Marroca

"Marroca" is a short story by French author Guy de Maupassant that captures the complex interplay of human emotions, desire, and the social implications of love. The narrative revolves around a young woman named Marroca, whose life and choices challenge societal norms. Maupassant's keen observational style and mastery of character development create a poignant exploration of intimacy, societal expectations, and the struggles of personal freedom. Through rich descriptions and nuanced interactions, the story delves into themes of passion and the constraints imposed by society, inviting readers to reflect on the nature of love and individuality.

• Short story

								
You ask me, my dear friend, to send you my impressions of Africa, my
adventures, and especially an account of my love affairs in this country
which has attracted me for so long. You laughed a great deal beforehand
at my dusky sweethearts, as you called them, and declared that you could
see me returning to France, followed by a tall, ebony-colored woman,
with a yellow silk handkerchief round her head, and wearing voluminous
bright-colored trousers.

No doubt the Moorish women will have their turn, for I have seen several
of them who have made me feel very much inclined to have to fall in love
with them; but by way of making a beginning, I came across something
better, and very original.

In your last letter to me, you say: "When I know how people love in a
country, I know that country well enough to describe it, although I may
never have seen it." Let me tell you, then, that here they love
furiously. From the very first moment, one feels a sort of trembling
ardor, of constant desire, to the very tips of the fingers, which
over-excites our amorous powers, and all our faculties of physical
sensation, from the simple contact of the hands, down to that unnamable
requirement which makes us commit so many follies.

Do not misunderstand me. I do not know whether you call love of the
heart, love of the soul, whether sentimental idealism, Platonic love, in
a word, can exist on this earth; I doubt it, myself. But that other
love, sensual love, which has something good, a great deal of good about
it, is really terrible in this climate. The heat, the burning atmosphere
which makes you feverish, those suffocating blasts of wind from the
south, those waves of fire which come from the desert which is so near
us, that oppressive sirocco, which is more destructive and withering
than fire, that perpetual conflagration of an entire continent, that is
burnt even to its stones by a fierce and devouring sun, inflame the
blood, excite the flesh, and make brutes of us.

But to come to my story, I shall not tell you about the beginning of my
stay in Africa. After going to Bona, Constantine, Biskara and Setif, I
went to Bougie through the defiles of Chabet, by an excellent road
through a large forest, which follows the sea at a height of six hundred
feet above it, as far as that wonderful bay of Bougie, which is as
beautiful as that of Naples, of Ajaccio, or of Douarnenez, which are the
most lovely that I know.

Far away in the distance, before one goes round the large inlet where
the water is perfectly calm, one sees the Bougie. It is built on the
steep sides of a high hill, which is covered with trees, and forms a
white spot on that green slope; it might almost be taken for the foam of
a cascade, falling into the sea.

I had no sooner set foot in that delightful, small town, than I knew
that I should stay for a long time. In all directions the eye rests on
rugged, strangely shaped hill-tops, which are so close together that one
can hardly see the open sea, so that the gulf looks like a lake. The
blue water is wonderfully transparent, and the azure sky, a deep azure,
as if it had received two coats of paint, expands its wonderful beauty
above it. They seem to be looking at themselves in a glass, and to be a
reflection of each other.

Bougie is a town of ruins, and on the quay, when one arrives, one sees
such a magnificent ruin, that one might imagine one was at the opera. It
is the old Saracen Gate, overgrown with ivy, and there are ruins in all
directions on the hills round the town, fragments of Roman walls, bits
of Saracen monuments, the remains of Arabic buildings.

I had taken a small, Moorish house, in the upper town. You know those
dwellings, which have been described so often. They have no windows on
the outside; but they are lighted from top to bottom, by an inner court.
On the first floor, they have a large, cool room, in which one spends
the days, and a terrace on the roof, on which one spends the nights.

I at once fell in with the custom of all hot countries, that is to say,
of having a siesta after lunch. That is the hottest time in Africa, the
time when one can scarcely breathe; when the streets, the fields, and
the long, dazzling, white roads are deserted, when everyone is asleep,
or at any rate, trying to sleep, attired as scantily as possible.

In my drawing-room, which had columns of Arabic architecture, I had
placed a large, soft couch, covered with a carpet from Djebel Amour,
very nearly in the costume of Assan, but I could not sleep, as I was
tortured by my continence. There are two forms of torture on this earth,
which I hope you will never know: the want of water, and the want of
women, and I do not know which is the worst. In the desert, men would
commit any infamy for the sake of a glass of clean, cold water, and what
would one not do in some of the towns of the littoral, for a handsome,
fleshy, healthy girl? For there is no lack of girls in Africa; on the
contrary, they abound, but to continue my comparison, they are as
unwholesome and decayed as the muddy water in the wells of Sahara.

Well, one day when I was feeling more enervated than usual, I was trying
in vain to close my eyes. My legs twitched as if they were being
pricked, and I tossed about uneasily on my couch, until at last, unable
to bear it any longer, I got up and went out. It was a terribly hot day,
in the middle of July, and the pavement was hot enough to bake bread on.
My shirt, which was soaked with perspiration immediately, clung to my
body, and on the horizon there was a slight, white vapor, which seemed
to be palpable heat.

I went down to the sea, and going round the port, I went along the shore
of the pretty bay where the baths are. There was nobody about, and
nothing was stirring; not a sound of bird or of beast was to be heard,
the very waves did not lap, and the sea appeared to be asleep in the
sun.

Suddenly, behind one of the rocks, which were half covered by the silent
water, I heard a slight movement, and on turning round, I saw a tall,
naked girl, sitting up to her breasts in the water, taking a bath; no
doubt she reckoned on being alone, at that hot period of the day. Her
head was turned towards the sea, and she was moving gently up and down,
without seeing me.

Nothing could be more surprising than that picture of the beautiful
woman in the water, which was as clear as crystal, under a blaze of
light. For she was a marvelously beautiful woman, tall, and modeled like
a statue. She turned round, uttered a cry, and half swimming, half
walking, she went and hid altogether behind her rock; but as she must
necessarily come out, I sat down on the beach and waited. Presently, she
just showed her head, which was covered with thick black plaits. She had
a rather large mouth, with full lips, large, bold eyes, and her skin,
which was rather tanned by the climate, looked like a piece of old,
hard, polished ivory.

She called out to me: "Go away!" and her full voice, which corresponded

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes