Henri-Rene-Albert-Guy de Maupassant (Henry-René-Albert-Guy de Maupassant); French Republic, Miromesnil; 08/05/1850 - 07/06/1893
Guy de Maupassant is one of the most famous French classics 19th century. From his pen came a huge number of stories and novels that are popular to this day. Many of Maupassant's novels were filmed, and in our country his works are loved and respected, no less than at home. good example this can be the novel "Life", which occupies the top lines of our rating.
Biography of Guy de Maupassant
Guy de Maupassant was born in Miromesnil Castle in an aristocratic family. Thanks to this, he received a good education first at the seminary, and then at the Lyceum in Rouen. Somewhere future writer and developed a passion for literature. This was especially facilitated by the future mentor of Maupassant - Flaubert. It was thanks to Flaubert and the advice of his mother that after graduating from the Lyceum at the age of 19, Maupassant went to Paris to study law. But just at that moment the Franco-Prussian war began. Her Maupassant was an ordinary soldier, while addicted to the natural sciences and astronomy.
After the end of the war, his family was in a very difficult situation. financial position. Because of this, Maupassant was forced to go to work in the maritime ministry. However, he did not leave his literary samples. Only after Flaubert's approval did he decide to publish his first story in 1880. It was published in a collection of short stories along with the works of some other French writers that were popular at that time.
The story received a very high critical acclaim, which opened the way for Maupassant's novels into great literature. This allowed the author to quit his job in the ministry and start working in the Golua newspaper. The subsequent novels "Life", "Dear Friend" and many others secured the title of one of the writers. best writers France. In addition, they brought him a good income, which made it possible to solve the financial difficulties of the family.
A significant role in the popularization of Maupassant's novels in Russia was played by his acquaintance with. The Russian writer spoke very highly of the work of Maupassant and in every possible way contributed to the publication of his novels in our country. He was of the same opinion, who even wrote the preface to the collection of works by Maupassant in Russia.
But the success of Maupassant's novels and his plays did not reduce the author's emotional experiences that he experienced when writing his works. Perhaps heredity is to blame, but Maupassant begins to suffer from nervous attacks. In 1991, the writer makes a suicide attempt. And in 1994, Guy de Maupassant dies of paralysis of the brain.
Novels of Maupassant at Top Books
On the pages of our site, Maupassant is represented by the novels "Life" and "Dear Friend". These works have received wide popularity and occupy very high positions in our rating. At the same time, interest in novels is not related to their presence in school curriculum. And most likely, in our future ratings, the novels of Guy de Maupassant will occupy worthy positions.
All books by Maupassant
Novels:
- Mont Auriol
- Our heart
- Pierre and Jean
- Strong as death
Novels:
- useless beauty
- Buatel
- In family
- Mr. Paran
- Mrs Baptiste
- Two friends
- Twenty-five francs of the elder sister
- Two celebrities
- Divorce case
- Duel
- Julie Romain
- Tellier's establishment
- Yvette
- Trial
- The Story of the Farm Maid
- Bed
- Moonlight
- Mademoiselle Fifi
- Morocco
- Mask
- mother of freaks
- Minuet
- New Year's gift
- Norman joke
- olive grove
- Experience of love
- Greenhouse
- Simon's father
- paris adventure
- Before the holiday
- Rooster crowed
- mourners
- Paul's girlfriend
- Portrait
- Horse riding
- Pierrot
- Rondoli Sisters
- Words of love
- Grandma's advice
- Crazy?
- Fatigue
- Drowned
- Cunning
Stories:
- Barrel
- Abandoned
- woodcocks
- Vendetta
- Colonel's views
- Return
- Memory
- Uncle Belom's Beast
- Umbrella
- Confession
- Christening
- Baby
- mohammed beast
- On the sea
- Awarded!
- Beggar
- Loneliness
- Odyssey of a prostitute
- Parricide
- True story
- Crime solved by Uncle Bonifas
- Confession
- for sale
- cursed bread
- Goodbye!
- Drunkard
- Suicides
- Rock of auks
- Soldier
- Old man
- watchman
- Happiness
- Surprise
- Timbuktu
- By the bed
- hostess
- Hairpin
Guy de Maupassant ( Guy de Maupassant) - famous French writer. Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant was born in 1850 in the city of Dieppe, died in 1893. Most of his works, short stories are considered masterpieces of world literature.
Guy de Maupassant surprisingly grew up as a healthy boy, despite the fact that his mother suffered from various neuroses all his life, and his brother as a result mental disorders died in a mental hospital. Seeing that he did not have a very good heredity, Guy de Maupassant constantly developed his physical data, which helped him defeat the genes for a while.
As a result of the ruin of the family, Maupassant was forced to go to work as an official. There he served for ten whole years, despite the fact that this profession was very painful for him, and he considered literature to be his real vocation. His friend Flaubert was his best assistant in this matter and his personal editor. In 1880, his first work, Boule de suif, was published. The story was published in a collection with other writers, among whom were Emile Zola, Ceara, Huysmans and others. Various literary circles immediately turned their attention to the work of a gifted author.
After that, in the same year, he published a collection of his poems. Further, the prolific Guy de Maupassant published book after book, after story, after novel. In terms of the number of stories and short stories, he surpassed even his idol Zola, who wrote only six volumes, while Maupassant published more than sixteen.
However, health still crippled famous writer. In 1884, he began to suffer from nervous attacks. violated peace of mind drives him to the point of attempting suicide. He was placed in a mental hospital. He was increasingly visited by fits of violence and the inexorable development of the disease, as a result of which cerebral paralysis developed. Here he repeated the fate of his brother.
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Guy de Maupassant books:
useless beauty
Abandoned
woodcocks
Vendetta
Colonel's views
Mr. Paran
Mistress Paris
Jewelry
Julie Romain
Uncle Belom's Beast
Christening
Mademoiselle Pearl
Baby Rock
Martian
mother of freaks
Dear friend
Mont Auriol
Mohammed Bestia
On a broken ship
Awarded
Our heart
Necklace
Parricide
Hermit
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Guy de Maupassant
He?
