Monday, September 16, 2024

Ivan Turgenev

 

Ivan Turgenev



Source: New World Encyclopaedia

Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev (Russian: Ива́н Серге́евич Турге́нев) (November 9, 1818 – September 3, 1883) was a Russian realistic novelist, poet, and playwright.

 A social reformer, Turgenev occupied an uneasy position between old-guard Tsarist rule and increasingly fashionable political radicalism. Turgenev's novels were less ambitious than the vast canvasses of his great contemporaries Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy. Also unlike these writers, Turgenev was less nationalistic or preoccupied by Russia's religious identity.

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 Fast Facts

1. What is Ivan Turgenev known for?

Ivan Turgenev is known for being a prominent Russian novelist and playwright, particularly renowned for his works focusing on social issues and the human condition.

2. What are some of Ivan Turgenev's famous literary works?

Some of Ivan Turgenev's famous literary works include "Fathers and Sons," "A Month in the Country," "Rudin," and "On the Eve."

3. How did Ivan Turgenev's writing style influence Russian literature?

Ivan Turgenev's writing style, characterized by realism and psychological depth, had a significant impact on Russian literature, influencing future generations of writers and contributing to the development of the Russian novel.

4. What themes did Ivan Turgenev often explore in his works?

Ivan Turgenev often explored themes such as love, social class, generational conflict, and the complexities of human relationships in his literary works.

5. How did Ivan Turgenev's works contribute to the Russian literary canon?

Ivan Turgenev's works are considered essential contributions to the Russian literary canon due to their insightful depiction of society, vivid characterizations, and lasting relevance to contemporary readers.


Born into a wealthy family with an estate of 5,000 serfs and educated in St. Petersburg and Germany, Turgenev eventually settled in Paris, where he became friends with the French novelist Gustave Flaubert. He shared the French writer's largely pessimistic political sentiments as well as Flaubert's rigorous aesthetic principles. Called by Henry James a "novelist's novelist," Turgenev authored spare, carefully crafted works, Russian in subject matter but informed by attachments to Western political and social trends. Turgenev's early short-story collection, A Sportsman's Sketches (1852), presented an affectionate, liberal-minded picture of the peasantry, helped educate the intelligentsia about the plight of Russian serfs, and is thought to have contributed to their eventual emancipation by Alexander II in 1861.

 

Turgenev's best-known novel, Fathers and Sons (1862), is among the most important works of nineteenth century fiction. Set during the period of social unrest following Russia's defeat in the Crimean War, the central character, Bazarov, became the archetype of the nineteenth century nihilist (a word first popularized by Turgenev) and has been described as the "first Bolshevik" in Russian literature.

 The character type was more fully realized in the works of Dostoyevsky and Joseph Conrad, as well as later existential fiction.

 

Contents

1 Life

2 Early career

3 Fathers and Sons

4 Later career

5 Bibliography

Significantly, Turgenev portrayed the ineffectiveness of the older generation of liberal reformers as the background for the rise of radicals for whom institutions of authority were beyond reform. The rise of political radicalism and violence, culminating in the Russian Revolution, was anticipated in this early work.

 

Life



1844

Turgenev was born on November 9, 1818, into an old and wealthy family who owned a large estate in Orel, Russia. His father, Sergei Nikolaevich Turgenev, a colonel of a cavalry regiment, died when he was sixteen, leaving Turgenev and his brother Nicholas to be brought up under the care of their abusive mother, Varvara Petrovna Lutovinova, who owned large estates and many serfs. After the normal schooling for a child of a gentleman's family, Turgenev studied for a year at the University of Moscow, then the University of St. Petersburg focusing on the classics, Russian literature, and philology. He was finally sent, in 1838, to the University of Berlin. There, his studies focused sharply on the philosophy of Hegel and history. Turgenev was impressed with the more modern society he witnessed in Western Europe, returning home a committed "Westernizer." He believed that Russia could improve itself by imitating the West and abolishing outdated institutions such as serfdom.

 

Turgenev's early attempts in literature, poems, and sketches had indications of genius and were favourably spoken of by Belinsky, then the leading Russian critic. During the latter part of his life, Turgenev did not reside much in Russia; he lived either at Baden-Baden or Paris, often in proximity to the family of the celebrated singer Pauline Viardot, for whom the author harbored an ardent, life-long admiration. His advances were rebuffed, but Turgenev became a family friend. Turgenev never married, although he had a daughter with one of his family's serfs. Tall and broad, Turgenev's personality was timid, restrained, and soft-spoken. His closest literary friend was Gustave Flaubert. Turgenev occasionally visited England, and in 1879, the degree of D.C.L. was conferred upon him by the University of Oxford.


Doctor Literature 1879

 He died at Bougival, near Paris, on September 4, 1883.

 

Early career

Turgenov  1843





Turgenev made his name with A Sportsman's Sketches (Записки охотника), also known as Sketches From a Hunter's Album or Notes of a Hunter. Based on the author's own observations while sport hunting birds and hares in his mother's estate of Spasskoye, the work appeared in a collected form in 1852. As a writer, Turgenev excelled at description, especially landscape. He did not care for the complex psychological portraits of Russia's other great nineteenth century novelists, Leo Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky. His talent did not lie in that direction, but in his ability to evoke a mood and paint a verbal portrait of the Russian countryside. His style of writing was unique. He kept a notebook of descriptions that he would fit into appropriate places in his novels. He did not really consider himself a novelist, and his novels were quite slender in comparison to most nineteenth century Russian novels. He wrote many short stories as well. His novels, like his short stories, were based on rather simple plots, closer to drama than most novels, with fewer characters and subplots.

 

In 1852, after publication of his sketches, he wrote a now notorious obituary to his idol Nikolai Gogol in the St. Petersburg Gazette. The key passage reads: “Gogol is dead!…what Russian heart is not shaken by those three words? …He is gone, that man whom we now have the right, the bitter right given to us by death, to call great.” For reasons known only to the censors, its publication was banned and the young writer landed in prison for a month. Afterwards, he was forced into exile at his estate for nearly two years.

 

His novel, Rudin, was important not for its artistic merit, but because it told the story of the so-called men of the 1840s, the generation of Russian liberals that opposed the authoritarian regime of the arch conservative Tsar Nicholas I but were generally weak and ineffective in their opposition. This spawned a type of character that would be popularized in certain nineteenth century Russian novels, the "superfluous man." This character is idealistic but unable to effect any positive changes. Rudin is a good example. He is no longer young, but at 35, he still hangs on to his ideals yet is unable to act on them. What might have seemed noble for a student appears slightly ridiculous in a middle-aged man. When Natasha, a young woman, is inspired by his dreams and offers to elope with him, he is unable to muster the courage of his convictions in order to act, preferring to remain alone with his ideals.

 

His next work was A Nest of Nobles (Дворянское гнездо) in 1859, and was followed the next year by On the Eve (Накануне), a tale which contains another of his beautiful female characters, Helen. On the whole, Turgenev's female characters are more noble and resolute than the males. On the Eve (of reform) portrayed the Bulgarian revolutionary Dmitri, continuing Turgenev's interest in social and political topics that made him quite popular in his day.

 

Fathers and Sons



In 1862, his best and most successful novel, Fathers and Sons (Отцы и дети), was published. The novel takes up the social themes of the day, but as the title suggests, it is structured around a generational gap between two brothers, both "men of the 40s" and two representatives of the new radical intelligentsia, or "men of the 60s." Arkady Kirsanov is the son of a well-to-do landowner who invites his friend Bazarov to stay the summer with him at his family estate. This sets up a series of encounters with Arkady's father and especially his uncle, Pavel. Bazarov is a nihilist whose ideas elicit a heated response from Pavel. For the most part, Bazarov is more intelligent and gets the best of Pavel, leading to heated exchanges. When Pavel suspects Bazarov of trying to seduce his brother's mistress and challenges him to a duel, he is slightly wounded, but his ego takes a more grievous hit. However, while Bazarov easily bests Pavel, professing no belief other than science while dismissing liberal culture, he nonetheless falls in love with Madame Odintsova. She rejects him and, heartbroken, he lets himself go. Failing to dress a wound inflicted while dissecting a corpse, his wound becomes infected and he dies. Bazarov is heralded by many as one of the finest characters of the nineteenth century novel, but he was not accepted by the younger generation, who thought that Turgenev was mocking them. Turgenev's more conservative readers did not appreciate his treatment of Pavel. They saw in him a caricature of their romantic idealism. The stinging criticism, especially from younger radicals, disappointed Turgenev and he wrote very little in the years following Fathers and Sons.

 

Later career



Turgenev's later novels, with their antiquated language and stilted situations, are considered inferior to his earlier efforts. Smoke (Дым) was published in 1867, and his last work of any length, Virgin Soil (Новь), was published in 1877. Aside from his longer stories, many shorter ones were produced, some of great beauty and full of subtle psychological analysis, such as Torrents of Spring (Вешние воды), First Love, Asya, and others. These were later collected into three volumes. His last works were Poems in Prose and Clara Milich, which appeared in the European Messenger. Turgenev is considered one of the great Victorian novelists, ranked with Thackeray, Hawthorne, and Henry James. A melancholy tone pervades his writings, conveying a tone of lost ideals and weakness.

Other Facts about Ivan Turgenev




Ivan Turgenev had a passion for hunting and spent a significant amount of time in the countryside pursuing this hobby, which often inspired his writings.

 

Bibliography

Novels

 

1857—Rudin

1859—Дворянское гнездо (Dvoryanskoye Gnezdo or Home of the Gentry, A Nest of Gentlefolk, or A Nest of Nobles)

1860—Накануне (Nakanune or On the Eve)

1862—Отцы и дети (Ottsy i Deti or Fathers and Sons)

1867—Дым (Dym or Smoke)

1877—Новь (Virgin Soil)

Short Stories

 

1850—Dnevnik Lishnego Cheloveka (The Diary of a Superfluous Man)

1851—Provintsialka (The Provincial Lady)

1852—Записки охотника (Zapiski Okhotnika or A Sportsman's Sketches)

1858—Acia (Asia )

1860—Pervaia Liubov' (First Love)

1870—Stepnoy Korol' Lir (A Lear of the Steppes)

1872—Вешние воды (Veshinye Vody or Torrents of Spring or Spring Torrents)

1881—Pesn' Torzhestvuiushchei Liubvi (The Song of the Triumphant Love)

1882—Klara Milich (The Mysterious Tales)

Plays

 

1849/1856—Zavtrak u Predvoditelia

1850/1851—Razgovor na Bol'shoi Doroge (A Conversation on the Highway)

1846/1852—Bezdenezh'e (The Poor Gentleman)

1857/1862—Nakhlebnik (The Family Charge)

1855/1872—Mesiats v Derevne (A Month in the Country)

1882—Vecher V Sorrente (An Evening in Sorrento)

Membered Ivan Turgenev 



 

This article incorporates text from the Encyclopædia Britannica Eleventh Edition, a publication now in the public domain.

With affection,





Ruben


 

Monday, September 9, 2024

Story: The Sparrow

 

THE SPARROW

 


Ivan Turgenev


 

I was returning from hunting, and walking along an avenue of the garden, my dog running in front of me.

Suddenly he took shorter steps, and began to steal along as though tracking game.

I looked along the avenue, and saw a young sparrow, with yellow about its beak and down on its head. It had fallen out of the nest (the wind was violently shaking the birch-trees in the avenue) and sat unable to move, helplessly flapping its half-grown wings.

My dog was slowly approaching it, when, suddenly darting down from a tree close by, an old dark-throated sparrow fell like a stone right before his nose, and all ruffled up, terrified, with despairing and pitiful cheeps, it flung itself twice towards the open jaws of shining teeth.

