The Story of a Farm Girl

"The Story of a Farm Girl" by Guy de Maupassant is a poignant short story that explores the life of a young farm girl, reflecting on her experiences, dreams, and the harsh realities of rural existence. Through her eyes, Maupassant delves into themes of love, longing, and the burdens of societal expectations. The narrative captures the essence of rural life in 19th-century France, highlighting the contrast between innocence and the often harsh truths of adulthood. Maupassant's keen observational skills and rich character development invite readers to empathize with the protagonist's struggles and aspirations.

								
PART I

As the weather was very fine, the people on the farm had hurried through
their dinner and had returned to the fields.

The servant, Rose, remained alone in the large kitchen, where the fire
was dying out on the hearth beneath the large boiler of hot water. From
time to time she dipped out some water and slowly washed her dishes,
stopping occasionally to look at the two streaks of light which the sun
threw across the long table through the window, and which showed the
defects in the glass.

Three venturesome hens were picking up the crumbs under the chairs,
while the smell of the poultry yard and the warmth from the cow stall
came in through the half-open door, and a cock was heard crowing in the
distance.

When she had finished her work, wiped down the table, dusted the
mantelpiece and put the plates on the high dresser close to the wooden
clock with its loud tick-tock, she drew a long breath, as she felt
rather oppressed, without exactly knowing why. She looked at the black
clay walls, the rafters that were blackened with smoke and from which
hung spiders' webs, smoked herrings and strings of onions, and then she
sat down, rather overcome by the stale odor from the earthen floor, on
which so many things had been continually spilled and which the heat
brought out. With this there was mingled the sour smell of the pans of
milk which were set out to raise the cream in the adjoining dairy.

She wanted to sew, as usual, but she did not feel strong enough, and so
she went to the door to get a mouthful of fresh air, which seemed to do
her good.

The fowls were lying on the steaming dunghill; some of them were
scratching with one claw in search of worms, while the cock stood up
proudly in their midst. When he crowed, the cocks in all the neighboring
farmyards replied to him, as if they were uttering challenges from farm
to farm.

The girl looked at them without thinking, and then she raised her eyes
and was almost dazzled at the sight of the apple trees in blossom. Just
then a colt, full of life and friskiness, jumped over the ditches and
then stopped suddenly, as if surprised at being alone.

She also felt inclined to run; she felt inclined to move and to stretch
her limbs and to repose in the warm, breathless air. She took a few
undecided steps and closed her eyes, for she was seized with a feeling
of animal comfort, and then she went to look for eggs in the hen
loft. There were thirteen of them, which she took in and put into the
storeroom; but the smell from the kitchen annoyed her again, and she
went out to sit on the grass for a time.

The farmyard, which was surrounded by trees, seemed to be asleep. The
tall grass, amid which the tall yellow dandelions rose up like streaks
of yellow light, was of a vivid, fresh spring green. The apple trees
cast their shade all round them, and the thatched roofs, on which grew
blue and yellow irises, with their sword-like leaves, steamed as if the
moisture of the stables and barns were coming through the straw. The
girl went to the shed, where the carts and buggies were kept. Close to
it, in a ditch, there was a large patch of violets, whose fragrance was
spread abroad, while beyond the slope the open country could be seen,
where grain was growing, with clumps of trees in places, and groups of
laborers here and there, who looked as small as dolls, and white horses
like toys, who were drawing a child's cart, driven by a man as tall as
one's finger.

She took up a bundle of straw, threw it into the ditch and sat down upon
it. Then, not feeling comfortable, she undid it, spread it out and lay
down upon it at full length on her back, with both arms under her head
and her legs stretched out.

Gradually her eyes closed, and she was falling into a state of
delightful languor. She was, in fact, almost asleep when she felt two
hands on her bosom, and she sprang up at a bound. It was Jacques, one of
the farm laborers, a tall fellow from Picardy, who had been making love
to her for a long time. He had been herding the sheep, and, seeing her
lying down in the shade, had come up stealthily and holding his breath,
with glistening eyes and bits of straw in his hair.

He tried to kiss her, but she gave him a smack in the face, for she was
as strong as he, and he was shrewd enough to beg her pardon; so they sat
down side by side and talked amicably. They spoke about the favorable
weather, of their master, who was a good fellow, then of their
neighbors, of all the people in the country round, of themselves, of
their village, of their youthful days, of their recollections, of their
relations, who had left them for a long time, and it might be forever.
She grew sad as she thought of it, while he, with one fixed idea in his
head, drew closer to her.

“I have not seen my mother for a long time,” she said. “It is very
hard to be separated like that,” and she directed her looks into the
distance, toward the village in the north which she had left.

Suddenly, however, he seized her by the neck and kissed her again, but
she struck him so violently in the face with her clenched fist that his
nose began to bleed, and he got up and laid his head against the stem of
a tree. When she saw that, she was sorry, and going up to him, she
said: “Have I hurt you?” He, however, only laughed. “No, it was a mere
nothing; only she had hit him right on the middle of the nose. What
a devil!” he said, and he looked at her with admiration, for she had
inspired him with a feeling of respect and of a very different kind of
admiration which was the beginning of a real love for that tall, strong
wench. When the bleeding had stopped, he proposed a walk, as he was
afraid of his neighbor's heavy hand, if they remained side by side like
that much longer; but she took his arm of her own accord, in the avenue,
as if they had been out for an evening's walk, and said: “It is not nice
of you to despise me like that, Jacques.” He protested, however. No, he
did not despise her. He was in love with her, that was all.

“So you really want to marry me?” she asked.

He hesitated and then looked at her sideways, while she looked straight
ahead of her. She had fat, red cheeks, a full bust beneath her cotton
jacket; thick, red lips; and her neck, which was almost bare, was
covered with small beads of perspiration. He felt a fresh access of
desire, and, putting his lips to her ear, he murmured: “Yes, of course I
do.”

Then she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him till they were
both out of breath. From that moment the eternal story of love began
between them. They plagued one another in corners; they met in the
moonlight beside the haystack and gave each other bruises on the legs,
under the table, with their heavy nailed boots. By degrees, however,
Jacques seemed to grow tired of her; he avoided her, scarcely spoke to
her, and did not try any longer to meet her alone, which made her sad
and anxious; and soon she found that she was enceinte.

At first she was in a state of consternation, but then she got angry,

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