Under the Yoke

"Under the Yoke" is a poignant novella by Guy de Maupassant that explores themes of love, societal constraints, and the struggles of rural life in 19th-century France. The story centers on the life of a peasant named Jacques, who is caught between his desires and the oppressive forces of social class and tradition. Through Maupassant's vivid and unflinching prose, readers are drawn into the emotional turmoil of the characters as they navigate their relationships and the harsh realities of their existence. The narrative captures the essence of human resilience and the quest for freedom amidst adversity.

• Short story

								
As he was a man of quiet and regular habits, and of a simple and
affectionate disposition, and had nothing to disturb the even tenor of
his life, Monsieur de Loubancourt suffered more than most men do from
his widowerhood. He regretted his lost happiness, was angry with fate,
which separated united couples so brutally, and which made choice of a
tranquil existence, whose sleepy quietude had not hitherto been troubled
by any cares or chimeras, in order to rob it of its happiness.

Had he been younger, he might, perhaps, have been tempted to form a new
line, to fill up the vacant place, and to marry again. But when a man is
nearly sixty, such ideas make people laugh, for they have something
ridiculous and insane about them; and so he dragged on his dull and
weary existence, escaped from all those familiar objects which
constantly recalled the past to him, and went from hotel to hotel
without taking an interest in anything, without becoming intimate with
anyone, even temporarily; inconsolable, silent, almost enigmatical, and
looking funereal in his eternal black clothes.

He was generally alone, though on rare occasions he was accompanied by
his only son, who used to yawn by stealth, and who seemed to be mentally
counting the hours, as if he were performing some hateful, enforced duty
in spite of himself.

Two years of this crystallization went past, and one was as monotonous,
and as void of incident, as the other.

One evening, however, in a boarding-house at Cannes, where he was
staying on his wanderings, there was a young woman dressed in mourning,
among the new arrivals, who sat next to him at dinner. She had a sad,
pale face, that told of suffering, a beautiful figure, and large, blue
eyes with deep rings round them, but which, nevertheless, looked like
the first star which shines in the twilight.

All remarked her, although he usually took no notice of women, no matter
whatever they were, ugly or pretty; he looked at her and listened to
her. He felt less lonely by her side, though he did not know why. He
trembled with instinctive and confused happiness, just as if in some
distant country he had found some female friend or relative, who at last
would understand him, tell him some news, and talk to him in his dear
native language about everything that a man leaves behind him when he
exiles himself from home.

What strange affinity had thrown them together thus? What secret forces
had brought their grief in contact? What made him so sanguine and so
calm, and incited him to take her suddenly into his confidences, and
urged him on to resistless curiosity?

She was an experienced traveler, who had no illusions, and was in search
of adventures; one of those women who frequently change their name, and
who, as they have made up their minds to swindle if luck is not on their
side, act a continual part, an adventuress, who could put on every
accent; who for the sake of her course, transformed herself into a Slav,
or into an American, or simply into a provincial; who was ready to take
part in any comedy in order to make money, and not to be obliged to
waste her strength and her brains on fruitless struggles or on wretched
expedients. Thus she immediately guessed the state of this melancholy
sexagenarian's mind, and the illusions which attracted him to her, and
scented the spoils which offered themselves to her cupidity of their own
accord, and divined under what guise she ought to show herself, to make
herself accepted and loved.

She initiated him into depths of grief which were unknown to him, by
phrases which were cut short by sighs, by fragments of her story, which
she finished by a disgusted shrug of the shoulders, and a heartrending
smile, and by insensibly exciting his feelings. In a word, she triumphed
over the last remaining doubts, which might still have mingled with the
affectionate pity with which that poor, solitary heart, which, so full
of bitterness, overflowed.

And so, for the first time since he had become a widower, the old man
confided in another person, poured out his old heart into that soul
which seemed to be so like his own, which seemed to offer him a refuge
where he could be cheered up, and where the wounds of his heart could be
healed, and he longed to throw himself into those sisterly arms, to dry
his tears and to exercise his grief there.

       *       *       *       *       *

Monsieur de Loubancourt, who had married at twenty-five, as much from
love as from judgment, had lived quietly and peacefully in the country,
much more than in Paris. He was ignorant of the female wiles of
temptations, offered to creatures like Wanda Pulska, who was made up of
lies, and only cared for pleasure, a virgin soil on which any seed will
grow.

She attached herself to him, became his shadow, and by degrees, part of
his life. She showed herself to be a charitable woman who devoted
herself to an unhappy man, who endeavored to console him, and who, in
spite of her youth, was willing to be the inseparable companion of the
old man in his slow, daily walks. She never appeared to tire of his
anecdotes and reminiscences, and she played cards with him. She waited
on him carefully when he was confined to his bed, appeared to have no
sex, and transformed herself; and though she handled him skillfully, she
seemed ingenuous and ignorant of evil. She acted like an innocent young
girl, who had just been confirmed; but for all that, she chose dangerous
hours and certain spots in which to be sentimental and to ask questions
which agitated and disconcerted him, and abandoned her slender fingers
to his feverish hands, which pressed and held them in a tender clasp.

And then, there were wild declarations of love, prayers and sobs which
frightened her; wild adieux, which were not followed by his departure,
but which brought about a touching reconciliation and the first kiss,
and then, one night, while they were traveling together, he forced open
the door of her bedroom at the hotel, which she had locked, and came in
like a mad man. There was the phantom of violence, and the fallacious
submission of a woman, who was overcome by so much tenderness, who
rebelled no longer, but who accepted the yoke of her master and lover.
And then, the conquest of the body after the conquest of the heart,
which forged his chain link by link, pleasures which besot and corrupt
old men, and dry up their brains, until at last he allowed himself to be
induced, almost unconsciously, to make an odious and stupid will.

Informed, perhaps, by anonymous letters, or astonished because his
father kept him altogether at a distance from him, and gave no signs of
life, Monsieur de Loubancourt's son joined them in Provence. But Wanda
Pulska, who had been preparing for that attack for a long time, waited
for it fearlessly.

She did not seem disconcerted at that sudden visit, but was very
charming and affable towards the new comer, reassured him by her
careless airs of a girl, who took life as it came, and who was suffering

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes