THE
REVENGE
Guy de Maupassant
SCENE 1
M. de
GARELLE alone, seated deep in an armchair.
Here I am
in Cannes, a bachelor, what an odd situation ! I’m a bachelor ! In Paris I was
hardly aware of it. During a trip it’s different. Well, I’m not complaining.
And my
wife has remarried !
Is that
fellow happy, my successor, happier than me ? What a fool he must be to have
married her after me ! As a matter of fact, I wasn’t any less stupid to have
married her in the first place ! She had qualities however… physical qualities…
significant ones, but moral defects too, important ones.
What a
tricky woman, and what a liar, and what a coquette, and what a charmer for
those who’ve never married her ! Was I a cuckold ? Christ ! What a torture to
is to wonder about that, morning and night, without ever knowing for sure !
How I
went out of my way and taken steps to spy on her, without learning anything !
In any case, if I was a cuckold, I’m not one anymore, thanks to Naquet. How
easy divorce is, in any case ! It cost me a ten-francs whip and a stiffness in
my right arm, not counting the pleasure I had, beating to my heart’s content a
woman I strongly suspected of cheating on me !
Oh, what
a beating, what a beating !…
He stands
up laughing and walks around a few steps, then sits down again.
It’s true
that the verdict was in her favour and against me – but what a beating !
Now I’ll
spend the winter on the Riviera, as a bachelor ! What luck ! Isn’t it nice to
be travelling with the eternal hope of finding the love that is out there
somewhere ? Who am I going to meet in this hotel, in a moment, or on the
Croisette, or in the street perhaps ? Where is she, the one who’ll love me
tomorrow and whom I’ll love ? What will her eyes be like, her lips, her hair,
her smile ? What will she be like, the first woman who’ll give me her lips and
whom I’ll embrace ? Brunette or blonde ? Tall or short ? Fun-loving or strict ?
Plump or ?… She’ll be plump !
Oh ! How
I pity those who don’t know, who no longer know the exquisite charm of
anticipation ! The real woman I love is The Unknown Woman, The Hoped-for Woman,
The Desired Woman, the one who haunts my heart even though my eyes have never
seen her, and whose seduction grows with all her dreamed-of perfections. Where
is she ? In this hotel, behind that door ? In one of the rooms of this hotel,
nearby or still far away ? What does it matter, as long as I desire her, as
long as I’m sure to meet her ! And I’ll certainly meet her today or tomorrow,
this week or the next, sooner or later ; but I’ve just got to find her !
And I’ll
have, completely, the delightful joy of the first kiss, of the first caresses,
of all the headiness of love’s discoveries, of all the mystery of the unexplored
territory as delightful the first day as the conquest of virginity ! Oh ! the
fools who don’t understand the wonderful sensation of lifting up a veil for the
first time. Oh ! the fools who marry… because… those veils… one mustn’t lift
them too often… for the same spectacle…
Hello, a
woman !…
A woman
crosses at the far end of the covered walk, elegant, svelte, shapely.
Good
heavens ! She’s shapely and has style. Let’s try to see… her face.
She
passes him by without noticing him, who is sunk in his armchair. He whispers :
By God,
it’s my wife ! my wife, or rather, no, she’s Chantever’s wife ! She’s
good-looking all the same, the little devil…
Would I
feel like marrying her again now ?… Well, she’s sitting down and has taken up a
magazine. I’ll lie low.
My wife !
How strange that makes me feel. My wife ! Actually, she hasn’t been my wife for
a year now, for more than a year… Yes, she had physically qualities…
considerable ones ; what legs ! I have shivers down my spine just thinking of
them. And such fine breasts ! Phew ! In the beginning we played the left-right,
left-right game, what breasts ! Left or right, they were just as good.
But what
a pest… for the morale.
Did she
have lovers ? Did I suffer wondering about that ? But now, blast it, it’s none
of my business any more .
I’ve
never seen anyone more appealing than her when she came to bed. She had a way
of jumping on it and of slipping in under the sheets…
It looks
like I’m gong to fall in love with her again...
What if I
talked to her ?… But what’ll I say to her ?
And then
she’ll scream for help because of the beating I gave her ! What a beating !
Perhaps I was a bit brutal, all things said and done.
What if I
talked to her ? It would be amusing and challenging, after all. Damn it, yes,
I’ll talk to her, and if I’m really skillful about it, perhaps… We’ll see...
SCENE 2
He
approaches the young woman who’s attentively reading a magazine, and in a soft
voice :
Will you allow me, madam, to remind you of my
existence ?
Mme de
CHANTEVER abruptly lifts up her head, cries out, and tries to flee. He blocks
her way and, humbly :
You’ve nothing to fear from me, madam, I’m not
your husband any more.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Oh ! How dare you ? After… after what happened !
