Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete

G >> Guy de Maupassant >> Maupassant Original Short Stories (180), Complete


"Monsieur, the Republic is the government."

His neighbor was not in the least disturbed, and, pushing his hands down
in his pockets, he exclaimed:

"Well, and what then? It makes no difference to me. Whether it's for the
Republic or something else, I don't care! What I want, monsieur, is to
know my government. I saw Charles X. and adhered to him, monsieur; I saw
Louis-Philippe and adhered to him, monsieur; I saw Napoleon and adhered
to him; but I have never seen the Republic."

Patissot, still serious, answered:

"The Republic, monsieur, is represented by its president!"

The other grumbled:

"Well, them, show him to me!"

Patissot shrugged his shoulders.

"Every one can see him; he's not shut up in a closet!"

Suddenly the fat man grew angry.

"Excuse me, monsieur, he cannot be seen. I have personally tried more
than a hundred times, monsieur. I have posted myself near the Elysee; he
did not come out. A passer-by informed me that he was playing billiards
in the cafe opposite; I went to the cafe opposite; he was not there. I
had been promised that he would go to Melun for the convention; I went to
Melun, I did not see him. At last I became weary. I did not even see
Monsieur Gambetta, and I do not know a single deputy."

He was, growing excited:

"A government, monsieur, is made to be seen; that's what it's there for,
and for nothing else. One must be able to know that on such and such a
day at such an hour the government will pass through such and such a
street. Then one goes there and is satisfied."

Patissot, now calm, was enjoying his arguments.

"It is true," he said, "that it is agreeable to know the people by whom
one is governed."

The gentleman continued more gently:

"Do you know how I would manage the celebration? Well, monsieur, I would
have a procession of gilded cars, like the chariots used at the crowning
of kings; in them I would parade all the members of the government, from
the president to the deputies, throughout Paris all day long. In that
manner, at least, every one would know by sight the personnel of the
state."

But one of the toughs near the coachman turned around, exclaiming:

"And the fatted ox, where would you put him?"

A laugh ran round the two benches. Patissot understood the objection, and
murmured:

"It might not perhaps be very dignified."

The gentleman thought the matter over and admitted it.

"Then," he said, "I would place them in view some place, so that every
one could see them without going out of his way; on the Triumphal Arch at
the Place de l'Etoile, for instance; and I would have the whole
population pass before them. That would be very imposing."

Once more the tough turned round and said:

"You'd have to take telescopes to see their faces."

The gentleman did not answer; he continued:

"It's just like the presentation of the flags! There ought, to be some
pretext, a mimic war ought to be organized, and the banners would be
awarded to the troops as a reward. I had an idea about which I wrote to
the minister; but he has not deigned to answer me. As the taking of the
Bastille has been chosen for the date of the national celebration, a
reproduction of this event might be made; there would be a pasteboard
Bastille, fixed up by a scene-painter and concealing within its walls the
whole Column of July. Then, monsieur, the troop would attack. That would
be a magnificent spectacle as well as a lesson, to see the army itself
overthrow the ramparts of tyranny. Then this Bastille would be set fire
to and from the midst of the flames would appear the Column with the
genius of Liberty, symbol of a new order and of the freedom of the
people."

This time every one was listening to him and finding his idea excellent.
An old gentleman exclaimed:

"That is a great idea, monsieur, which does you honor. It is to be
regretted that the government did not adopt it."

A young man declared that actors ought to recite the "Iambes" of Barbier
through the streets in order to teach the people art and liberty
simultaneously.

These propositions excited general enthusiasm. Each one wished to have
his word; all were wrought up. From a passing hand-organ a few strains of
the Marseillaise were heard; the laborer started the song, and everybody
joined in, roaring the chorus. The exalted nature of the song and its
wild rhythm fired the driver, who lashed his horses to a gallop. Monsieur
Patissot was bawling at the top of his lungs, and the passengers inside,
frightened, were wondering what hurricane had struck them.

At last they stopped, and Monsieur Patissot, judging his neighbor to be a
man of initiative, consulted him about the preparations which he expected
to make:

"Lanterns and flags are all right,"' said Patissot; "but I prefer
something better."

The other thought for a long time, but found nothing. Then, in despair,
the clerk bought three flags and four lanterns.