Pierre Decourcelle
Guy de Maupassant
(1850 – 1893)
Dear friend, so you don't understand anything? It doesn't surprise me. Do you think I've gone crazy? Maybe I'm a little crazy, but not what you think.
Yes, I'm getting married. It's decided.
Meanwhile, neither my views nor my convictions have changed. Legalized cohabitation, I think stupidity. I am sure that out of ten men, eight are horned. Yes, they deserve punishment for the fact that they had the stupidity to enslave themselves for life, refused free love- the only cheerful and good thing in the world, ripped off the wings of a whimsical desire that constantly attracts us to all women, and so on and so on. More than ever, I feel unable to love one woman because I will always love everyone else too much. I would like to have a thousand hands, a thousand lips and a thousand… temperaments to embrace at once whole hordes of these charming and insignificant creatures.
And yet I'm getting married.
I will add that I hardly know my own future wife. I saw her only four or five times. I know one thing - she is not disgusting to me, and this is enough for the implementation of my plans. This is a small full blonde. The day after tomorrow I will feel a passionate attraction to a tall, thin brunette.
She is not rich. Her parents are middle-class people. She has no special advantages or disadvantages, she is, as they say, a marriageable girl, the most dozen, of which there are many in ordinary bourgeois families. Today they say about her: "Mademoiselle Lajolle is very sweet." Tomorrow they will say: "How sweet Madame Ramon." In a word, she is from that breed of decent girls whom everyone is “happy to call his wife”, until the day when he suddenly realizes that he is ready to prefer any other woman to the one he has chosen.
"Why get married then?" you ask.
I hardly dare to confess to you a strange, incredible feeling that pushes me to this reckless act.
I'm getting married so I don't have to be alone!
I don't know how to put it, how to explain it to you. You will pity me, you will despise me, so shameful is the state of my spirit.
I don't want to be alone at night anymore. I want to feel next to me a living being clinging to me, a living being that could talk, could say something, no matter what.
I want to be able to wake this creature up, suddenly ask a question, the most stupid question, just to hear human voice, just to make sure that I'm not alone in the apartment, and feel someone living soul, a working thought, just to see suddenly, lighting a candle, human face next to me ... because ... because ... I'm ashamed to admit ... because I'm afraid to be alone.
Oh! You still don't understand me.
I'm not afraid of danger. Let someone climb up to me at night - I will kill him without flinching. I'm not afraid of ghosts, I don't believe in the supernatural. I am not afraid of the dead and am convinced of the complete annihilation of every creature that passes away.
So, so? ... So, so? ... Well, yes! I fear me! I am afraid of fear itself, afraid of my darkening mind, afraid of this terrible feeling of incomprehensible horror.
Laugh if you like. It's terrible, it's incurable. I am afraid of walls, furniture, familiar things that suddenly begin to live some kind of animated life. I am especially afraid of the terrible confusion of my thoughts, my agitated mind, slipping out from under my power, oppressed by a mysterious, incomprehensible anxiety.
At first, I feel a vague anxiety creep into my soul and goosebumps run through my skin. I look around. Nothing! And I would like to see something! What exactly? Something understandable. I'm only afraid because I don't understand my fear.
I speak - and I'm afraid of my voice. I walk - and I'm afraid of something unknown that lurks behind the door, behind the curtain, in the closet, under the bed. And yet I know that there is nothing anywhere.
I suddenly turn around, because I am afraid of what is behind me, although there is nothing there, and I know it.
I worry, I feel a growing fright, I lock myself in the bedroom, bury myself in bed, hide under the covers and, cringing, huddling into a ball, close my eyes in despair and stay so long, endlessly long, not for a moment forgetting that on the night table there was a lit candle left and that it must still be extinguished. And I dare not do it.
Terrible state of affairs, isn't it?
I had never experienced anything like this before. I calmly returned home. I paced up and down the apartment, and nothing clouded the clarity of my mind. If someone had told me that I would suddenly fall ill with this incomprehensible, senseless and terrible fear, I would sincerely laugh; I confidently unlocked the doors in the dark, slowly went to bed without moving the bolt, and never got up in the middle of the night to check whether the windows and doors of my bedroom were closed properly.
It started last year and in a strange way.
It happened on a rainy evening in the fall. After dinner, when the maid left, I began to think about what to do. I walked around the room several times. I felt tired, unreasonably oppressed, unable to work and unable even to read. The windows were wet with light rain; I was sad, my whole being was imbued with that inexplicable sadness that makes you want to cry, so you are looking for someone to exchange a word with, it doesn’t matter with whom, just to drive away heavy thoughts.
I felt alone. Never before has the house seemed so empty to me. I was seized by a feeling of hopeless, agonizing loneliness. What to do? I sat down. And immediately I felt some kind of nervous tension in my legs. He got up again and began to walk. Maybe I was a little feverish, because my hands, which I put behind my back, as I often do when I walk slowly, were burning one another, and I noticed it. Then, suddenly, a cold shiver ran down my spine. I thought that it must have been damp from the yard, and decided to heat the fireplace. I fired it up; it was the first time since the beginning of the year. And sat down again, fixing his eyes on the fire. But soon, feeling that I could no longer sit still, I got up and decided that I needed to take a walk, shake myself, see one of my friends.
I went out. He looked in on three friends and, not finding anyone at home, went to the boulevard, hoping to meet some of his acquaintances there.
Everywhere was lonely, depressing. The wet sidewalks gleamed. Warm dampness, that dampness that suddenly pierces you with a cold shiver, the heavy dampness of drizzling rain hung over the street and seemed to weaken, soften the flame of gas lamps.
I dragged along languidly, repeating to myself: “I won’t have anyone to exchange a word with today.”
