Guy de Maupassant
Author (1850–1893)
Introduction:
French writer Guy de Maupassant,
also a poet, is famous for his short stories, which paint a fascinating picture
of French life in the 19th century. He was prolific, publishing over 300 short
stories and six novels, but died at a young age after ongoing struggles with
both physical and mental health.
It shouldn't be
doubted that Maupassant is one of the most important short-story writers to
have lived. His first published story, "Boule de
Suif" ("Ball of Fat", 1880), and The
Necklace are often considered his masterpieces.
Maupassant is considered one of the fathers of the modern
short story. He delighted in clever plotting, and served as a model for Somerset Maugham and O. Henry in this respect. His
stories about expensive jewellery ("The Necklace", "La parure") are imitated with a twist by
Maugham ("Mr Know-All", "A String of Beads") and O Henry ("Paste").
A FAMILY
I was to see my old friend,
Simon Radevin, of whom I had lost sight for fifteen years. At one time he was
my most intimate friend, the friend who knows one's thoughts, with whom one
passes long, quiet, happy evenings, to whom one tells one's secret love
affairs, and who seems to draw out those rare, ingenious, delicate thoughts
born of that sympathy that gives a sense of repose.
For years we had scarcely
been separated; we had lived, travelled, thought and dreamed together; had
liked the same things, had admired the same books, understood the same authors,
trembled with the same sensations, and very often laughed at the same
individuals, whom we understood completely by merely exchanging a glance.
Then he married. He
married, quite suddenly, a little girl from the provinces, who had come to
Paris in search of a husband. How in the world could that little thin,
insipidly fair girl, with her weak hands, her light, vacant eyes, and her
clear, silly voice, who was exactly like a hundred thousand marriageable dolls,
have picked up that intelligent, clever young fellow? Can any one understand
these things? No doubt he had hoped for happiness, simple, quiet and long-enduring
happiness, in the arms of a good, tender and faithful woman; he had seen all
that in the transparent looks of that schoolgirl with light hair.
He had not dreamed of the
fact that an active, living and vibrating man grows weary of everything as soon
as he understands the stupid reality, unless, indeed, he becomes so brutalized
that he understands nothing whatever.
What would he be like when
I met him again? Still lively, witty, light-hearted and enthusiastic, or in a
state of mental torpor induced by provincial life? A man may change greatly in
the course of fifteen years!
The train stopped at a
small station, and as I got out of the carriage, a stout, a very stout man with
red cheeks and a big stomach rushed up to me with open arms, exclaiming:
"George!" I embraced him, but I had not recognized him, and then I
said, in astonishment: "By Jove! You have not grown thin!" And he
replied with a laugh:
"What did you expect?
Good living, a good table and good nights! Eating and sleeping, that is my
existence!"
I looked at him closely,
trying to discover in that broad face the features I held so dear. His eyes
alone had not changed, but I no longer saw the same expression in them, and I
said to myself: "If the expression be the reflection of the mind, the thoughts
in that head are not what they used to be formerly; those thoughts which I knew
so well."
Yet his eyes were bright,
full of happiness and friendship, but they had not that clear, intelligent
expression which shows as much as words the brightness of the intellect.
Suddenly he said:
"Here are my two
eldest children." A girl of fourteen, who was almost a woman, and a boy of
thirteen, in the dress of a boy from a Lycee, came forward in a hesitating and
awkward manner, and I said in a low voice: "Are they yours?" "Of
course they are," he replied, laughing. "How many have you?"
"Five! There are three more at home."
He said this in a proud,
self-satisfied, almost triumphant manner, and I felt profound pity, mingled
with a feeling of vague contempt, for this vainglorious and simple reproducer
of his species.
I got into a carriage which
he drove himself, and we set off through the town, a dull, sleepy, gloomy town
where nothing was moving in the streets except a few dogs and two or three
maidservants. Here and there a shopkeeper, standing at his door, took off his
hat, and Simon returned his salute and told me the man's name; no doubt to show
me that he knew all the inhabitants personally, and the thought struck me that
he was thinking of becoming a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, that dream
of all those who bury themselves in the provinces.
We were soon out of the
town, and the carriage turned into a garden that was an imitation of a park,
and stopped in front of a turreted house, which tried to look like a chateau.
"That is my den,"
said Simon, so that I might compliment him on it. "It is charming," I
replied.
A lady appeared on the
steps, dressed for company, and with company phrases all ready prepared. She
was no longer the light-haired, insipid girl I had seen in church fifteen years
previously, but a stout lady in curls and flounces, one of those ladies of
uncertain age, without intellect, without any of those things that go to make a
woman. In short, she was a mother, a stout, commonplace mother, a human
breeding machine which procreates without any other preoccupation but her
children and her cook-book.
She welcomed me, and I went
into the hall, where three children, ranged according to their height, seemed
set out for review, like firemen before a mayor, and I said: "Ah! ah! so
there are the others?" Simon, radiant with pleasure, introduced them:
"Jean, Sophie and Gontran."
The door of the
drawing-room was open. I went in, and in the depths of an easy-chair, I saw
something trembling, a man, an old, paralyzed man. Madame Radevin came forward
and said: "This is my grandfather, monsieur; he is eighty-seven." And
then she shouted into the shaking old man's ears: "This is a friend of
Simon's, papa." The old gentleman tried to say "good-day" to me,
and he muttered: "Oua, oua, oua," and waved his hand, and I took a
seat saying: "You are very kind, monsieur."
Simon had just come in, and
he said with a laugh: "So! You have made grandpapa's acquaintance. He is a
treasure, that old man; he is the delight of the children. But he is so greedy
that he almost kills himself at every meal; you have no idea what he would eat
if he were allowed to do as he pleased. But you will see, you will see. He
looks at all the sweets as if they were so many girls. You never saw anything
so funny; you will see presently."
I was then shown to my
room, to change my dress for dinner, and hearing a great clatter behind me on
the stairs, I turned round and saw that all the children were following me
behind their father; to do me honor, no doubt.
My windows looked out
across a dreary, interminable plain, an ocean of grass, of wheat and of oats,
without a clump of trees or any rising ground, a striking and melancholy
picture of the life which they must be leading in that house.
A bell rang; it was for
dinner, and I went downstairs. Madame Radevin took my arm in a ceremonious
manner, and we passed into the dining-room. A footman wheeled in the old man in
his armchair. He gave a greedy and curious look at the dessert, as he turned
his shaking head with difficulty from one dish to the other.
Simon rubbed his hands:
"You will be amused," he said; and all the children understanding
that I was going to be indulged with the sight of their greedy grandfather,
began to laugh, while their mother merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders,
and Simon, making a speaking trumpet of his hands, shouted at the old man:
"This evening there is sweet creamed rice!" The wrinkled face of the
grandfather brightened, and he trembled more violently, from head to foot, showing
that he had understood and was very pleased. The dinner began.
"Just look!"
Simon whispered. The old man did not like the soup, and refused to eat it; but
he was obliged to do it for the good of his health, and the footman forced the
spoon into his mouth, while the old man blew so energetically, so as not to
swallow the soup, that it was scattered like a spray all over the table and
over his neighbors. The children writhed with laughter at the spectacle, while
their father, who was also amused, said: "Is not the old man
comical?"
During the whole meal they
were taken up solely with him. He devoured the dishes on the table with his
eyes, and tried to seize them and pull them over to him with his trembling
hands. They put them almost within his reach, to see his useless efforts, his
trembling clutches at them, the piteous appeal of his whole nature, of his
eyes, of his mouth and of his nose as he smelt them, and he slobbered on his
table napkin with eagerness, while uttering inarticulate grunts. And the whole
family was highly amused at this horrible and grotesque scene.
Then they put a tiny morsel
on his plate, and he ate with feverish gluttony, in order to get something more
as soon as possible, and when the sweetened rice was brought in, he nearly had
a fit, and groaned with greediness, and Gontran called out to him:
"You have eaten too
much already; you can have no more." And they pretended not to give him
any. Then he began to cry; he cried and trembled more violently than ever,
while all the children laughed. At last, however, they gave him his helping, a
very small piece; and as he ate the first mouthful, he made a comical noise in
his throat, and a movement with his neck as ducks do when they swallow too
large a morsel, and when he had swallowed it, he began to stamp his feet, so as
to get more.
I was seized with pity for
this saddening and ridiculous Tantalus, and interposed on his behalf:
"Come, give him a
little more rice!" But Simon replied: "Oh! no, my dear fellow, if he
were to eat too much, it would harm him, at his age."
I held my tongue, and
thought over those words. Oh, ethics! Oh, logic! Oh, wisdom! At his age! So
they deprived him of his only remaining pleasure out of regard for his health!
His health! What would he do with it, inert and trembling wreck that he was?
They were taking care of his life, so they said. His life? How many days? Ten,
twenty, fifty, or a hundred? Why? For his own sake? Or to preserve for some
time longer the spectacle of his impotent greediness in the family.
There was nothing left for
him to do in this life, nothing whatever. He had one single wish left, one sole
pleasure; why not grant him that last solace until he died?
After we had played cards
for a long time, I went up to my room and to bed; I was low-spirited and sad,
sad, sad! and I sat at my window. Not a sound could be heard outside but the
beautiful warbling of a bird in a tree, somewhere in the distance. No doubt the
bird was singing in a low voice during the night, to lull his mate, who was
asleep on her eggs. And I thought of my poor friend's five children, and
pictured him to myself, snoring by the side of his ugly wife.
Cabuliwallah/ KABULIWALA [The Fruitseller from Cabul/Kabul]
Rabindranath Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore
About the author: Rabindranath
Tagore 1861-1941, was a Bengali polymath who reshaped his region's literature
and music. Author of Gitanjali and its "profoundly sensitive, fresh and
beautiful verse", he became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize
in Literature in 1913. In translation his poetry was viewed as spiritual and
mercurial; his seemingly mesmeric personality, flowing hair, and other-worldly
dress earned him a prophet-like reputation in the West. His "elegant prose
and magical poetry" remain largely unknown outside Bengal. Tagore introduced
new prose and verse forms and the use of colloquial language into Bengali
literature, thereby freeing it from traditional models based on classical
Sanskrit. He was highly influential in introducing the best of Indian culture
to the West and vice versa, and he is generally regarded as the outstanding
creative artist of modern India.
Cabuliwallah [The Fruitseller from Cabul
Gitanjali
(Song Offerings), Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World)
are his best-known works, and his verse, short stories, and novels were
acclaimed—or panned—for their lyricism, colloquialism, naturalism, and
contemplation.
His compositions were chosen by two nations as
national anthems: the Republic of India's Jana Gana Mana and Bangladesh's Amar
Shonar Bangla. The composer of Sri Lanka's national anthem: Sri Lanka Matha was
a student of Tagore, and the song is inspired by Tagore's style.
My five
years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that
in all her life she has not wasted a minute in silence. Her mother is often
vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet
is unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always
lively.
One
morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my
new novel, my little Mini stole into the room, and putting her hand into mine,
said: "Father! Ramdayal the door-keeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't
know anything, does he?"
Before
I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was
embarked on the full tide of another subject. "What do you think, Father?
Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and
that is why it rains!"
And
then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last
saying, "Father! what relation is Mother to you?"
"My
dear little sister in the law!" I murmured involuntarily to myself, but
with a grave face contrived to answer: "Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am
busy!"
The
window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet
near my table, and was playing softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at
work on my seventeenth chapter, where Protrap Singh, the hero, had just caught
Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the
third story window of the castle, when all of a sudden Mini left her play, and
ran to the window, crying, "A Cabuliwallah! a Cabuliwallah!" Sure
enough in the street below was a Cabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore
the loose soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban; there was a bag on
his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.
I
cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she
began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I thought, "he will come in, and
my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment the
Cabuliwallah turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by
terror, she fled to her mother's protection, and disappeared. She had a blind
belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two
or three other children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway,
and greeted me with a smiling face.
So
precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse
was to stop and buy something, since the man had been called. I made some small
purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians, she
English, and the Frontier Policy.
As he
was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?"
And I,
thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.
She
stood by my chair, and looked at the Cabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her
nuts and raisins, but she would not be tempted, and only clung the closer to
me, with all her doubts increased.
This
was their first meeting.
One
morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I was
startled to find Mini, seated on a bench near the door, laughing and talking,
with the great Cabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared; my small
daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already
the corner of her little sari was stuffed with almonds and raisins, the gift of
her visitor, "Why did you give her those?" I said, and taking out an
eight-anna bit, I handed it to him. The man accepted the money without demur,
and slipped it into his pocket.
Alas,
on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own
worth of trouble! For the Cabuliwallah had given it to Mini, and her mother
catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with:
"Where did you get that eight-anna bit? "
"The
Cabuliwallah gave it me," said Mini cheerfully.
"The
Cabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "Oh, Mini!
how could you take it from him?"
I,
entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to
make my own inquiries.
It was
not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Cabuliwallah
had overcome the child's first terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and
almonds, and the two were now great friends.
They
had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of
him, looking down on his gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would
ripple her face with laughter, and begin: "O Cabuliwallah, Cabuliwallah,
what have you got in your bag?"
And he
would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: "An elephant!"
Not much cause for merriment, perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the witticism!
And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it something
strangely fascinating.
Then
the Cabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little
one, and when are you going to the father-in-law's house?"
Now
most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's house;
but we, being a little new-fangled, had kept these things from our child, and Mini
at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would not show it,
and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"
Amongst
men of the Cabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words
father-in-law's house have a double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the
place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense
would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would
say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman, "I will thrash my father-in-law!"
Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off
into peals of laughter, in which her formidable friend would join.
These
were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to
conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my
mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country, my heart
would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would
fall to weaving a network of dreams, --the mountains, the glens, and the
forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and
independent life of far-away wilds. Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure
themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more
vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would
fall upon me like a thunderbolt. In the presence of this Cabuliwallah, I was
immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little
defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the
string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the company of turbaned
merchants, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears,
journeying downward towards the plains. I could see--but at some such point
Mini's mother would intervene, imploring me to "beware of that man."
Mini's
mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the
street, or sees people coming towards the house, she always jumps to the
conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or
malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or an English sailor. Even after all
these years of experience, she is not able to overcome her terror. So she was
full of doubts about the Cabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful
eye on him.
I tried
to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round on me seriously,
and ask me solemn questions.
Were
children never kidnapped?
Was it,
then, not true that there was slavery in Cabul?
Was it
so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?
I urged
that, though not impossible, it was highly improbable. But this was not enough,
and her dread persisted. As it was indefinite, however, it did not seem right
to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a
year in the middle of January Rahmun, the Cabuliwallah, was in the habit of
returning to his country, and as the time approached he would be very busy,
going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could
always find time to come and see Mini. It would have seemed to an outsider that
there was some conspiracy between the two, for when he could not come in the
morning, he would appear in the evening.
Even to
me it was a little startling now and then, in the corner of a dark room,
suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-garmented, much bebagged man; but when
Mini would run in smiling, with her, "O! Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!"
and the two friends, so far apart in age, would subside into their old laughter
and their old jokes, I felt reassured.
One
morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting my
proof sheets in my study. It was chilly weather. Through the window the rays of
the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was almost
eight o'clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home, with their heads
covered. All at once, I heard an uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw
Rahmun being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd of
curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Cabuliwallah, and
one of the policemen carried a knife. Hurrying out, I stopped them, and
enquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered
that a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but
had falsely denied having bought it, and that in the course of the quarrel,
Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner began calling
his enemy all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my house appeared
my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: "O Cabuliwallah!
Cabuliwallah!" Rahmun's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag
under his arm today, so she could not discuss the elephant with him. She at
once therefore proceeded to the next question: "Are you going to the
father-in-law's house?" Rahmun laughed and said: "Just where I am
going, little one!" Then seeing that the reply did not amuse the child, he
held up his fettered hands. " Ali," he said, " I would have
thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are bound!"
On a
charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years' imprisonment.
Time
passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed
place was ours, and the thought of the once-free mountaineer spending his years
in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am
ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled her life. As she
grew older, she spent more of her time with girls. So much time indeed did she
spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father's room.
I was scarcely on speaking terms with her.
Years
had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had made arrangements for our
Mini's marriage. It was to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga
returning to Kailas, the light of our home also was to depart to her husband's
house, and leave her father's in the shadow.
The
morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air,
and the sun-rays looked like pure gold. So bright were they that they gave a
beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since
early dawn to-day the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat my own
heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi, seemed to intensify my pain at
the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married to-night.
>From
early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard the
canopy had to be slung on its bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling
sound must be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of hurry and
excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when some
one entered, saluting respectfully, and stood before me. It was Rahmun the
Cabuliwallah. At first I did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor the long
hair, nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him
again.
"When
did you come, Rahmun?" I asked him.
"Last
evening," he said, "I was released from jail."
The
words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had
wounded his fellow, and my heart shrank within itself, when I realised this,
for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.
"There
are ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am busy. Could you perhaps
come another day?"
At once
he turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: "May I
not see the little one, sir, for a moment?" It was his belief that Mini
was still the same. He had pictured her running to him as she used, calling
"O Cabuliwallah! Cabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would
laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, in memory of former days he
had brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and
grapes, obtained somehow from a countryman, for his own little fund was
dispersed.
I said
again: "There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see
any one to-day."
The
man's face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, said "Good
morning," and went out. I felt a little sorry, and would have called him
back, but I found he was returning of his own accord. He came close up to me
holding out his offerings and said: "I brought these few things, sir, for
the little one. Will you give them to her?"
I took
them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: "You are
very kind, sir! Keep me in your recollection. Do not offer me money!--You have
a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and
bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit for myself."
Saying
this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and
dirty piece of paper. With great care he unfolded this, and smoothed it out
with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little band. Not a
photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on
the paper. This touch of his own little daughter had been always on his heart,
as he had come year after year to Calcutta, to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears
came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I
was--but no, what was I more than he? He also was a father. That impression of
the hand of his little Parbati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my
own little Mini.
I sent
for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised,
but I would not listen. Clad in the red silk of her wedding-day, with the
sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and
stood bashfully before me.
The
Cabuliwallah looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive
their old friendship. At last he smiled and said: "Little one, are you
going to your father-in-law's house?"
But
Mini now understood the meaning of the word "father-in-law," and she
could not reply to him as of old. She flushed up at the question, and stood
before him with her bride-like face turned down.
I
remembered the day when the Cabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt
sad. When she had gone, Rahmun heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the floor.
The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown in this
long time, and that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he
would not find her, as he used to know her. And besides, what might not have
happened to her in these eight years?
The
marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun
sat in the little Calcutta lane, and saw before him the barren mountains of
Afghanistan.
I took
out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to your own
daughter, Rahmun, in your own country, and may the happiness of your meeting
bring good fortune to my child!"
Having
made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have
the electric lights I had intended, nor the military band, and the ladies of
the house were despondent at it. But to me the wedding feast was all the
brighter for the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again
with his only child.