AN EXPERIMENT IN LOVE

Many poets think that nature is incomplete without women, and hence,
doubtless, come all the flowery comparisons which, in their songs, make
our natural companion in turn a rose, a violet, a tulip, or something of
that order. The need of tenderness which seizes us at dusk, when the
evening mist begins to roll in from the hills, and when all the perfumes
of the earth intoxicate us, is but imperfectly satisfied by lyric
invocations. Monsieur Patissot, like all others, was seized with a wild
desire for tenderness, for sweet kisses exchanged along a path where
sunshine steals in at times, for the pressure of a pair of small hands,
for a supple waist bending under his embrace.

He began to look at love as an unbounded pleasure, and, in his hours of
reverie, he thanked the Great Unknown for having put so much charm into
the caresses of human beings. But he needed a companion, and he did not
know where to find one. On the advice of a friend, he went to the
Folies-Bergere. There he saw a complete assortment. He was greatly
perplexed to choose between them, for the desires of his heart were
chiefly composed of poetic impulses, and poetry did not seem to be the
strong point of these young ladies with penciled eyebrows who smiled at
him in such a disturbing manner, showing the enamel of their false teeth.
At last his choice fell on a young beginner who seemed poor and timid and
whose sad look seemed to announce a nature easily influenced-by poetry.

He made an appointment with her for the following day at nine o'clock at
the Saint-Lazare station. She did not come, but she was kind enough to
send a friend in her stead.

She was a tall, red-haired girl, patriotically dressed in three colors,
and covered by an immense tunnel hat, of which her head occupied the
centre. Monsieur Patissot, a little disappointed, nevertheless accepted
this substitute. They left for Maisons-Laffite, where regattas and a
grand Venetian festival had been announced.

As soon as they were in the car, which was already occupied by two
gentlemen who wore the red ribbon and three ladies who must at least have
been duchesses, they were so dignified, the big red-haired girl, who
answered the name of Octavie, announced to Patissot, in a screeching
voice, that she was a fine girl fond of a good time and loving the
country because there she could pick flowers and eat fried fish. She
laughed with a shrillness which almost shattered the windows, familiarly
calling her companion "My big darling."

Shame overwhelmed Patissot, who as a government employee, had to observe
a certain amount of decorum. But Octavie stopped talking, glancing at her
neighbors, seized with the overpowering desire which haunts all women of
a certain class to make the acquaintance of respectable women. After
about five minutes she thought she had found an opening, and, drawing
from her pocket a Gil-Blas, she politely offered it to one of the amazed
ladies, who declined, shaking her head. Then the big, red-haired girl
began saying things with a double meaning, speaking of women who are
stuck up without being any better than the others; sometimes she would
let out a vulgar word which acted like a bomb exploding amid the icy
dignity of the passengers.

At last they arrived. Patissot immediately wished to gain the shady nooks
of the park, hoping that the melancholy of the forest would quiet the
ruffled temper of his companion. But an entirely different effect
resulted. As soon as she was amid the leaves and grass she began to sing
at the top of her lungs snatches from operas which had stuck in her
frivolous mind, warbling and trilling, passing from "Robert le Diable" to
the "Muette," lingering especially on a sentimental love-song, whose last
verses she sang in a voice as piercing as a gimlet.

Then suddenly she grew hungry. Patissot, who was still awaiting the
hoped-for tenderness, tried in vain to retain her. Then she grew angry,
exclaiming:

"I am not here for a dull time, am I?"

He had to take her to the Petit-Havre restaurant, which was near the
place where the regatta was to be held.

She ordered an endless luncheon, a succession of dishes substantial
enough to feed a regiment. Then, unable to wait, she called for relishes.
A box of sardines was brought; she started in on it as though she
intended to swallow the box itself. But when she had eaten two or three
of the little oily fish she declared that she was no longer hungry and
that she wished to see the preparations for the race.

Patissot, in despair and in his turn seized with hunger, absolutely
refused to move. She started off alone, promising to return in time for
the dessert. He began to eat in lonely silence, not knowing how to lead
this rebellious nature to the realization of his dreams.

As she did not return he set out in search of her. She had found some
friends, a troop of boatmen, in scanty garb, sunburned to the tips of
their ears, and gesticulating, who were loudly arranging the details of
the race in front of the house of Fourmaise, the builder.

