The First Snowfall Page #3

"The First Snowfall" is a poignant short story by Guy de Maupassant that captures the emotional depth and complexity of human relationships through the lens of a winter's first snowfall. The narrative follows the protagonist, who reflects on themes of love, loss, and memory as he encounters a woman mourning her deceased son during a picturesque yet somber snowfall. Through Maupassant's evocative prose, the story explores how nature can evoke deep feelings and memories, ultimately revealing the fragility of life and the enduring nature of grief. The tale encapsulates the beauty and sorrow intertwined in human experience.

								


Next day she was coughing and could not get up.

She had inflammation of the lungs. She became delirious, and in her delirium she asked for a furnace. The doctor insisted on having one put in. Henry yielded, but with visible annoyance.

She was incurable. Her lungs were seriously affected, and those about her feared for her life.

“If she remains here, she will not last until the winter,” said the doctor.

She was sent south. She came to Cannes, made the acquaintance of the sun, loved the sea, and breathed the perfume of orange blossoms.

Then, in the spring, she returned north.

But she now lived with the fear of being cured, with the fear of the long winters of Normandy; and as soon as she was better she opened her window by night and recalled the sweet shores of the Mediterranean.

And now she is going to die. She knows it and she is happy.

She unfolds a newspaper which she has not already opened, and reads this heading:

“The first snow in Paris.”

She shivers and then smiles. She looks across at the Esterel, which is becoming rosy in the rays of the setting sun. She looks at the vast blue sky, so blue, so very blue, and the vast blue sea, so very blue also, and she rises from her seat.

And then she returned to the house with slow steps, only stopping to cough, for she had remained out too long and she was cold, a little cold.

She finds a letter from her husband. She opens it, still smiling, and she reads:

   “MY DEAR LOVE: I hope you are well, and that you do not regret too
   much our beautiful country. For some days last we have had a good
   frost, which presages snow. For my part, I adore this weather, and
   you may believe that I do not light your damned furnace.”
 
She ceases reading, quite happy at the thought that she had her furnace put in. Her right hand, which holds the letter, falls slowly on her lap, while she raises her left hand to her mouth, as if to calm the obstinate cough which is racking her chest.
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