ads:
Miss Harriet
Guy de Maupassant
There were seven of us on a drag, four women and three men; one of the latter sat on the
box seat beside the coachman. We were ascending, at a snail's pace, the winding road up
the steep cliff along the coast.
Setting out from Etretat at break of day in order to visit the ruins of Tancarville, we were
still half asleep, benumbed by the fresh air of the morning. The women especially, who
were little accustomed to these early excursions, half opened and closed their eyes every
moment, nodding their heads or yawning, quite insensible to the beauties of the dawn.
It was autumn. On both sides of the road stretched the bare fields, yellowed by the stubble
of wheat and oats which covered the soil like a beard that had been badly shaved. The moist
earth seemed to steam. Larks were singing high up in the air, while other birds piped in the
bushes.
The sun rose at length in front of us, bright red on the plane of the horizon, and in
proportion as it ascended, growing clearer from minute to minute, the country seemed to
awake, to smile, to shake itself like a young girl leaving her bed in her white robe of vapor.
The Comte d'Etraille, who was seated on the box, cried:
"Look! look! a hare!" and he extended his arm toward the left, pointing to a patch of clover.
The animal scurried along, almost hidden by the clover, only its large ears showing. Then it
swerved across a furrow, stopped, started off again at full speed, changed its course,
stopped anew, uneasy, spying out every danger, uncertain what route to take, when
suddenly it began to run with great bounds, disappearing finally in a large patch of beet-
root. All the men had waked up to watch the course of the animal.
Rene Lamanoir exclaimed:
"We are not at all gallant this morning," and; regarding his neighbor, the little Baroness de
Serennes, who struggled against sleep, he said to her in a low tone: "You are thinking of
your husband, baroness. Reassure yourself; he will not return before Saturday, so you have
still four days."
She answered with a sleepy smile:
"How stupid you are!" Then, shaking off her torpor, she added: "Now, let somebody say
something to make us laugh. You, Monsieur Chenal, who have the reputation of having had
more love affairs than the Due de Richelieu, tell us a love story in which you have played a
part; anything you like."
Leon Chenal, an old painter, who had once been very handsome, very strong, very proud of
his physique and very popular with women, took his long white beard in his hand and
smiled. Then, after a few moments' reflection, he suddenly became serious.
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"Ladies, it will not be an amusing tale, for I am going to relate to you the saddest love affair
of my life, and I sincerely hope that none of my friends may ever pass through a similar
experience.
"I was twenty-five years of age and was pillaging along the coast of Normandy. I call
'pillaging' wandering about, with a knapsack on one's back, from inn to inn, under the
pretext of making studies and sketching landscapes. I knew nothing more enjoyable than
that happy-go-lucky wandering life, in which one is perfectly free, without shackles of any
kind, without care, without preoccupation, without thinking even of the morrow. One goes
in any direction one pleases, without any guide save his fancy, without any counsellor save
his eyes. One stops because a running brook attracts one, because the smell of potatoes
frying tickles one's olfactories on passing an inn. Sometimes it is the perfume of clematis
which decides one in his choice or the roguish glance of the servant at an inn. Do not
despise me for my affection for these rustics. These girls have a soul as well as senses, not
to mention firm cheeks and fresh lips; while their hearty and willing kisses have the flavor
of wild fruit. Love is always love, come whence it may. A heart that beats at your approach,
an eye that weeps when you go away are things so rare, so sweet, so precious that they must
never be despised.
"I have had rendezvous in ditches full of primroses, behind the cow stable and in barns
among the straw, still warm from the heat of the day. I have recollections of coarse gray
cloth covering supple peasant skin and regrets for simple, frank kisses, more delicate in
their unaffected sincerity than the subtle favors of charming and distinguished women.
"But what one loves most amid all these varied adventures is the country, the woods, the
rising of the sun, the twilight, the moonlight. These are, for the painter, honeymoon trips
with Nature. One is alone with her in that long and quiet association. You go to sleep in the
fields, amid marguerites and poppies, and when you open your eyes in the full glare of the
sunlight you descry in the distance the little village with its pointed clock tower which
sounds the hour of noon.
