A Woman's Life Page #41

"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.

								

husband in his room; twice, in fact, she did glide to his door, but each
time she came back, without having turned the handle, her face burning
with shame.

The baron was away, her mother was dead, and she had no one to whom she
could confide this delicate secret. She made up her mind, at last, to
tell the Abbé Picot her difficulty, under the seal of confession. She
went to him one day and found him in his little garden, reading his
breviary among the fruit trees. She talked to him for a few minutes
about one thing and another, then, "Monsieur l'abbé, I want to confess,"
she said, with a deep blush.

He put on his spectacles to look at her better, for the request
astonished him. "I don't think you can have any very heavy sins on your
conscience," he said, with a smile.

"No, but I want to ask your advice on a subject so--so painful to enter
upon, that I dare not talk about it in an ordinary way," she replied,
feeling very confused.

He put on his priestly air immediately.

"Very well, my daughter, come to the confessional, and I will hear you
there."

But she suddenly felt a scruple at talking of such things in the
quietness of an empty church.

"No, Monsieur le curé--after all--if you will let me--I can tell you
here what I want to say. See, we will go and sit in your little arbor
over there."

As they walked slowly over to the arbor she tried to find the words in
which she could best begin her confidence. They sat down, and she
commenced, as if she were confessing, "My father," then hesitated, said
again, "My father," then stopped altogether, too ashamed to continue.

The priest crossed his hands over his stomach and waited for her to go
on. "Well, my daughter," he said, perceiving her embarrassment, "you
seem afraid to say what it is; come now, be brave."

"My father, I want to have another child," she said abruptly, like a
coward throwing himself headlong into the danger he dreads.

The priest, hardly understanding what she meant, made no answer, and she
tried to explain herself, but, in her confusion, her words became more
and more difficult to understand.

"I am quite alone in life now; my father and my husband do not agree; my
mother is dead, and--and--the other day I almost lost my son," she
whispered with a shudder. "What would have become of me if he had died?"

The priest looked at her in bewilderment. "There, there; come to the
point," he said.

"I want to have another child," she repeated.

The abbé was used to the coarse pleasantries of the peasants, who did
not mind what they said before him, and he answered, with a sly smile
and a knowing shake of the head: "Well, I don't think there need be much
difficulty about that."

She raised her clear eyes to his and said, hesitatingly:

"But--but--don't you understand that since--since that trouble
with--the--maid--my husband and I live--quite apart."

These words came as a revelation to the priest, accustomed as he was to
the promiscuity and easy morals of the peasants. Then he thought he
could guess what the young wife really wanted, and he looked at her out
of the corner of his eye, pitying her, and sympathizing with her
distress.

"Yes, yes, I know exactly what you mean. I can quite understand that you
should find your--your widowhood hard to bear. You are young, healthy,
and it is only natural; very natural." He began to smile, his lively
nature getting the better of him. "Besides, the Church allows these
feelings, sometimes," he went on, gently tapping Jeanne's hands. "What
are we told? That carnal desires may be satisfied lawfully in wedlock
only. Well, you are married, are you not?"

She, in her turn, had not at first understood what his words implied,
but when his meaning dawned on her, her face became crimson, and her
eyes filled with tears.

"Oh! Monsieur le curé, what do you mean? What do you think? I assure
you--I assure--" and she could not continue for her sobs.

Her emotion surprised the abbé, and he tried to console her.

"There, there," he said; "I did not mean to pain you. I was only joking,
and there's no harm in a joke between honest people. But leave it all in
my hands, and I will speak to M. Julien."

She did not know what to say. She wished, now, that she could refuse his
help, for she feared his want of tact would only increase her
difficulties, but she did not dare say anything.

"Thank you, Monsieur le curé," she stammered; and then hurried away.

The next week was passed by Jeanne in an agony of doubts and fears. Then
one evening, Julien watched her all through dinner with an amused smile
on his lips, and evinced towards her a gallantry which was faintly
tinged with irony. After dinner they walked up and down the baroness's
avenue, and he whispered in her ear:

"Then we are going to be friends again?"

She made no answer, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground, where there
was a straight line, hardly so thickly covered with grass as the rest of
the path. It was the line traced by the baroness's foot, which was
gradually being effaced, just as her memory was fading, and, as she
looked at it, Jeanne's heart felt bursting with grief; she seemed so
lonely, so separated from everybody.

"For my part, I am only too pleased," continued Julien. "I should have
proposed it before, but I was afraid of displeasing you."

The sun was setting; it was a mild, soft evening, and Jeanne longed to
rest her head on some loving heart, and there sob out her sorrows. She
threw herself into Julien's arms, her breast heaving, and the tears
streaming from her eyes. He looked at her in surprise, thinking this
outburst was occasioned by the love she still felt for him, and, unable
to see her face, he dropped a condescending kiss upon her hair. Then
they went indoors in silence and he followed her to her room.

To him this renewal of their former relations was a duty, though hardly
an unpleasant one, while she submitted to his embraces as a disgusting,
painful necessity, and resolved to put an end to them for ever, as soon
as her object was accomplished. Soon, however, she found that her
husband's caresses were not like they used to be; they may have been
more refined, they certainly were not so complete. He treated her like a
careful lover, instead of being an easy husband.

"Why do you not give yourself up to me as you used to do?" she whispered
one night, her lips close to his.

"To keep you out of the family way, of course," he answered, with a
chuckle.

She started.

"Don't you wish for any more children, then?" she asked.

His amazement was so great, that, for a moment, he was silent; then:

"Eh? What do you say?" he exclaimed. "Are you in your right senses?
Another child? I should think not, indeed! We've already got one too
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