It sprang to save; it cast itself before its nestling ... but all its tiny body was shaking with terror; its note was harsh and strange. Swooning with fear, it offered itself up!

What a huge monster must the dog have seemed to it! And yet it could not stay on its high branch out of danger.... A force stronger than its will flung it down.

My Trésor stood still, drew back.... Clearly he too recognised this force.

I hastened to call off the disconcerted dog, and went away, full of reverence.

Yes; do not laugh. I felt reverence for that tiny heroic bird, for its impulse of love.

Love, I thought, is stronger than death or the fear of death. Only by it, by love, life holds together and advances.

April 1878.

With affection,

Ruben

 

 

 

Thursday, September 5, 2024

The Revenge

 

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

Wednesday, September 4, 2024

Story: The Father

 

THE FATHER

Guy de Maupassant




Jean de Valnoix is a friend I visit from time to time. He lives in a little manor on the edge of a river, in a wood. He retired there after having lived the life of a madman in Paris for fifteen years. All of a sudden he had had enough of the pleasures, the dinners, the men, the women, the cards, everything, and he came back to live in the manor where he was born.

There are two or three of us who go from time to time to pass two or three weeks with him. He is of course enchanted to see us again when we arrive, and enchanted to be alone again when we have left.

So I went to see him last week, and he welcomed me with open arms. We were together for hours on end, and isolated for hours on end. In general, he reads and I work during the day, and every evening we chat until midnight.

So last Tuesday after a hot, stuffy day we were both sitting on the riverside towards nine in the evening, looking at the river at our feet and exchanging ideas, very vague ideas, about the stars that were shining in the river and seemed to be swimming there before us. We were exchanging very vague, very confused, very short ideas, as our minds were very limited, very weak, very impotent. I was being tender about the sun that was dying in the Big Dipper. It can only be seen on clear nights, it’s so pale. When the sky is a bit hazy, it disappears in its death-throes. We were imagining the beings that inhabit those worlds, their incredible forms, their unsuspected faculties, their unknown organisms, animals, plants, all the species, all the domains, all the essences, all the substances that the dreams of men cannot even imagine.

 

At one point a voice called out :

“Monsieur, monsieur !”

Jean replied :

“Over here, Baptiste.”

And when the servant had found us, he announced :

“It’s Monsieur’s gypsy.”

My friend began to laugh, a wild sort of laugh unusual for him, then he asked :

“So we are the 19th of July then ?”

“Why yes, Monsieur.”

“Very well. Tell her to wait. Give her something to eat. I’ll come back in in ten minutes.”

When the man had disappeared, my friend took me by the arm.

“Let’s take our time”, he said, “I’m going to tell you the story.”

“Seven years ago now, the year I arrived here, I went out one evening for a walk in the forest. It was a nice day, like today, and I was going along slowly under the big trees, contemplating the stars through the leaves, whole-heartedly breathing in and drinking the calm freshness of the night and the woods.

I had just left Paris for good. I was tired, so tired and disgusted, more than I can say by all the stupidities, all the baseness, all the dirty things that I had seen and participated in for fifteen years.

I went far, very far, into this deep wood, following the little road that goes up to the village of Crouzille fifteen kilometres from here.

All of a sudden my dog Bock, a big Saint-Germain that was always at my side, stopped in his tracks and began to growl. I thought he had detected a fox or a wolf or a wild boar ; and I advanced softly, on the points of my toes, so as not to make any noise, but suddenly I heard cries, human cries, plaintive, stifled, heartbreaking.

It sounded like someone was being murdered farther along and I began to run, clutching my heavy oak cane, a real club, in my right hand.

I approached the cries that now could be heard more distinctly, although they were strangely muted. One would have said that they came from a house, a collier’s hut perhaps. Bock, three paces in front of me, was running, stopping, starting up again, very excited, continuously growling. Suddenly another dog, a big black one with crazed eyes, blocked our way. I could see perfectly his white fangs that seemed to be shining in his mouth.