Two respectable-looking gentlemen, probably the judges, were listening
attentively. As soon as she saw Patissot, Octavie, who was leaning on the
tanned arm of a strapping fellow who probably had more muscle than
brains, whispered a few words in his ears. He answered:

"That's an agreement."

She returned to the clerk full of joy, her eyes sparkling, almost
caressing.

"Let's go for a row," said she.

Pleased to see her so charming, he gave in to this new whim and procured
a boat. But she obstinately refused to go to the races, notwithstanding
Patissot's wishes.

"I had rather be alone with you, darling."

His heart thrilled. At last!

He took off his coat and began to row madly.

An old dilapidated mill, whose worm-eaten wheels hung over the water,
stood with its two arches across a little arm of the river. Slowly they
passed beneath it, and, when they were on the other side, they noticed
before them a delightful little stretch of river, shaded by great trees
which formed an arch over their heads. The little stream flowed along,
winding first to the right and then to the left, continually revealing
new scenes, broad fields on one side and on the other side a hill covered
with cottages. They passed before a bathing establishment almost entirely
hidden by the foliage, a charming country spot where gentlemen in clean
gloves and beribboned ladies displayed all the ridiculous awkwardness of
elegant people in the country. She cried joyously:

"Later on we will take a dip there."

Farther on, in a kind of bay, she wished to stop, coaxing:

"Come here, honey, right close to me."

She put her arm around his neck and, leaning her head on his shoulder,
she murmured:

"How nice it is! How delightful it is on the water!"

Patissot was reveling in happiness. He was thinking of those foolish
boatmen who, without ever feeling the penetrating charm of the river
banks and the delicate grace of the reeds, row along out of breath,
perspiring and tired out, from the tavern where they take luncheon to the
tavern where they take dinner.

He was so comfortable that he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was alone.
He called, but no one answered. Anxious, he climbed up on the side of the
river, fearing that some accident might have happened.

Then, in the distance, coming in his direction, he saw a long, slender
gig which four oarsmen as black as negroes were driving through the water
like an arrow. It came nearer, skimming over the water; a woman was
holding the tiller. Heavens! It looked--it was she! In order to
regulate the rhythm of the stroke, she was singing in her shrill voice a
boating song, which she interrupted for a minute as she got in front of
Patissot. Then, throwing him a kiss, she cried:

"You big goose!"

A DINNER AND SOME OPINIONS

On the occasion of the national celebration Monsieur Antoine Perdrix,
chief of Monsieur Patissot's department, was made a knight of the Legion
of Honor. He had been in service for thirty years under preceding
governments, and for ten years under the present one. His employees,
although grumbling a little at being thus rewarded in the person of their
chief, thought it wise, nevertheless, to offer him a cross studded with
paste diamonds. The new knight, in turn, not wishing to be outdone,
invited them all to dinner for the following Sunday, at his place at
Asnieres.

The house, decorated with Moorish ornaments, looked like a cafe concert,
but its location gave it value, as the railroad cut through the whole
garden, passing within a hundred and fifty feet of the porch. On the
regulation plot of grass stood a basin of Roman cement, containing
goldfish and a stream of water the size of that which comes from a
syringe, which occasionally made microscopic rainbows at which the guests
marvelled.

The feeding of this irrigator was the constant preoccupation of Monsieur
Perdrix, who would sometimes get up at five o'clock in the morning in
order to fill the tank. Then, in his shirt sleeves, his big stomach
almost bursting from his trousers, he would pump wildly, so that on
returning from the office he could have the satisfaction of letting the
fountain play and of imagining that it was cooling off the garden.

On the night of the official dinner all the guests, one after the other,
went into ecstasies over the surroundings, and each time they heard a
train in the distance, Monsieur Perdrix would announce to them its
destination: Saint-Germain, Le Havre, Cherbourg, or Dieppe, and they
would playfully wave to the passengers leaning from the windows.

The whole office force was there. First came Monsieur Capitaine, the
assistant chief; Monsieur Patissot, chief clerk; then Messieurs de
Sombreterre and Vallin, elegant young employees who only came to the
office when they had to; lastly Monsieur Rade, known throughout the
ministry for the absurd doctrines which he upheld, and the copying clerk,
Monsieur Boivin.