"You sit down by the side of a spring which gushes out at the foot of an oak, amid a growth
of tall, slender weeds, glistening with life. You go down on your knees, bend forward and
drink that cold, pellucid water which wets your mustache and nose; you drink it with a
physical pleasure, as though you kissed the spring, lip to lip. Sometimes, when you find a
deep hole along the course of these tiny brooks, you plunge in quite naked, and you feel on
your skin, from head to foot, as it were, an icy and delicious caress, the light and gentle
quivering of the stream.
"You are gay on the hills, melancholy on the edge of ponds, inspired when the sun is setting
in an ocean of blood-red clouds and casts red reflections or the river. And at night, under
the moon, which passes across the vault of heaven, you think of a thousand strange things
which would never have occurred to your mind under the brilliant light of day.
"So, in wandering through the same country where we, are this year, I came to the little
village of Benouville, on the cliff between Yport and Etretat. I came from Fecamp,
following the coast, a high coast as straight as a wall, with its projecting chalk cliffs
descending perpendicularly into the sea. I had walked since early morning on the short
grass, smooth and yielding as a carpet, that grows on the edge of the cliff. And, singing
ads:
lustily, I walked with long strides, looking sometimes at the slow circling flight of a gull
with its white curved wings outlined on the blue sky, sometimes at the brown sails of a
fishing bark on the green sea. In short, I had passed a happy day, a day of liberty and of
freedom from care.
"A little farmhouse where travellers were lodged was pointed out to me, a kind of inn, kept
by a peasant woman, which stood in the centre of a Norman courtyard surrounded by a
double row of beeches.
"Leaving the coast, I reached the hamlet, which was hemmed in by great trees, and I
presented myself at the house of Mother Lecacheur.
"She was an old, wrinkled and stern peasant woman, who seemed always to receive
customers under protest, with a kind of defiance.
"It was the month of May. The spreading apple trees covered the court with a shower of
blossoms which rained unceasingly both upon people and upon the grass.
"I said: 'Well, Madame Lecacheur, have you a room for me?'
"Astonished to find that I knew her name, she answered:
"'That depends; everything is let, but all the same I can find out."
"In five minutes we had come to an agreement, and I deposited my bag upon the earthen
floor of a rustic room, furnished with a bed, two chairs, a table and a washbowl. The room
looked into the large, smoky kitchen, where the lodgers took their meals with the people of
the farm and the landlady, who was a widow.
"I washed my hands, after which I went out. The old woman was making a chicken
fricassee for dinner in the large fireplace in which hung the iron pot, black with smoke.
"'You have travellers, then, at the present time?' said I to her.
"She answered in an offended tone of voice:
"'I have a lady, an English lady, who has reached years of maturity. She occupies the other
room.'
"I obtained, by means of an extra five sous a day, the privilege of dining alone out in the
yard when the weather was fine.
"My place was set outside the door, and I was beginning to gnaw the lean limbs of the
Normandy chicken, to drink the clear cider and to munch the hunk of white bread, which
was four days old but excellent.
"Suddenly the wooden gate which gave on the highway was opened, and a strange lady
directed her steps toward the house. She was very thin, very tall, so tightly enveloped in a
red Scotch plaid shawl that one might have supposed she had no arms, if one had not seen a
long hand appear just above the hips, holding a white tourist umbrella. Her face was like
that of a mummy, surrounded with curls of gray hair, which tossed about at every step she
took and made me think, I know not why, of a pickled herring in curl papers. Lowering her
eyes, she passed quickly in front of me and entered the house.
"That singular apparition cheered me. She undoubtedly was my neighbor, the English lady
of mature age of whom our hostess had spoken.
"I did not see her again that day. The next day, when I had settled myself to commence
painting at the end of that beautiful valley which you know and which extends as far as
Etretat, I perceived, on lifting my eyes suddenly, something singular standing on the crest of
the cliff, one might have said a pole decked out with flags. It was she. On seeing me, she
suddenly disappeared. I reentered the house at midday for lunch and took my seat at the
general table, so as to make the acquaintance of this odd character. But she did not respond
to my polite advances, was insensible even to my little attentions. I poured out water for her
persistently, I passed her the dishes with great eagerness. A slight, almost imperceptible,
movement of the head and an English word, murmured so low that I did not understand it,
were her only acknowledgments.
"I ceased occupying myself with her, although she had disturbed my thoughts.
"At the end of three days I knew as much about her as did Madame Lecacheur herself.
"She was called Miss Harriet. Seeking out a secluded village in which to pass the summer,
she had been attracted to Benouville some six months before and did not seem disposed to
leave it. She never spoke at table, ate rapidly, reading all the while a small book of the
Protestant propaganda. She gave a copy of it to everybody. The cure himself had received
no less than four copies, conveyed by an urchin to whom she had paid two sous
commission. She said sometimes to our hostess abruptly, without preparing her in the least
for the declaration:
"'I love the Saviour more than all. I admire him in all creation; I adore him in all nature; I
carry him always in my heart.'
"And she would immediately present the old woman with one of her tracts which were
destined to convert the universe.
"In, the village she was not liked. In fact, the schoolmaster having pronounced her an
atheist, a kind of stigma attached to her. The cure, who had been consulted by Madame
Lecacheur, responded:
"'She is a heretic, but God does not wish the death of the sinner, and I believe her to be a
person of pure morals.'
"These words, 'atheist,' 'heretic,' words which no one can precisely define, threw doubts into
some minds. It was asserted, however, that this English woman was rich and that she had
passed her life in travelling through every country in the world because her family had cast
her off. Why had her family cast her off? Because of her impiety, of course!
"She was, in fact, one of those people of exalted principles; one of those opinionated
puritans, of which England produces so many; one of those good and insupportable old
maids who haunt the tables d'hote of every hotel in Europe, who spoil Italy, poison
Switzerland, render the charming cities of the Mediterranean uninhabitable, carry
everywhere their fantastic manias their manners of petrified vestals, their indescribable
toilets and a certain odor of india-rubber which makes one believe that at night they are
slipped into a rubber casing.
"Whenever I caught sight of one of these individuals in a hotel I fled like the birds who see
a scarecrow in a field.
"This woman, however, appeared so very singular that she did not displease me.
"Madame Lecacheur, hostile by instinct to everything that was not rustic, felt in her narrow
soul a kind of hatred for the ecstatic declarations of the old maid. She had found a phrase by
which to describe her, a term of contempt that rose to her lips, called forth by I know not
what confused and mysterious mental ratiocination. She said: 'That woman is a demoniac.'
This epithet, applied to that austere and sentimental creature, seemed to me irresistibly
droll. I myself never called her anything now but 'the demoniac,' experiencing a singular
pleasure in pronouncing aloud this word on perceiving her.
"One day I asked Mother Lecacheur : 'Well, what is our demoniac about to- day?'
"To which my rustic friend replied with a shocked air:
"'What do you think, sir? She picked up a toad which had had its paw crushed and carried it
to her room and has put it in her washbasin and bandaged it as if it were a man. If that is not
profanation I should like to know what is!'
"On another occasion, when walking along the shore she bought a large fish which had just
been caught, simply to throw it back into the sea again. The sailor from whom she had
bought it, although she paid him handsomely, now began to swear, more exasperated,
indeed, than if she had put her hand into his pocket and taken his money. For more than a
month he could not speak of the circumstance without becoming furious and denouncing it
as an outrage. Oh, yes! She was indeed a demoniac, this Miss Harriet, and Mother
Lecacheur must have had an inspiration in thus christening her.
"The stable boy, who was called Sapeur, because he had served in Africa in his youth,
entertained other opinions. He said with a roguish air: 'She is an old hag who has seen life.'
"If the poor woman had but known!
"The little kind-hearted Celeste did not wait upon her willingly, but I was never able to
understand why. Probably her only reason was that she was a stranger, of another race; of a
different tongue and of another religion. She was, in fact, a demoniac!
"She passed her time wandering about the country, adoring and seeking God in nature. I
found her one evening on her knees in a cluster of bushes. Having discovered something
red through the leaves, I brushed aside the branches, and Miss Harriet at once rose to her
feet, confused at having been found thus, fixing on me terrified eyes like those of an owl
surprised in open day.
"Sometimes, when I was working among the rocks, I would suddenly descry her on the
edge of the cliff like a lighthouse signal. She would be gazing in rapture at the vast sea
glittering in the sunlight and the boundless sky with its golden tints. Sometimes I would
distinguish her at the end of the valley, walking quickly with her elastic English step, and I
would go toward her, attracted by I know not what, simply to see her illuminated visage, her
dried-up, ineffable features, which seemed to glow with inward and profound happiness.
"I would often encounter her also in the corner of a field, sitting on the grass under the
shadow of an apple tree, with her little religious booklet lying open on her knee while she
gazed out at the distance.
"I could not tear myself away from that quiet country neighborhood, to which I was
attached by a thousand links of love for its wide and peaceful landscape. I was happy in this
sequestered farm, far removed from everything, but in touch with the earth, the good,
beautiful, green earth. And--must I avow it?--there was, besides, a little curiosity which
retained me at the residence of Mother Lecacheur. I wished to become acquainted a little
with this strange Miss Harriet and to know what transpires in the solitary souls of those
wandering old English women.
"We became acquainted in a rather singular manner. I had just finished a study which
appeared to me to be worth something, and so it was, as it sold for ten thousand francs
fifteen years later. It was as simple, however, as two and two make four and was not
according to academic rules. The whole right side of my canvas represented a rock, an
enormous rock, covered with sea-wrack, brown, yellow and red, across which the sun
poured like a stream of oil. The light fell upon the rock as though it were aflame without the
sun, which was at my back, being visible. That was all. A first bewildering study of blazing,
gorgeous light.
"On the left was the sea, not the blue sea, the slate-colored sea, but a sea of jade, greenish,
milky and solid beneath the deep-colored sky.
"I was so pleased with my work that I danced from sheer delight as I carried it back to the
inn. I would have liked the whole world to see it at once. I can remember that I showed it to
a cow that was browsing by the wayside, exclaiming as I did so: 'Look at that, my old
beauty; you will not often see its like again.'
"When I had reached the house I immediately called out to Mother Lecacheur, shouting
with all my might:
"'Hullo, there! Mrs. Landlady, come here and look at this.'
"The rustic approached and looked at my work with her stupid eyes which distinguished
nothing and could not even tell whether the picture represented an ox or a house.
"Miss Harriet just then came home, and she passed behind me just as I was holding out my
canvas at arm's length, exhibiting it to our landlady. The demoniac could not help but see it,
for I took care to exhibit the thing in such a way that it could not escape her notice. She
stopped abruptly and stood motionless, astonished. It was her rock which was depicted, the
one which she climbed to dream away her time undisturbed.
"She uttered a British 'Aoh,' which was at once so accentuated and so flattering that I turned
round to her, smiling, and said:
"'This is my latest study, mademoiselle.'
"She murmured rapturously, comically and tenderly:
"'Oh! monsieur, you understand nature as a living thing.'
"I colored and was more touched by that compliment than if it had come from a queen. I
was captured, conquered, vanquished. I could have embraced her, upon my honor.
"I took my seat at table beside her as usual. For the first time she spoke, thinking aloud:
"'Oh! I do love nature.'
"I passed her some bread, some water, some wine. She now accepted these with a little
smile of a mummy. I then began to talk about the scenery.
"After the meal we rose from the table together and walked leisurely across the courtyard;
then, attracted doubtless by the fiery glow which the setting sun cast over the surface of the
sea, I opened the gate which led to the cliff, and we walked along side by side, as contented
as two persons might be who have just learned to understand and penetrate each other's
motives and feelings.
"It was one of those warm, soft evenings which impart a sense of ease to flesh and spirit
alike. All is enjoyment, everything charms. The balmy air, laden with the perfume of
grasses and the smell of seaweed, soothes the olfactory sense with its wild fragrance,
soothes the palate with its sea savor, soothes the mind with its pervading sweetness.
"We were now walking along the edge of the cliff, high above the boundless sea which
rolled its little waves below us at a distance of a hundred metres. And we drank in with
open mouth and expanded chest that fresh breeze, briny from kissing the waves, that came
from the ocean and passed across our faces.
"Wrapped in her plaid shawl, with a look of inspiration as she faced the breeze, the English
woman gazed fixedly at the great sun ball as it descended toward the horizon. Far off in the
distance a three-master in full sail was outlined on the blood-red sky and a steamship,
somewhat nearer, passed along, leaving behind it a trail of smoke on the horizon. The red
sun globe sank slowly lower and lower and presently touched the water just behind the
motionless vessel, which, in its dazzling effulgence, looked as though framed in a flame of
fire. We saw it plunge, grow smaller and disappear, swallowed up by the ocean.