I ran up to it with my cane raised, but Bock had already hurled himself forward and the two animals were rolling on the ground together, their fangs clenched on each other’s throats. I went ahead and almost stumbled over a horse lying on the road. As I stopped, quite astonished, to examine the beast, I saw a vehicle, or rather a house on wheels, one of those homes of performers and fairground merchants that go around the countryside from fair to fair.

The cries were coming from there, horrible, continuous. As the door was on the other side, I went around this old jalopy and quickly ran up the three wooden steps, ready to fall upon the criminal.

What I saw seemed so strange that at first I didn’t understand what I saw. A man, on his knees, seemed to be praying, while in the bed something impossible to recognize, a half-naked being, bent, twisted, whose face I couldn’t see, was writhing, agitated, and screaming.

It was a woman in birth pains.

As soon as I understood the cause of the screams I made my presence known, and the man, a panic-stricken fellow from Marseilles or thereabouts, begged me to save her, to rescue her, endlessly promising me improbable rewards. I had never seen a birth, never intervened to save a female — woman, bitch or cat — in this situation, as I ingenuously explained as I looked, quite stupefied, at what was hurling so intensely in the bed.

Then, when I had recovered my senses I asked the devastated man why he hadn’t gone to the next village. His horse had broken its leg falling in a pit and couldn’t get up.

“Well then, my brave fellow,” I said to him, “now we’ll carry your wife over to my place !”

But the howls of the dogs forced us to go back out, and we had to separate them with blows of the club at the risk of killing them. Then I had the idea of harnessing them to us, one on the right and the other on the left, to help us advance. In ten minutes all was ready, and the vehicle set off slowly, shaking the poor woman with her torn flanks at every bump.

What a road, my dear fellow ! We went on panting, groaning, in sweat, sliding and sometimes falling, while our poor dogs were wheezing like bellows at our legs.

It took us three hours to reach the manor. When we arrived at the door the cries in the vehicle had stopped. The mother and child were well.

 

We put them in a good bed and then I sent a messenger to fetch a doctor, while the fellow from Marseilles, reassured, consoled, triumphant, stuffed himself with food and got dead drunk to celebrate the happy event.

It was a girl.

I kept them with me for eight days. The mother, Mademoiselle Elmire, was a clairvoyant who promised me an eternal life with an uncountable number of felicities.

The following year day for day towards nightfall, the servant who had called me just now came to find me in the barn after dinner, and told me :

“It’s the gypsy of last year who’s come to thank Monsieur.”

I told him to bring her in, and remained stupefied on seeing her beside a big fellow, tall and blond, a man of the North who, after having saluted me, spoke as the head of the community. He had learnt of my help for Mlle Elmire, and he didn’t want to let the anniversary pass by without bringing me their thanks and the witness of their gratitude.

I offered them dinner in the kitchen and hospitality for the night. They left the next day.

Well, the poor woman comes back every year at the same date with the child, a superb girl and a new… master every time. Only one of them, an Auvergnat who “chanked” me nicely, came back two years in a row. The little girl calls them all papa, the way we say “monsieur”.

 

We arrived back at the manor and saw three vague shadows standing on the lawn waiting for us.

The tallest one took four steps forward and, with a grand salutation, said :

“Monsieur the Count, we have come this day, as you know, to bear witness to our gratitude…”

He was a Belgian.

After him, the smallest one spoke, with the artificial and false voice of children reciting a lesson.

Playing the innocent I took Mlle Elmire apart, and after a few words asked her :

“Is he the father of your child ?”

“Oh no, Monsieur.“

“And the father, he’s dead ?”

“Oh no, Monsieur. We see each other from time to time. He’s a gendarme.”

“Ah so then it wasn’t the fellow from Marseilles, the first one, the one who was there at the birth ?”

“Oh no, Monsieur. That one was the rat who stole all my savings.”

“And the gendarme, the real father, does he know his child ?”

“Oh yes, Monsieur, and he even loves her a lot ; but he can’t take care of her because he has others, with his wife.”



With affection,

Ruben