M. de
GARELLE. I dare... and I don’t... In any case... explain it as you may. When I
saw you it was impossible for me not to come over to talk to you.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. I hope this poor joke is over, isn’t it ?
M. de
GARELLE. This isn’t at all a joke, madam.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. A wager then, unless you’re just being insolent. In any case, a man
who beats a woman is capable of anything !
M. de
GARELLE. You are harsh, madam. However, it seems to me that you shouldn’t
reproach me now for an outburst I had long ago, that I regret moreover. I must
admit that, on the contrary, I was expecting thanks from you.
Mme de
CHANTEVER, astounded. Good grief, are you mad ? Or are you making fun of me
like a boorish ruffian ?
M. de
GARELLE. Not at all, madam, and if you don’t understand me, you must be very
unhappy.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. What do you mean ?
M. de
GARELLE. That if you were happy with the fellow who took my place, you should
be grateful to me for my violence that resulted in this new marriage.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. This is pushing the joke too far, sir. Please leave me alone !
M. de
GARELLE. Nevertheless, madam, think of about it, if I hadn’t committed the
infamy of beating you, we would still be dragging our millstone around together
today...
Mme de
CHANTEVER, hurt. The fact is, that you’ve done me a fine favour !
M. de
GARELLE. Isn’t that so ? A favour that deserved better than what I got just
now.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Perhaps. But your face is so disagreeable to me now.
M. de
GARELLE. I can’t say the same about yours.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Your gallantries are as unpleasant to me as your brutalities.
M. de
GARELLE. The fact is, madam, that I can’t give you a beating any longer : I
have to behave like a gentleman.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. That’s honest at least. But if you really want to be a gentleman,
you’ll go away.
M. de
GARELLE. My desire to please you won’t go that far.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. So what do you want ?
M. de
GARELLE. To set things right, in case I did something wrong.
M. de
GARELLE, shocked. What ? In case you did something wrong ? Why, you’re out of
your mind ! You beat me and you seem to think that you behaved towards me in
the best possible way !
M. de
GARELLE. Perhaps.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Excuse me ? Perhaps ?
M. de GARELLE. Yes, madam. You know
the comedy called The Cuckolded Husband, Beaten and Content. Well, have I or
have I not been cuckolded, that’s the heart of the matter. In any case, you’re
the one who was beaten and not content…
M. de
GARELLE, getting up. Sir, you are insulting me !
M. de GARELLE,
quickly. Please, listen to me just a minute. I was jealous, very jealous, which
proved that I loved you. I beat you, which proved it even more, and beat you
really badly, which triumphantly demonstrated it. But if you were faithful, and
beaten, you really are to be pitied, quite to be pitied, I confess, and...
Mme de CHANTEVER. Don’t pity me !
M. de GARELLE. How do you mean that ? I can
understand it in two ways : either that you despise my pity, or that it’s
undeserved. But if the pity that I think you merit is undeserved, then the
beating… the violent beating you got from me was more than deserved.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Take it as you wish.
M. de
GARELLE. All right. I understand. So with you, madam, I was a cuckolded
husband.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. I don’t say that.
M. de
GARELLE. You imply it.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. I imply that I don’t want your pity.
M. de
GARELLE. Stop playing with words and confess frankly that I was a...
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Don’t say that odious word, it revolts and disgusts me !
M. de
GARELLE. I won’t say the word if you confess to the thing.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Never ! It’s not true !
M. de
GARELLE. Then I pity you with all my heart, and the proposition I was about to
make to you no longer makes any sense.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. What were you going to propose ?
M. de
GARELLE. I don’t need to tell you that any more, because it would only make
sense if you had been unfaithful to me.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Well, let’s say for the moment that I was unfaithful to you.
M. de
GARELLE. That’s not enough. I need a confession.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. I confess.
M. de
GARELLE. That’s not enough. I need proof.
Mme de
CHANTEVER, smiling. Now you’e asking for too much.
M. de
GARELLE. No, madam as I was saying, I was about to make a serious proposition,
a very serious one, otherwise I wouldn’t have come over to you after what
happened between us, first from you to me and then from me to you. This
proposition, which could have the most serious consequences for both of us,
would be worthless if you hadn’t been unfaithful to me.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. You’re full of surprises. But what more do you want ? I cheated on
you, so there !
M. de
GARELLE. I need proof.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. But what proof do you want me to give you ? I don’t have any on me,
or rather I don’t have any anymore.
M. de
GARELLE. It doesn’t matter where they are. I need them.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. But one can’t keep proof of that sort of thing… and… unless one’s
caught red-handed… (After a silence.) It seems to me that my word should be
enough.
M. de
GARELLE, inclining. So, you’re ready to give me your word ?
Mme de
CHANTEVER, raising her hand. I swear to it.
M. de
GARELLE, serious. I believe you, madam. And with whom did were you unfaithful
to me ?
