The Wreck

"The Wreck," a short story by Guy de Maupassant, explores themes of isolation, despair, and the fragility of human life. Set against the backdrop of a shipwreck, the narrative follows a group of survivors who grapple with their dire circumstances while confronting their innermost fears and desires. Maupassant's masterful prose delves into the psychological complexities of the characters, revealing their vulnerabilities and the existential dilemmas that arise in the face of disaster. The story ultimately highlights the unpredictable nature of fate and the profound impact of crisis on the human spirit.

								
It was yesterday, the 31st of December.

I had just finished breakfast with my old friend Georges Garin when the
servant handed him a letter covered with seals and foreign stamps.

Georges said:

“Will you excuse me?”

“Certainly.”

And so he began to read the letter, which was written in a large English
handwriting, crossed and recrossed in every direction. He read them
slowly, with serious attention and the interest which we only pay to
things which touch our hearts.

Then he put the letter on the mantelpiece and said:

“That was a curious story! I've never told you about it, I think. Yet
it was a sentimental adventure, and it really happened to me. That was a
strange New Year's Day, indeed! It must have been twenty years ago, for
I was then thirty and am now fifty years old.

“I was then an inspector in the Maritime Insurance Company, of which I
am now director. I had arranged to pass New Year's Day in Paris--since
it is customary to make that day a fete--when I received a letter from
the manager, asking me to proceed at once to the island of Re, where
a three-masted vessel from Saint-Nazaire, insured by us, had just been
driven ashore. It was then eight o'clock in the morning. I arrived
at the office at ten to get my advices, and that evening I took the
express, which put me down in La Rochelle the next day, the 31st of
December.

“I had two hours to wait before going aboard the boat for Re. So I made
a tour of the town. It is certainly a queer city, La Rochelle, with
strong characteristics of its own streets tangled like a labyrinth,
sidewalks running under endless arcaded galleries like those of the Rue
de Rivoli, but low, mysterious, built as if to form a suitable setting
for conspirators and making a striking background for those old-time
wars, the savage heroic wars of religion. It is indeed the typical old
Huguenot city, conservative, discreet, with no fine art to show, with
no wonderful monuments, such as make Rouen; but it is remarkable for its
severe, somewhat sullen look; it is a city of obstinate fighters, a city
where fanaticism might well blossom, where the faith of the Calvinists
became enthusiastic and which gave birth to the plot of the 'Four
Sergeants.'

“After I had wandered for some time about these curious streets, I went
aboard the black, rotund little steamboat which was to take me to the
island of Re. It was called the Jean Guiton. It started with angry
puffings, passed between the two old towers which guard the harbor,
crossed the roadstead and issued from the mole built by Richelieu, the
great stones of which can be seen at the water's edge, enclosing the
town like a great necklace. Then the steamboat turned to the right.

“It was one of those sad days which give one the blues, tighten the
heart and take away all strength and energy and force-a gray, cold day,
with a heavy mist which was as wet as rain, as cold as frost, as bad to
breathe as the steam of a wash-tub.

“Under this low sky of dismal fog the shallow, yellow, sandy sea of all
practically level beaches lay without a wrinkle, without a movement,
without life, a sea of turbid water, of greasy water, of stagnant water.
The Jean Guiton passed over it, rolling a little from habit, dividing
the smooth, dark blue water and leaving behind a few waves, a little
splashing, a slight swell, which soon calmed down.

“I began to talk to the captain, a little man with small feet, as round
as his boat and rolling in the same manner. I wanted some details of
the disaster on which I was to draw up a report. A great square-rigged
three-master, the Marie Joseph, of Saint-Nazaire, had gone ashore one
night in a hurricane on the sands of the island of Re.

“The owner wrote us that the storm had thrown the ship so far ashore
that it was impossible to float her and that they had to remove
everything which could be detached with the utmost possible haste.
Nevertheless I must examine the situation of the wreck, estimate what
must have been her condition before the disaster and decide whether
all efforts had been used to get her afloat. I came as an agent of the
company in order to give contradictory testimony, if necessary, at the
trial.

“On receipt of my report, the manager would take what measures he might
think necessary to protect our interests.

“The captain of the Jean Guiton knew all about the affair, having been
summoned with his boat to assist in the attempts at salvage.

“He told me the story of the disaster. The Marie Joseph, driven by a
furious gale lost her bearings completely in the night, and steering
by chance over a heavy foaming sea--'a milk-soup sea,' said the
captain--had gone ashore on those immense sand banks which make the
coasts of this country look like limitless Saharas when the tide is low.

“While talking I looked around and ahead. Between the ocean and
the lowering sky lay an open space where the eye could see into the
distance. We were following a coast. I asked:

“'Is that the island of Re?'

“'Yes, sir.'

“And suddenly the captain stretched his right hand out before us,
pointed to something almost imperceptible in the open sea, and said:

“'There's your ship!'

“'The Marie Joseph!'

“'Yes.'

“I was amazed. This black, almost imperceptible speck, which looked to
me like a rock, seemed at least three miles from land.

“I continued:

“'But, captain, there must be a hundred fathoms of water in that place.'

“He began to laugh.

“'A hundred fathoms, my child! Well, I should say about two!'

“He was from Bordeaux. He continued:

“'It's now nine-forty, just high tide. Go down along the beach with your
hands in your pockets after you've had lunch at the Hotel du Dauphin,
and I'll wager that at ten minutes to three, or three o'clock, you'll
reach the wreck without wetting your feet, and have from an hour and
three-quarters to two hours aboard of her; but not more, or you'll be
caught. The faster the sea goes out the faster it comes back. This coast
is as flat as a turtle! But start away at ten minutes to five, as I tell
you, and at half-past seven you will be again aboard of the Jean Guiton,
which will put you down this same evening on the quay at La Rochelle.'

“I thanked the captain and I went and sat down in the bow of the steamer
to get a good look at the little city of Saint-Martin, which we were now
rapidly approaching.

“It was just like all small seaports which serve as capitals of the
barren islands scattered along the coast--a large fishing village,
one foot on sea and one on shore, subsisting on fish and wild fowl,
vegetables and shell-fish, radishes and mussels. The island is very low
and little cultivated, yet it seems to be thickly populated. However, I
did not penetrate into the interior.

“After breakfast I climbed across a little promontory, and then, as the
tide was rapidly falling, I started out across the sands toward a kind
of black rock which I could just perceive above the surface of the
water, out a considerable distance.

“I walked quickly over the yellow plain. It was elastic, like flesh and

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