Monsieur Rade passed for a character. Some called him a dreamer or an
idealist, others a revolutionary; every one agreed that he was very
clumsy. Old, thin and small, with bright eyes and long, white hair, he
had all his life professed a profound contempt for administrative work. A
book rummager and a great reader, with a nature continually in revolt
against everything, a seeker of truth and a despiser of popular
prejudices, he had a clear and paradoxical manner of expressing his
opinions which closed the mouths of self-satisfied fools and of those
that were discontented without knowing why. People said: "That old fool
of a Rade," or else: "That harebrained Rade"; and the slowness, of his
promotion seemed to indicate the reason, according to commonplace minds.
His freedom of speech often made--his colleagues tremble; they asked
themselves with terror how he had been able to keep his place as long as
he had. As soon as they had seated themselves, Monsieur Perdrix thanked
his "collaborators" in a neat little speech, promising them his
protection, the more valuable as his power grew, and he ended with a
stirring peroration in which he thanked and glorified a government so
liberal and just that it knows how to seek out the worthy from among the
humble.

Monsieur Capitaine, the assistant chief, answered in the name of the
office, congratulated, greeted, exalted, sang the praises of all; frantic
applause greeted these two bits of eloquence. After that they settled
down seriously to the business of eating.

Everything went well up to the dessert; lack of conversation went
unnoticed. But after the coffee a discussion arose, and Monsieur Rade let
himself loose and soon began to overstep the bounds of discretion.

They naturally discussed love, and a breath of chivalry intoxicated this
room full of bureaucrats; they praised and exalted the superior beauty of
woman, the delicacy of hex soul, her aptitude for exquisite things, the
correctness of her judgment, and the refinement of her sentiments.
Monsieur Rade began to protest, energetically refusing to credit the
so-called "fair" sex with all the qualities they ascribed to it; then,
amidst the general indignation, he quoted some authors:

"Schopenhauer, gentlemen, Schopenhauer, the great philosopher, revered by
all Germany, says: 'Man's intelligence must have been terribly deadened
by love in order to call this sex with the small waist, narrow shoulders,
large hips and crooked legs, the fair sex. All its beauty lies in the
instinct of love. Instead of calling it the fair, it would have been
better to call it the unaesthetic sex. Women have neither the
appreciation nor the knowledge of music, any more than they have of
poetry or of the plastic arts; with them it is merely an apelike
imitation, pure pretence, affectation cultivated from their desire to
please.'"

"The man who said that is an idiot," exclaimed Monsieur de Sombreterre.

Monsieur Rade smilingly continued:

"And how about Rousseau, gentlemen? Here is his opinion: 'Women, as a
rule, love no art, are skilled in none, and have no talent.'"

Monsieur de Sombreterre disdainfully shrugged his shoulders:

"Then Rousseau is as much of a fool as the other, that's all."

Monsieur Rade, still smiling, went on:

"And this is what Lord Byron said, who, nevertheless, loved women: 'They
should be well fed and well dressed, but not allowed to mingle with
society. They should also be taught religion, but they should ignore
poetry and politics, only being allowed to read religious works or
cook-books.'"

Monsieur Rade continued:

"You see, gentlemen, all of them study painting and music. But not a
single one of them has ever painted a remarkable picture or composed a
great opera! Why, gentlemen? Because they are the 'sexes sequior', the
secondary sex in every sense of the word, made to be kept apart, in the
background."

Monsieur Patissot was growing angry, and exclaimed:

"And how about Madame Sand, monsieur?"

"She is the one exception, monsieur, the one exception. I will quote to
you another passage from another great philosopher, this one an
Englishman, Herbert Spencer. Here is what he says: 'Each sex is capable,
under the influence of abnormal stimulation, of manifesting faculties
ordinarily reserved for the other one. Thus, for instance, in extreme
cases a special excitement may cause the breasts of men to give milk;
children deprived of their mothers have often thus been saved in time of
famine. Nevertheless, we do not place this faculty of giving milk among
the male attributes. It is the same with female intelligence, which, in
certain cases, will give superior products, but which is not to be
considered in an estimate of the feminine nature as a social factor.'"

All Monsieur Patissot's chivalric instincts were wounded and he declared:

"You are not a Frenchman, monsieur. French gallantry is a form of
patriotism."

Monsieur Rade retorted:

"I have very little patriotism, monsieur, as little as I can get along
with."