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Oh ! You’re asking for too much, for God’s sake !
M. de
GARELLE. I need to know his name.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. I can’t reveal that.
M. de
GARELLE. Why ?
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Because I’m a married woman.
M. de
GARELLE. And ?
Mme de
CHANTEVER. What about professional secrecy ?
M. de
GARELLE. That’s a valid point.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Besides, I was unfaithful to you with M. de Chantever.
M. de
GARELLE. That’s not true !
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Why not ?
M. de
GARELLE. Because then he wouldn’t have married you !
Mme de
CHANTEVER. You’re being insolent ! And what about this proposition ?...
M. de
GARELLE. Here it is. You’ve just admitted that because of you, I’ve been one of
those ridiculous men, always tarnished whatever they do, laughable if they keep
quiet, and even more grotesque if they get angry, that we call cuckolded
husbands. Well, madam, there’s no doubt that the few whip-strokes you got from
me are far from compensating me for the outrage and the damage to my marriage
that I suffered because of you ; and it’s just as doubtless that you owe me
more serious compensation and of a different nature, now that I’m not your
husband any more.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. You’re losing your head. What do you mean ?
M. de
GARELLE. I mean, madam, that you now have to give back to me the charming hours
you stole from me when I was your husband, to offer them to whoever it was.
Mme de CHANTEVER. You’re mad !
M. de GARELLE. Not at all. Your love belonged to
me, right ? Your kisses were due to me, all of them, without exception. Isn’t
that true ? You diverted some of them to someone else ! Well it’s necessary,
necessary for me, that the restitution takes place, a restitution with no
scandal, a secret restitution, as one does for shameful thefts.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. But what do you take me for ?
M. de GARELLE. M. de Chantever’s wife.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Bless my soul, that’s just too much !
M. de
GARELLE. Excuse me but the fellow who had an affair with you knew you were M.
de Garelle’s wife. It’d only be fair that I have my turn now. What would be too
much, would be to refuse to pay back what is legitimately owed.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. And if I said yes… you could...
M. de
GARELLE. But of course.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. So what use would the divorce have been ?
M. de
GARELLE. To revive our love.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. You’ve never loved me.
M. de
GARELLE. However I’m now giving you a strong proof of it.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. What proof ?
M. de
GARELLE. What do you mean, what proof ? When a man’s crazy enough to first
marry a woman and then to become her lover, it proves that he loves her or else
I know nothing about love.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Oh, don’t mix things up. To marry a woman is a proof of love or
desire, but to take her as a mistress proves nothing… but contempt. In the
first case one accepts all the burdens, all the problems and all the
responsibilities of love ; in the second case one leaves all that to the
legitimate husband and only keeps the pleasure, with the possibility of
disappearing the day the person ceases to please. It’s hardly comparable.
M. de
GARELLE. My dear, your reasoning is very faulty. When you love a woman, you
shouldn’t marry her, because when you get married you can be sure that she’s
going to be unfaithful, just like you were with me. The proof is right in front
of me. Whereas it’s unquestionable that a mistress stays faithful to her lover
because of her determination to deceive her husband. Is that not true ? If you
want an insoluble bond between a woman and yourself, get her to marry someone
else — marriage is just a string that can be cut at will — and become her lover
: free love is an unbreakable chain. We have cut the string ; I’m offering you
the chain !
Mme de
CHANTEVER. You’re amusing ! But my answer is no.
M. de
GARELLE. Then I’ll tell M. de Chantever.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. You’ll tell him what ?
M. de
GARELLE. I’ll tell him that you were unfaithful to me.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. That I was unfaithful… to you...
M. de
GARELLE. Yes, when you were my wife.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. So what ?
M. de
GARELLE. So, he won’t forgive you.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. He won’t forgive me ?
M. de
GARELLE. Of course not ! It won’t reassure him at all.
Mme de
CHANTEVER, laughing. Don’t do that, Henry !
A voice
from the stairs, calling : Mathilde !
Mme de
CHANTEVER, low. My husband ! Good-bye !.
M. de GARELLE,
standing up. I’ll go with you and present myself.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Don’t do that !
M. de
GARELLE. You’ll see.
Mme de
CHANTEVER. I beg of you !
M. de
GARELLE. Accept the chain, then !
The
Voice. Mathilde !
Mme de
CHANTEVER. Let me be !
M. de
GARELLE. Where can I see you again ?
Mme de
CHANTEVER. – Here – tonight – after dinner.
M. de
GARELLE, kissing her hand. – I love you…
She runs
off.
M. de
GARELLE goes slowly back to his chair and settles down in it.
Well ! I
much prefer this role to the other one. She’s charming, really charming, and I
find her even more charming since I heard M. de Chantever calling her
“Mathilde” with that tone of ownership that husbands have !
With
affection
Ruben
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