More than once I looked into the cafes that came across to me on the road from the Madeleine to the Faubourg Poissonnières. The despondent people sitting at the tables seemed unable to finish what they ordered.
I wandered about the streets for a long time, and about midnight I turned back to the house. I was completely calm, but very tired. The porter, who was always asleep at eleven o'clock, opened the door to me as usual, and I thought, "Aha, one of the tenants must have just returned."
When I leave the house, I always lock the door with a double turn of the key. This time she was only pretending, and that struck me. I decided that probably the mail was brought to me in the evening.
I entered. The fireplace had not yet gone out, and even slightly illuminated the room. I took a candle, about to light it from the fire of the hearth, and suddenly, looking straight ahead, I saw that someone was sitting in my chair, with his back to me, warming his feet by the fireplace.
I wasn't scared, oh no, not at all! A quite natural guess flashed through my head that one of my friends had come to visit me. The porter, whom I warned as I was leaving that I would soon be back, must have given him her key. I instantly remembered all the circumstances of my return home: the immediately opened front door and my unlocked door.
Buddy, I saw only his hair, waiting for me, fell asleep by the fireplace, and I went closer to wake him up. I saw him perfectly: his right arm hung down, his legs were laid one on top of the other, his head was slightly thrown back to the left on the back of the chair - apparently, he was fast asleep. "Who is it?" I asked myself. The room was dimly lit. I reached out my hand to touch him on the shoulder.
The hand rested against the wooden back of the chair! There was no one there. The chair was empty!
Lord, what a horror!
I recoiled as if some terrible danger threatened me.
Then I turned around, feeling that someone was standing behind me; and at once an irresistible desire to look once more at the armchair made me turn again towards it. I stood choking with horror, so bewildered that not a single thought remained in my head, and I could hardly keep on my feet.
But I am a cold-blooded person and quickly mastered myself. I decided, "I had a hallucination, that's all." And now I began to think about this phenomenon. Thought works quickly at such moments.
I had a hallucination - this is an indisputable fact. Meanwhile, my head remained clear all the time, I reasoned consistently and logically. So it didn't come from a mental disorder. Here there was only a deception of sight, which in turn deceived thought. A ghost appeared before my eyes, one of those ghosts that make naive people believe in miracles. Accidental nervous breakdown of the visual apparatus - and only, yes, maybe even a slight rush of blood.
I lit a candle. Leaning towards the fire, I noticed that I was trembling, and then suddenly I straightened up from a nervous shock, as if someone had touched me from behind.
I haven't calmed down yet, that's for sure.
I walked around the room and spoke loudly to myself. He sang in an undertone the refrains of some songs.
Then he locked the door with a double turn of the key and felt a little calmer. At least no one will enter.
I sat down again and thought for a long time about what had happened, then lay down and put out the candle.
For a few minutes all was well. I lay pretty calm on my back. But suddenly I was seized by the desire to look around the room, and I turned on my side.
Two or three red-hot firebrands were still smoldering in the fireplace, illuminating only the very legs of the chair, and again it seemed to me that a person was sitting there.
With a quick movement, I lit a match. I just thought no one was there.
However, I got up and pushed the chair behind the bed.
Turning off the light again, I tried to sleep. But before I had time to forget myself for some five minutes, I already saw in a dream, clearly, as if in reality, everything that had happened to me that evening. I woke up beside myself with horror, lit the fire and sat up in bed, afraid to doze off again.
But, no matter how I struggled with sleep, I still fell asleep for a short time or two. Both times I had the same dream. I already thought I was crazy.
When dawn broke, I felt recovered and slept peacefully until noon.
It's gone, completely gone! I probably had a fever or a nightmare. In a word, I was sick. And yet I felt that I had behaved in the most stupid way.
That day I was very cheerful. I dined at a restaurant, went to the theater, then went home. But when I began to approach the house, a strange anxiety seized me. I was afraid to see him again - him! Not that I was afraid of him, afraid of his presence - because I did not believe in it at all - but I was afraid of a new visual impairment, afraid of hallucinations, afraid of the horror that would seize me.
For more than an hour I wandered up and down the sidewalk near the house, but finally deciding that it was too stupid, I entered. I was so out of breath that I could hardly climb the stairs. For about ten minutes I stood on the landing in front of the door, until I suddenly felt a surge of courage, calm determination. I turned the key and rushed forward with a candle in my hand, flung open the half-open bedroom doors with a push of my foot and looked around the fireplace in bewilderment. I didn't see anything.
Oh! What a relief! What happiness! What a weight has been lifted off my shoulders! I paced cheerfully around the room. But still I was not calm and sometimes looked back: I was frightened by the shadows lying in the corners.
I slept badly, waking up every minute from some imaginary knocking. But I didn't see him again. No. It's finished!
And from that day on, I'm afraid to be alone at night. I feel him - this ghost - here, near me, around me. He no longer appeared to me. Oh no! And what do I care about him, since I do not believe in him, since I know that he is nothing?
But still, he weighs me down, because I constantly think about him. Right hand he hung down, his head was slightly thrown back to the left, like that of a sleeping person ... Enough, enough, well, to hell with him! I don't want to think about him anymore!
And what is this obsession? Why is it so intrusive? His legs were stretched out towards the fire itself.
He haunts me; it's wild, but it's true. Who is he? I know well that he does not exist, that he is nothing. It exists only in my very illness, in my fear, in my anxiety. Pretty, pretty!
Yes, but no matter how much I reason, no matter how cheerful I am, I can no longer stay at home alone, because he is there. I won't see him again, I know it, he won't come again, it's over with. But still it exists in my mind. He is invisible, but that doesn't stop him from existing. He hid behind the door, in the closed closet, under the bed, in every dark corner, in the slightest shade. As soon as I open the door, open the closet, look under the bed with a candle in my hand, light up the corners, disperse the shadows, and he disappears, but then I feel him behind me. I turn around, certain, however, that I will not see him, never see him again. And yet he is still there, behind me.
Ridiculous, but terrible. How to be? I can not do anything.
But if there are two of us at home, I know, yes, I know for sure, that he will not be here anymore! After all, he is here because I am alone, only because I am alone.
Guy de Maupassant (fr. Guy de Maupassant), full name- Henri-Rene-Albert-Guy de Maupassant (fr. Henry-René-Albert-Guy de Maupassant). Born 5 August 1850 Château Miromesnil - Died 6 July 1893 Passy, Paris. French writer, author of many famous stories, novels and short stories.
Guy de Maupassant was born on August 5, 1850 in the Château Miromesnil near the city of Dieppe (Seine-Maritime department).
His father, Gustave de Maupassant, who belonged to an aristocratic Lorraine family settled in Normandy, married Laura le Poitevin. Maupassant from childhood was distinguished by excellent health, although his mother, a friend of Flaubert, suffered from neuroses all her life, and younger brother, by profession a doctor, died in a hospital for the mentally ill.
After studying for a short time at the seminary, Maupassant, after being expelled from it, moved to the Rouen Lyceum, where he completed his course of study. While studying at the Lyceum, he established himself capable student passionate about poetry and theatrical art. During this period of time, Maupassant closely converges with Louis Bouillet, a poet and caretaker of the Rouen library, and, especially, with Flaubert, who became the young man's mentor. After graduating from the Lycée in 1869, and after consulting with his mother and Flaubert, he went to Paris to begin the study of law. The outbreak of war disrupted all plans.
Having gone through the Franco-Prussian War as a simple private, Maupassant replenished his education with reading and especially became addicted to natural science and astronomy. In order to eliminate the danger of a hereditary disease weighing on him, he worked hard on his physical development.
The ruin that befell his family forced Maupassant to become an official in the naval ministry, where he stayed for about ten years. Maupassant gravitated toward literature. For more than six years, Maupassant, who became close friends with Flaubert, composed, rewrote and tore what was written; but he ventured into print only when Gustave Flaubert recognized his works as sufficiently mature and stylistically coherent.
Maupassant's first short story was published in 1880. together with stories by Alexis, Cear, Ennik and Huysmans, in Les soirées de Médan. The aspiring writer struck literary circles with his short story “Dumpling” (French Boule de suif), showing subtle irony and great art compressed and at the same time rich, bright characteristics.
In the same year, Maupassant published a collection of poetry "Poems" ("Des vers") (1880), in which the poems "Le mur", "Au bord de l'eau", "Désirs" and "Vénus rustique" are especially remarkable. The dramatic experience in verse (“Histoire du vieux temps”) placed there also allowed Maupassant to become a chronicler in the newspaper Gaulois (“Gaulois”); The writer left the official service at that time.
Although Maupassant at the beginning of his literary career was known as a follower of Zola, he was far from being a supporter of the "naturalistic" school, recognizing it as narrow and one-sided.
In the preface to the novel Pierre et Jean, Maupassant condemns doctrinaire realism and puts the art, clearly and convincingly, in front of the reader of his subjective views on the phenomena of reality, as the main position of his aesthetics. The dignity of creativity lies, according to Maupassant, not so much in the allurement of the plot, but in the skillful comparison of phenomena. everyday life illustrating the main trend of the work.
Maupassant for eleven years created a number of collections of short stories, indicated in the title by the name of the first story (up to 16 volumes); at the same time he wrote major novels: "Life" (Une vie) (1883), "Dear friend" (Bel Ami) (1885), "Mont-Auriol" (1887), "Pierre and Jean" (Pierre et Jean ) (1888), "Strong as death" (Fort comme la mort) (1889) and "Our heart" (Nôtre coeur) (1890), as well as descriptions of what was experienced and rethought during the excursions: "Under the sun" (Au Soleil ) (1884); "On the Water" (Sur l'eau) (1888) and "Vagabond Life" (La vie errante) (1890). These works allowed Maupassant to take one of the first places in the latest French short stories. The best French critics are unanimous in rave reviews about Maupassant.
According to Emile Zola, he satisfies all minds, touching on all sorts of shades of feelings, and became a favorite of the public because he possessed good nature, deep but gentle satire and unsophisticated gaiety. Georges Lemaitre calls Maupassant a classic writer. In Russia, Maupassant in the literary environment has long enjoyed a good disposition, thanks to the initiative of Turgenev; he learned about Maupassant from Flaubert and placed him as narrator directly after the comte.
Tolstoy himself is no less sympathetic to the work of Maupassant, devoting an entire article to the characterization of his works in the XIII volume of his collected works. According to Leo Tolstoy, “there was hardly another such writer who so sincerely believed that all the good, the whole meaning of life is in a woman, in love ... and there was hardly ever a writer who showed all the terrible sides to such clarity and accuracy. the very phenomenon that seemed to him the highest and bestowing the greatest blessing of life.
Maupassant's works were a great success; his earnings reached 60 thousand francs a year. Maupassant considered it his duty to financially support his mother and his brother's family. Excessive mental stress quickly undermined the health of the writer.
In addition, Maupassant fell ill with a serious illness - syphilis. Since 1884 he has been subject to nervous attacks; as disillusionment and hypochondria increase, he falls into restless idealism, tormented by the need to find an answer to that which eludes the senses. This mood finds expression in a number of stories, including "Orlya" (Horla).
Neither social success, nor collaboration in the Revue des Deux Mondes, nor success on the stage of the Gymnase comedy Musotte, nor the receipt of an academic award for the comedy La Paix du ménage help to restore Maupassant's disturbed peace of mind. In December 1891, nervous attacks drove him to attempt suicide; in a mental hospital near Passy, Maupassant first returned to consciousness, but then the seizures began to repeat more often. Death came from progressive paralysis of the brain.
In Russian translation, the works of Maupassant appeared repeatedly in magazines, and in 1894 they were published by a special collection (2nd ed. 1896). Volume XII is accompanied by a characterization of Maupassant by S. A. Andreevsky, and articles on Maupassant by Lemaitre, Dumik and Zola. Maupassant always with great disgust guarded his intimate life from strangers; the details of his life are little known and do not provide material for any accurate and detailed biography.
Interesting Facts about Guy de Maupassant:
Guy de Maupassant often dined at a restaurant on the Eiffel Tower: in this way he hid from the "ugly skeleton" - since it was the only place in Paris, from where it was not visible.
Howard Phillips Lovecraft, in his famous essay "Supernatural Horror in Literature" (1927), praised Maupassant's work extremely highly: " horror stories powerful and cynical Guy de Maupassant, written when mental illness has already begun to master it, stand apart, being rather painful fruits realistic mind in a pathological state than the products of a healthy imagination, naturally disposed to fantasies and perceptions of the normal illusions of an unknown world.
However, they represent great interest, with magnificent power offering us the immensity of nameless horrors and the unceasing persecution of the unfortunate person by the terrible menacing representatives of the outer darkness. Of these stories, "The Eagle" is considered a masterpiece. It's about about the appearance in France of an invisible creature that lives on water and milk, controls someone else's mind and seems to be the vanguard of a horde of extraterrestrial organisms that have come to earth to conquer humanity, and this tense story has no equal in its kind.
The novels of Guy de Maupassant:
Life (1883)
Dear Friend / Bel Ami (1885)
Mont-Auriol (1887)
Pierre and Jean / Pierre et Jean (1888)
Strong as death / Fort comme la mort (1889)
Our heart / Notre coeur (1890)
Fire of Desire (unfinished)
Alien Soul (unfinished)
Angelus (unfinished)
Novels by Guy de Maupassant:
donut
In the village
Institution Tellier / La Maison Tellier
Buatel
The Story of the Farm Maid
In the family/En famille
Mademoiselle Fifi
Mrs Baptiste
Morocco
Bed
Crazy?
Words of love
Paris adventure / Une adventure parisienne
Experience of love
Two celebrities
Before the holiday
mourners
Horse riding
Cunning
Two friends
Thief
Norman joke
Minuet
Pierrot
Orlya
Yvette
Necklace
mother of freaks
Simon's father
Moonlight
Julie Romain
useless beauty
Greenhouse
olive grove
Drowned
Trial
Fly
Mask
Portrait
Grandma's advice
Duel
New Year's gift
Fatigue
Twenty-five francs of the elder sister
Divorce case
Rooster crowed
Coco
Rondoli Sisters
Mr. Paran
Tuan
Paul's girlfriend
Inheritance
Collections of short stories by Guy de Maupassant:
Tales of the day and night
Orlya
Ms Husson's Chosen One
Moonlight / Clair de lune
The stories of Guy de Maupassant:
Crime solved by Uncle Bonifas
Rose
Father
Confession
Happiness
Old man
Coward
Drunkard
Vendetta / Une vendetta 1883
Hand
Beggar
Parricide
Baby
Rock of auks
Timbuktu
True story
Goodbye!
Memory
Confession
On the sea
hostess
Barrel
cursed bread
Umbrella
Suicides
Awarded!
Shawls
Return
Abandoned
Colonel's views
mohammed beast
watchman
Uncle Belom's Beast
for sale
Christening
Hairpin
woodcocks
Surprise
Loneliness
By the bed
Soldier
Odyssey of a prostitute
trip out of town
To have breakfast in the vicinity of Paris on the name day of Madame Dufour, whose name was Petronilla, had already been decided five months in advance. And since this pleasure trip was eagerly awaited, everyone got up early that morning.
M. Dufour, having borrowed his wagon from the milkman, drove the horse with his own hand. The two-wheeled cart was very clean; it had a top supported by four iron bars, and curtains were attached to it, but they were raised to admire the scenery. Only one rear curtain fluttered in the wind like a banner. The wife, sitting next to her husband, shone in a silk dress of an unprecedented cherry color. Behind her on two chairs fit old grandmother and a young girl. In addition, one could see the yellow hair of some fellow: he had nothing to sit on, and he stretched out on the bottom of the cart, so that only his head protruded.
Having passed along the Avenue Champs Elysees and passing the line of fortifications at the gates of Mayo, they began to look at the surrounding countryside.
When they reached the bridge at Neuilly, M. Dufour said:
Finally, here is the village!
And at this signal his wife began to admire nature.
On the round platform of Courbevoie they were delighted with the breadth of the horizon. To the right was Argenteuil with the belfry rising up; above him the hills of Sannoy and the Mill of Orgemont could be seen. To the left, in the clear morning sky, the aqueduct of Marly loomed; Directly opposite them, behind a chain of hills, the excavated earth indicated the location of the new Kormel Fort. And quite far away, very far away, beyond the plains and villages, one could see the dark green of the forests.
The sun began to bake; dust got into my eyes. A bare, dirty, stinking plain unfolded along the sides of the road. It was as if leprosy had visited here, devastating it, gnawed at the houses themselves - the skeletal skeletons of dilapidated and abandoned buildings or shacks unfinished due to non-payment of money to contractors, stretching four walls without a roof to the sky.
Here and there from barren land long factory chimneys grew; it was the only vegetation of these putrid fields, through which the spring breeze carried the aroma of kerosene and coal, mixed with some other, even less pleasant smell.
At last they crossed the Seine a second time, and everyone on the bridge was delighted. The river sparkled and glittered; above it rose a light haze of fumes absorbed by the sun; there was a sweet peace, a wholesome freshness; could finally breathe more clean air that did not absorb the black smoke of factories and the miasma of landfills.
A passer-by reported that the area was called Bezons.
The carriage stopped, and M. Dufour began to read the inviting sign of the tavern: "Poulin's restaurant, boiled and fried fish, separate offices for companies, gazebos and swings."
“Well, Madame Dufour, how does that suit you?” Decide!
The wife, in turn, read: "Poulin's restaurant, boiled and fried fish, separate offices for companies, gazebos and swings." Then she carefully looked around the house.
It was a village tavern, all white, built right next to the road. Through the open doors one could see a shiny zinc counter, in front of which stood two workers dressed in holiday clothes.
At last Madame Dufour made up her mind.
“It's nice here,” she said, “and it's a nice view too.
The crew drove into a wide, lined tall trees the lawn behind the inn, separated from the Seine only by the foreshore.
Everyone got off the cart. The husband jumped down first and opened his arms to receive his wife. The footboard, attached to two iron rods, was placed very low; to reach it, Madame Dufour had to show the lower part of the leg, the original slimness of which has now disappeared under the influx of fat creeping from the thighs.
The village had already begun to put M. Dufour into a playful mood: he deftly pinched his wife's calves and, taking her under the armpits, lowered her heavily to the ground, like a huge bale.
She patted the silk dress with her hands to shake off the dust and looked around.
She was a woman of about thirty-six, portly, flourishing, pleasant to look at. It was difficult for her to breathe from the too tight corset; the swaying mass of her immense chest, squeezed by lacing, rose to the very double chin.
Behind her, leaning her hand on her father's shoulder, the girl jumped lightly. The yellow-haired fellow stood with one foot on the wheel, climbed out himself and helped M. Dufour to unload the grandmother.
After that, they unharnessed the horse and tied it to a tree, and the cart fell on the front, burying its shafts in the ground. The men, having taken off their coats and washed their hands in a bucket of water, joined the ladies, who were already seated on the swing.
Mademoiselle Dufour tried to swing standing, alone, but she could not give the swing a sufficient swing. She was a beautiful girl of about eighteen or twenty years old, one of those women, when you meet on the street, you seem to be whipped by a sudden desire, leaving you until the very night in some kind of vague anxiety and sensual excitement. She was tall with slim waist and wide hips, with very dark skin, with huge eyes and jet-black hair. The dress outlined the tight curves of her body, and they were further emphasized by the movement of her hips, which she strained to swing. Her outstretched arms held on to the ropes above her head, and her chest heaved smoothly with every push she gave to the swing. Her hat, blown off by a gust of wind, fell behind her. The swing slowly gained momentum, exposing her slender legs to the knees with each rise, and fanning the faces of both smiling men with the breath of her skirts, intoxicating more than wine vapours.
Sitting on another swing, Madame Dufour groaned in a monotonous and incessant groan:
Cyprien, push me! Push me, Cyprien!
Finally her husband came up to her, rolling up his sleeves as if for hard work, and with endless labor helped her to swing.
Grasping the ropes with her hands, stretching out her legs so as not to touch the ground, she enjoyed the lulling movement of the swing. Her forms trembled incessantly from jolts, like jelly on a dish.
But the swing increased, and she began to feel dizzy and fearful. Every time she descended, she uttered piercing cries, so that the surrounding boys came running, and she vaguely saw in front of her, above the garden fence, their playful faces, grimacing with laughter.
A maid came over and ordered breakfast.
“Fried fish from the Seine, stewed rabbit, salad and dessert,” said Madame Dufour gravely.
“Bring me two liters of table wine and a bottle of Bordeaux,” her husband said.
Grandmother, touched by the sight of the tavern cat, had been chasing him for ten minutes, fruitlessly lavishing on him the sweetest petting names. The animal, perhaps flattered by such attention, kept at a close distance from the outstretched hand of the old woman, but did not allow her to touch him and calmly walked around all the trees against which he rubbed, tail up and slightly purring with pleasure.
– Look! - suddenly shouted a yellow-haired fellow, loitering in all corners. - These are boats, so boats!
And everyone went to look. Suspended in a small wooden shed were two splendid river-sporting skiffs, slender and finely finished, like luxurious furniture. Long, narrow, shiny, they were like two tall, slender girls; they aroused the desire to glide on the water on a wonderful, quiet evening or on a clear summer morning, to rush past flowering banks, where trees bathe their branches in the water, where reeds rustle in incessant trembling, and from where, like blue lightning, nimble kingfishers fly out.
The family respectfully admired the skiffs.
- Oh yeah! They are indeed boats,” M. Dufour confirmed sedately.
And he began to analyze their merits in detail with the air of a connoisseur. According to him, in his younger years he was also involved in river sports, and with such a thing in his hand - and he made a movement as if rowing with oars - he did not care at all. In his time at the races in Joinville, he beat more than one Englishman. And he began to joke with the word "ladies", which is called the oarlocks that hold the oars, saying that it was not without reason that amateur rowers never leave without "ladies". As he talked, he got excited and stubbornly offered to bet that with such a boat he would take his time at six miles an hour.
“Food is served,” said the maid, appearing at the door.
Everyone was in a hurry, but then it turned out that in the best place, which Madame Dufour mentally chose, two young men were already having breakfast. They were undoubtedly the owners of the skiffs, for they were dressed in the costumes of rowers.
They collapsed on chairs reclining. Their faces were blackened with sunburn, their chests were covered only by a thin white paper tights, and their arms, strong and muscular, like those of blacksmiths, were bare. These hefty fellows were drawn with their strength, but in all their movements there was still that elastic grace that is acquired exercise and so different from the bodily deformities imposed on the worker by heavy monotonous labor.
They quickly exchanged a smile at the sight of their mother and looked at each other when they spotted their daughter.
"Let's make way," one of them said. This will give us the opportunity to get to know each other.
The other immediately got up and, holding his half-red, half-black beret in his hand, chivalrously offered to give the ladies the only place in the garden where there was no sunlight. The offer was accepted with much apology, and the family settled down on the grass without a table or chairs to give the breakfast an even more rural character.
