The Moribund Page #2

"The Moribund" is a poignant short story by Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of mortality, the passage of time, and the human condition. The narrative centers around the reflections of a dying man as he contemplates his life, the inevitability of death, and the impact of his choices. Through Maupassant's masterful prose, the story delves into the emotional and philosophical conflicts faced by individuals confronting their impending end, capturing the fragility of existence and the search for meaning in life’s final moments.

								


They returned to the kitchen and started to eat without saying a word.
When they had swallowed their soup, they ate another piece of bread and
butter. Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, they returned to the
dying man.

The woman, carrying a little lamp with a smoky wick, held it in front
of her father's face. If he had not been breathing, one would certainly
have thought him dead.

The couple's bed was hidden in a little recess at the other end of the
room. Silently they retired, put out the light, closed their eyes, and
soon two unequal snores, one deep and the other shriller, accompanied
the uninterrupted rattle of the dying man.

The rats ran about in the garret.

The husband awoke at the first streaks of dawn. His father-in-law was
still alive. He shook his wife, worried by the tenacity of the old man.

“Say, Phemie, he don't want to quit. What would you do?”

He knew that she gave good advice.

She answered:

“You needn't be afraid; he can't live through the day. And the mayor
won't stop our burying him to-morrow, because he allowed it for Maitre
Renard's father, who died just during the planting season.”

He was convinced by this argument, and left for the fields.

His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework.

At noon the old man was not dead. The people hired for the day's work
came by groups to look at him. Each one had his say. Then they left
again for the fields.

At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing.
At last his son-in-law was frightened.

“What would you do now, Phemie?”

She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor. He
promised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for
the following day. They also went to the health officer, who likewise
promised, in order to oblige Maitre Chicot, to antedate the death
certificate. The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease.

They went to bed and to sleep, just as they did the preceding day, their
sonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man.

When they awoke, he was not yet dead.

Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watching
him with distrust, as though he had wished to play them a mean trick, to
deceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him for
the time which he was making them lose.

The son-in-law asked:

“What am I goin' to do?”

She did not know. She answered:

“It certainly is annoying!”

The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to wait
and explain the case to them.

Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived. The women in black,
their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill
at ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in
couples, talking business.

Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and
suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the first
group. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered
chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that
everybody would have done as they did, talking continually and giving
nobody a chance to answer.

They were going from one person to another:

“I never would have thought it; it's incredible how he can last this
long!”

The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had
missed an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some
remaining seated others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre Chicot
held them back:

“You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might as well
make use of 'em.”

The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by
little; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had
arrived later. Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings
seemed to cheer everyone up.

The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed
themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The
men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window,
which had been opened.

Madame Chicot explained her distress:

“That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't he
sound like a pump that has gone dry?”

When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the
refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold,
the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden
dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes,
attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing
that there would not be enough. But four remained over.

Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:

“Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much
when he was alive.”

A big, jovial peasant declared:

“He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn.”

This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up.
It was their turn now to eat dumplings.

Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the
cellar continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick
succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were
beginning to shout as they do at feasts.

Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, held
there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared at
the window and cried in a shrill voice:

“He's dead! he's dead!”

Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was
indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other,
looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings.
Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots
were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved.

They kept repeating:

“I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, it
would have saved us all this trouble.”

Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all,
and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.

The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the
chance to see him and of getting something to eat.

And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, her
face distorted with grief:

“We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have made
up his mind last night?”

The husband, more resigned, answered:

“Well, we'll not have to do this every day.”
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