The Story of a Farm Girl Page #4

"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.

								

and had the nightmare; her candle went out, and then she began to
imagine that some one bad cast a spell over her, as country people so
often imagine, and she felt a mad inclination to run away, to escape and
to flee before her misfortune, like a ship scudding before the wind. An
owl hooted; she shivered, sat up, passed her hands over her face, her
hair, and all over her body, and then she went downstairs, as if she
were walking in her sleep. When she got into the yard she stooped down,
so as not to be seen by any prowling scamp, for the moon, which was
setting, shed a bright light over the fields. Instead of opening the
gate she scrambled over the fence, and as soon as she was outside she
started off. She went on straight before her, with a quick, springy
trot, and from time to time she unconsciously uttered a piercing cry.
Her long shadow accompanied her, and now and then some night bird flew
over her head, while the dogs in the farmyards barked as they heard her
pass; one even jumped over the ditch, and followed her and tried to
bite her, but she turned round and gave such a terrible yell that the
frightened animal ran back and cowered in silence in its kennel.

The stars grew dim, and the birds began to twitter; day was breaking.
The girl was worn out and panting; and when the sun rose in the purple
sky, she stopped, for her swollen feet refused to go any farther; but
she saw a pond in the distance, a large pond whose stagnant water looked
like blood under the reflection of this new day, and she limped on
slowly with her hand on her heart, in order to dip both her feet in it.
She sat down on a tuft of grass, took off her heavy shoes, which were
full of dust, pulled off her stockings and plunged her legs into the
still water, from which bubbles were rising here and there.

A feeling of delicious coolness pervaded her from head to foot, and
suddenly, while she was looking fixedly at the deep pool, she was seized
with dizziness, and with a mad longing to throw herself into it. All her
sufferings would be over in there, over forever. She no longer thought
of her child; she only wanted peace, complete rest, and to sleep
forever, and she got up with raised arms and took two steps forward. She
was in the water up to her thighs, and she was just about to throw her
self in when sharp, pricking pains in her ankles made her jump back,
and she uttered a cry of despair, for, from her knees to the tips of her
feet, long black leeches were sucking her lifeblood, and were swelling
as they adhered to her flesh. She did not dare to touch them, and
screamed with horror, so that her cries of despair attracted a peasant,
who was driving along at some distance, to the spot. He pulled off the
leeches one by one, applied herbs to the wounds, and drove the girl to
her master's farm in his gig.

She was in bed for a fortnight, and as she was sitting outside the
door on the first morning that she got up, the farmer suddenly came and
planted himself before her. “Well,” he said, “I suppose the affair is
settled isn't it?” She did not reply at first, and then, as he remained
standing and looking at her intently with his piercing eyes, she said
with difficulty: “No, master, I cannot.” He immediately flew into a
rage.

“You cannot, girl; you cannot? I should just like to know the reason
why?” She began to cry, and repeated: “I cannot.” He looked at her, and
then exclaimed angrily: “Then I suppose you have a lover?” “Perhaps that
is it,” she replied, trembling with shame.

The man got as red as a poppy, and stammered out in a rage: “Ah! So
you confess it, you slut! And pray who is the fellow? Some penniless,
half-starved ragamuffin, without a roof to his head, I suppose? Who is
it, I say?” And as she gave him no answer, he continued: “Ah! So you
will not tell me. Then I will tell you; it is Jean Baudu?”--“No, not
he,” she exclaimed. “Then it is Pierre Martin?”--“Oh! no, master.”

And he angrily mentioned all the young fellows in the neighborhood,
while she denied that he had hit upon the right one, and every moment
wiped her eyes with the corner of her blue apron. But he still tried to
find it out, with his brutish obstinacy, and, as it were, scratching at
her heart to discover her secret, just as a terrier scratches at a
hole to try and get at the animal which he scents inside it. Suddenly,
however, the man shouted: “By George! It is Jacques, the man who was
here last year. They used to say that you were always talking together,
and that you thought about getting married.”

Rose was choking, and she grew scarlet, while her tears suddenly stopped
and dried up on her cheeks, like drops of water on hot iron, and she
exclaimed: “No, it is not he, it is not he!” “Is that really a fact?”
 asked the cunning peasant, who partly guessed the truth; and she
replied, hastily: “I will swear it; I will swear it to you--” She tried
to think of something by which to swear, as she did not venture to
invoke sacred things, but he interrupted her: “At any rate, he used
to follow you into every corner and devoured you with his eyes at meal
times. Did you ever give him your promise, eh?”

This time she looked her master straight in the face. “No, never, never;
I will solemnly swear to you that if he were to come to-day and ask me
to marry him I would have nothing to do with him.” She spoke with such
an air of sincerity that the farmer hesitated, and then he continued, as
if speaking to himself: “What, then? You have not had a misfortune,
as they call it, or it would have been known, and as it has no
consequences, no girl would refuse her master on that account. There
must be something at the bottom of it, however.”

She could say nothing; she had not the strength to speak, and he asked
her again: “You will not?” “I cannot, master,” she said, with a sigh,
and he turned on his heel.

She thought she had got rid of him altogether and spent the rest of the
day almost tranquilly, but was as exhausted as if she had been turning
the thrashing machine all day in the place of the old white horse, and
she went to bed as soon as she could and fell asleep immediately. In the
middle of the night, however, two hands touching the bed woke her. She
trembled with fear, but immediately recognized the farmer's voice, when
he said to her: “Don't be frightened, Rose; I have come to speak to
you.” She was surprised at first, but when he tried to take liberties
with her she understood and began to tremble violently, as she
felt quite alone in the darkness, still heavy from sleep, and quite
unprotected, with that man standing near her. She certainly did not
consent, but she resisted carelessly struggling against that instinct
which is always strong in simple natures and very imperfectly protected
by the undecided will of inert and gentle races. She turned her head now
to the wall, and now toward the room, in order to avoid the attentions
which the farmer tried to press on her, but she was weakened by fatigue,
while he became brutal, intoxicated by desire.
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