Both young men moved their cutlery a few steps away and continued to eat breakfast. Their bare hands, which were in full view all the time, somewhat embarrassed the girl. She even pointedly turned her head away and seemed not to notice them. But Madame Dufour, more daring, spurred on by a purely feminine curiosity, which, perhaps, was also a desire, looked at them all the time, probably thinking, not without regret, of her husband's hidden ugliness.
She sat down on the grass, her legs bent like a tailor, and now and then fidgeted in place, claiming that ants had crawled somewhere towards her. M. Dufour, ill-humoured by the presence and courtesy of strangers, tried to sit comfortably, which he could not succeed in, while the young man with yellow hair silently ate for four.
“What wonderful weather, sir,” said the fat lady, turning to one of the rowers. She wanted to be kinder in gratitude for the place they had given up.
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied. – Do you often travel out of town?
- Oh no! Only once or twice a year to get some fresh air. And you, sir?
“I come here to sleep every night.
– Ah! It must be very nice?
- Yes, ma'am!
And he began to describe in a poetic way his daily life, so that the hearts of these townspeople, deprived of greenery, hungry for walks in the fields, would beat faster with that stupid love for nature, which languishes them all year behind the counters of shops.
The girl, touched by the story, lifted her eyes and looked at the boatman. M. Dufour opened his mouth.
“This is life,” he said, and added, turning to his wife: “Would you like another piece of rabbit, dear?
No, thank you, my friend.
She turned back to the young people and, pointing to their bare hands, asked:
"Don't you ever get cold like this?"
They laughed and horrified the whole family with stories of their incredibly tiring journeys, of bathing in perspiration, of swimming through the night mists; at the same time, they pounded their breasts with force to show what kind of sound it makes.
“Oh, you really look strong and healthy,” said the husband, not daring to talk more about the time when he beat the English.
Now the girl looked sideways at them. The yellow-haired fellow, choking, coughed terribly and splashed wine on the silk cherry dress of the hostess, which infuriated her; she ordered water to be brought to wash the stains.
Meanwhile, the heat was becoming unbearable. The sparkling river seemed to be engulfed in flames, and the wine vapors clouded their heads.
M. Dufour, overcome with violent hiccups, unbuttoned his waistcoat and the top button of his trousers, and his wife, exhausted from suffocation, slowly unraveled the bodice of her dress. The clerk cheerfully shook his flaxen mane, now and then pouring himself some wine. Grandmother, feeling intoxicated, carried herself extremely upright and with great dignity. As for the young girl, nothing could be seen from her; only her eyes gleamed somehow indefinitely, and the blush on the swarthy skin of her cheeks became even thicker.
Coffee finished them off. They began to sing, and each sang his own verse, to which the rest applauded furiously. Then they struggled to their feet; the women, a little dazed, could hardly catch their breath, while M. Dufour and the yellow-haired fellow, completely intoxicated, busied themselves gymnastic exercises. Heavy, lethargic, with purple faces, they hung clumsily from the rings, not having the strength to pull themselves up on their hands; their shirts continually threatened to come out of their trousers and become like banners fluttering in the wind.
Meanwhile, the boatmen launched their skiffs and returned, kindly offering the ladies a ride on the river.
Dufour, do you agree? Please! the wife exclaimed.
He looked at her with drunken eyes, not understanding anything. One of the rowers approached him with two fishing rods in his hand. Hope to catch minnow cherished dream every shopkeeper, lit up in the dull eyes of a simpleton; he allowed everything that was asked of him, and settled down in the shade, under the bridge, his legs hanging over the river, next to the yellow-haired fellow, who immediately fell asleep.
One of the rowers sacrificed himself: he took his mother into his boat.
- In the woods to the island of the English! he shouted as he walked away.
The other skiff moved more slowly. The rower stared at his companion so much that he no longer thought of anything, and he was seized with excitement that paralyzed his strength.
The girl, sitting on the helmsman's bench, gave herself up to the sweet sensation of walking on the water. She felt a complete inability to think, peace of the whole body, languid oblivion, as if growing intoxication. She blushed and her breathing became ragged. Under the influence of wine dope, intensified by the heat that flowed around her, it began to seem to her that the coastal trees were bowing in her path. A vague thirst for caresses, fermentation of blood spilled over her body, aroused by the heat of this day; at the same time, she was embarrassed that here, on the water, in the midst of this area, where the fire of heaven seemed to have destroyed all life, she found herself alone with a young man admiring her, whose eyes seemed to shower kisses on her skin, whose desire burned her like sunshine. rays.
They were unable to carry on a conversation and looked around, which increased their excitement even more. Finally, making an effort, he asked her name.
“Henriette,” she said.
- What a coincidence! My name is Anri! he replied.
"We'll join you in the woods, but meanwhile we'll go to Robinson's: my lady is thirsty."
After that, he leaned on the oars and began to move away so quickly that he soon disappeared from sight.
The incessant rumble, which had been vaguely heard from afar for some time, began to grow rapidly. The river itself seemed to tremble, as if this muffled noise came from its depths.
– What is this hum? Henriette asked.
It was the fall of water in the lock that crossed the river at the cape of the island. Henri tried to explain, but suddenly, in the midst of this roar, their ears were struck by the singing of a bird, which seemed to have flown from a very distant place.
- Tell! he said. - The nightingales sang in the afternoon, which means that the females are already sitting on their eggs.
Nightingale! She had never heard him sing, and the thought of hearing him evoked tender, poetic images in her heart. Nightingale! After all, this is an invisible witness to love dates, whom Juliet called on her balcony; it is heavenly music, sounding in harmony with the kisses of people; this is the eternal inspirer of all languid romances, revealing azure ideals to the poor hearts of touched girls!
She will now hear the nightingale!
- Let's not make noise, - said her companion, - we can moor and sit quite near him.