A coolness settled over the company, but he continued quietly:

"Do you admit with me that war is a barbarous thing; that this custom of
killing off people constitutes a condition of savagery; that it is
odious, when life is the only real good, to see governments, whose duty
is to protect the lives of their subjects, persistently looking for means
of destruction? Am I not right? Well, if war is a terrible thing, what
about patriotism, which is the idea at the base of it? When a murderer
kills he has a fixed idea; it is to steal. When a good man sticks his
bayonet through another good man, father of a family, or, perhaps, a
great artist, what idea is he following out?"

Everybody was shocked.

"When one has such thoughts, one should not express them in public."

M. Patissot continued:

"There are, however, monsieur, principles which all good people
recognize."

M. Rade asked: "Which ones?"

Then very solemnly, M. Patissot pronounced: "Morality, monsieur."

M. Rade was beaming; he exclaimed:

"Just let me give you one example, gentlemen, one little example. What is
your opinion of the gentlemen with the silk caps who thrive along the
boulevard's on the delightful traffic which you know, and who make a
living out of it?"

A look of disgust ran round the table:

"Well, gentlemen! only a century ago, when an elegant gentleman, very
ticklish about his honor, had for--friend--a beautiful and rich
lady, it was considered perfectly proper to live at her expense and even
to squander her whole fortune. This game was considered delightful. This
only goes to show that the principles of morality are by no means
settled--and that--"

M. Perdrix, visibly embarrassed, stopped him:

"M. Rade, you are sapping the very foundations of society. One must
always have principles. Thus, in politics, here is M. de Sombreterre, who
is a Legitimist; M. Vallin, an Orleanist; M. Patissot and myself,
Republicans; we all have very different principles, and yet we agree very
well because we have them."

But M. Rade exclaimed:

"I also have principles, gentlemen, very distinct ones."

M. Patissot raised his head and coldly asked:

"It would please me greatly to know them, monsieur."

M. Rade did not need to be coaxed.

"Here they are, monsieur:

"First principle--Government by one person is a monstrosity.

"Second principle--Restricted suffrage is an injustice.

"Third principle--Universal suffrage is idiotic.

"To deliver up millions of men, superior minds, scientists, even
geniuses, to the caprice and will of a being who, in an instant of
gaiety, madness, intoxication or love, would not hesitate to sacrifice
everything for his exalted fancy, would spend the wealth of the country
amassed by others with difficulty, would have thousands of men
slaughtered on the battle-fields, all this appears to me--a simple
logician--a monstrous aberration.

"But, admitting that a country must govern itself, to exclude, on some
always debatable pretext, a part of the citizens from the administration
of affairs is such an injustice that it seems to me unworthy of a further
discussion.

"There remains universal suffrage. I suppose that you will agree with me
that geniuses are a rarity. Let us be liberal and say that there are at
present five in France. Now, let us add, perhaps, two hundred men with a
decided talent, one thousand others possessing various talents, and ten
thousand superior intellects. This is a staff of eleven thousand two
hundred and five minds. After that you have the army of mediocrities
followed by the multitude of fools. As the mediocrities and the fools
always form the immense majority, it is impossible for them to elect an
intelligent government.

"In order to be fair I admit that logically universal suffrage seems to
me the only admissible principle, but it is impracticable. Here are the
reasons why:

"To make all the living forces of the country cooperate in the
government, to represent all the interests, to take into account all the
rights, is an ideal dream, but hardly practicable, because the only force
which can be measured is that very one which should be neglected, the
stupid strength of numbers, According to your method, unintelligent
numbers equal genius, knowledge, learning, wealth and industry. When you
are able to give to a member of the Institute ten thousand votes to a
ragman's one, one hundred votes for a great land-owner as against his
farmer's ten, then you will have approached an equilibrium of forces and
obtained a national representation which will really represent the
strength of the nation. But I challenge you to do it.

"Here are my conclusions:

"Formerly, when a man was a failure at every other profession he turned
photographer; now he has himself elected a deputy. A government thus
composed will always be sadly lacking, incapable of evil as well as of
good. On the other hand, a despot, if he be stupid, can do a lot of harm,
and, if he be intelligent (a thing which is very scarce), he may do good.

"I cannot decide between these two forms of government; I declare myself
to be an anarchist, that is to say, a partisan of that power which is the
most unassuming, the least felt, the most liberal, in the broadest sense
of the word, and revolutionary at the same time; by that I mean the
everlasting enemy of this same power, which can in no way be anything but
defective. That's all!"