words of love addressed? She read on, finding in every letter the same
distracted phrases, the same assignations, the same cautions, and, at
the end, always the five words: "Above all, burn this letter." At last
she came to an ordinary note, merely accepting an invitation to dinner;
it was signed "Paul d'Ennemare." Why, that was the man of whom the baron
still spoke as "Poor old Paul," and whose wife had been the baroness's
dearest friend!

Then into Jeanne's mind came a suspicion which at once changed to a
certainty--he had been her mother's lover! With a sudden gesture of
loathing, she threw from her all these odious letters, as she would have
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