The skiff glided noiselessly across the water. The trees of the island appeared, the shores of which were so gentle that the eye penetrated into the very thick of the thicket. They moored, tied the boat, and Henriette, leaning on Henri's arm, began to make her way with him between the branches.
“Bend over,” he said.
She stooped, and through a tangled thicket of branches, leaves, and reeds, they penetrated into a shelter that could not have been found without knowing about it; the young man, laughing, called it his "separate office."
Just above their heads, in one of the trees that sheltered them, a nightingale was singing. He poured trills and roulades, his strong vibrating notes filled the whole space and seemed to be lost beyond the horizon, rolling along the river and carried away into the distance, across the fields, in the sultry silence hanging over the plain.
They sat side by side and were silent, afraid to frighten away the bird. Henri's hand slowly clasped Henriette's waist and squeezed her in a gentle embrace. She, not angry, withdrew that insolent hand, and withdrew it again when it approached again; however, the girl did not experience any embarrassment from this caress, which seemed to be completely natural and which she just as naturally rejected.
She listened to the nightingale singing, fading with delight. An infinite thirst for happiness awakened in her; her whole being was seized by sudden impulses of tenderness, like revelations of unearthly poetry. Her nerves were so weakened and her heart softened so much that she began to cry, without knowing why. Now the young man pressed her to him, and she no longer pushed him away, because she simply did not think about it.
- Henriette!
“Don't answer,” he said in a whisper, “you will scare away the bird.
But she did not think to answer.
So they continued to sit for some time.
It is probable that Madame Dufour was somewhere nearby, for from time to time there were faint cries of a fat lady, with whom, apparently, another boatman was flirting.
The young girl continued to cry; she experienced some amazing sweet feeling and felt tickling pricks unfamiliar to her on her heated skin. Henri's head rested on her shoulder, and suddenly he kissed her on the lips. A terrible indignation flared up in her, and, wanting to move away, she leaned back. But he fell on her with his whole body. He pursued the mouth that eluded him for a long time, finally overtook and clung to it. Then she herself, mad with tempestuous desire, pressing him to her breast, returned the kiss, and all her resistance broke, as if crushed by an excessive weight.
Everything was calm around. The nightingale sang again. First he let out three shrill notes that sounded like a love call, then, after a moment's silence, in a weakened voice, he began to bring out slow modulations.
A gentle breeze swept past, rustling the foliage, and two passionate sighs rang out in the thicket of branches, which merged with the singing of the nightingale, with a slight rustle of the forest.
The nightingale seemed to have taken possession of intoxication, and his voice, gradually intensifying, like a flaring fire, like an ever-growing passion, seemed to echo the hail of kisses under the tree. Then his intoxicated singing turned into a frenzy. At times he froze for a long time on one note, as if choking on a melody.
Sometimes he rested a little, emitting only two or three light drawling sounds and ending them with a high, piercing note. Or he switched to a frantic pace with overflowing scales, with vibrations, with cascades of jerky notes, like a song of crazy love, ending with victorious clicks.
But then he fell silent, listening to a groan from below, so deep that it could be mistaken for the parting groan of the soul. The sound lasted a few moments and ended in a sob.
Leaving their green bed, they were both terribly pale. The blue sky seemed dimmed to them; the fiery sun in their eyes went out; they clearly felt loneliness and silence. They walked quickly side by side, not speaking, not touching each other, as if they had become irreconcilable enemies, as if their bodies experienced mutual disgust, and their souls mutual hatred.
From time to time Henriette called:
There was a commotion under one of the bushes. It seemed to Henry that he saw how a white skirt was hastily lowered onto a fat calf, and then an immense lady appeared, a little embarrassed, even more flushed, with intensely shining eyes, with a violently agitated chest and, perhaps, holding too close to her companion. The latter, probably, had seen a lot of funny things: sudden smiles ran across his face against his will.
Madame Dufour took him tenderly by the arm, and the two couples walked towards the boats. Henri, still silently walking in front next to the girl, seemed to hear the muffled sound of a long kiss.
Finally returned to Bezons.
M. Dufour, now sober, began to lose patience. The yellow-haired fellow had a snack before leaving. The cart was harnessed in the yard, and the grandmother, already seated in it, was beside herself with despair and fear: the night would find them on the plain, and yet the environs of Paris were not safe.
They shook hands, and the Dufour family left.
- Goodbye! shouted the boatmen.
Their answer was a sigh and a tear rolled down.
Two months later, walking down the rue Martyr, Henri read on one of the doors:
Dufour, hardware trade.
He entered.
A fat lady bloomed luxuriantly behind the counter. They recognized each other at once, and after exchanging many courtesies, he asked:
“And how is Mademoiselle Henriette?”
“Very well, thank you, she is married.
Excitement choked him; he continued:
- And ... for whom?
- Yes, for that young man who, remember, accompanied us then: he will be the successor in our business.
- That's what!..
He turned to leave, deeply saddened, without knowing why.
Madame Dufour called to him.
- How is your friend doing? she asked shyly.
- Wonderful.
- Bow to him from us, do not forget; and if he happens to pass by, tell him to come and see...
She blushed deeply and added:
- It will give me great pleasure; so tell him.
- Absolutely. Farewell!
– No… see you soon!
A year later, one Sunday, when it was very hot, Henri suddenly remembered all the details of this adventure, remembered so vividly and temptingly that he alone returned to their forest shelter.
When he entered, he was amazed. There she was. She sat sadly on the grass, and next to her, still without a jacket, her husband, a yellow-haired young man, slept like a groundhog.
Seeing Henri, she turned pale, and he was afraid that she would not feel sick. Then they started talking as casually as if nothing had happened between them.
But when he told her that he loved this place very much and often came here on Sundays to relax and reminisce, she looked into his eyes long look.
“I think about it every evening.
“Well, my dear,” said the awakened husband, yawning, “it’s as if it’s time for us to go home.”