"Miss Harriet gazed in rapture at the last gleams of the dying day. She seemed longing to
embrace the sky, the sea, the whole landscape.
"She murmured: 'Aoh! I love--I love' I saw a tear in her eye. She continued: 'I wish I were a
little bird, so that I could mount up into the firmament.'
"She remained standing as I had often before seen her, perched on the cliff, her face as red
as her shawl. I should have liked to have sketched her in my album. It would have been a
caricature of ecstasy.
"I turned away so as not to laugh.
"I then spoke to her of painting as I would have done to a fellow artist, using the technical
terms common among the devotees of the profession. She listened attentively, eagerly
seeking to divine the meaning of the terms, so as to understand my thoughts. From time to
time she would exclaim:
'Oh! I understand, I understand. It is very interesting.'
"We returned home.
"The next day, on seeing me, she approached me, cordially holding out her hand; and we at
once became firm friends.
"She was a good creature who had a kind of soul on springs, which became enthusiastic at a
bound. She lacked equilibrium like all women who are spinsters at the age of fifty. She
seemed to be preserved in a pickle of innocence, but her heart still retained something very
youthful and inflammable. She loved both nature and animals with a fervor, a love like old
wine fermented through age, with a sensuous love that she had never bestowed on men.
"One thing is certain, that the sight of a bitch nursing her puppies, a mare roaming in a
meadow with a foal at its side, a bird's nest full of young ones, screaming, with their open
mouths and their enormous heads, affected her perceptibly.
"Poor, solitary, sad, wandering beings! I love you ever since I became acquainted with Miss
Harriet.
"I soon discovered that she had something she would like to tell me, but dare not, and I was
amused at her timidity. When I started out in the morning with my knapsack on my back,
she would accompany me in silence as far as the end of the village, evidently struggling to
find words with which to begin a conversation. Then she would leave me abruptly and walk
away quickly with her springy step.
"One day, however, she plucked up courage:
"I would like to see how you paint pictures. Are you willing? I have been very curious.'
"And she blushed as if she had said something very audacious.
"I conducted her to the bottom of the Petit-Val, where I had begun a large picture.
"She remained standing behind me, following all my gestures with concentrated attention.
Then, suddenly, fearing perhaps that she was disturbing me, she said: 'Thank you,' and
walked away.
"But she soon became more friendly, and accompanied me every day, her countenance
exhibiting visible pleasure. She carried her camp stool under her arm, not permitting me to
carry it. She would remain there for hours, silent and motionless, following with her eyes
the point of my brush, in its every movement. When I obtained unexpectedly just the effect
I wanted by a dash of color put on with the palette knife, she involuntarily uttered a little
'Ah!' of astonishment, of joy, of admiration. She had the most tender respect for my
canvases, an almost religious respect for that human reproduction of a part of nature's work
divine. My studies appeared to her a kind of religious pictures, and sometimes she spoke to
me of God, with the idea of converting me.
"Oh, he was a queer, good-natured being, this God of hers! He was a sort of village
philosopher without any great resources and without great power, for she always figured
him to herself as inconsolable over injustices committed under his eyes, as though he were
powerless to prevent them.
"She was, however, on excellent terms with him, affecting even to be the confidante of his
secrets and of his troubles. She would say:
"'God wills' or 'God does not will,' just like a sergeant announcing to a recruit: 'The colonel
has commanded.'
"At the bottom of her heart she deplored my ignorance of the intentions of the Eternal,
which she endeavored to impart to me.
"Almost every day I found in my pockets, in my hat when I lifted it from the ground, in my
paintbox, in my polished shoes, standing in front of my door in the morning, those little
pious tracts which she no doubt, received directly from Paradise.
"I treated her as one would an old friend, with unaffected cordiality. But I soon perceived
that she had changed somewhat in her manner, though, for a while, I paid little attention to
it.
"When I was painting, whether in my valley or in some country lane, I would see her
suddenly appear with her rapid, springy walk. She would then sit down abruptly, out of
breath, as though she had been running or were overcome by some profound emotion. Her
face would be red, that English red which is denied to the people of all other countries;
then, without any reason, she would turn ashy pale and seem about to faint away. Gradually,
however, her natural color would return and she would begin to speak.
"Then, without warning, she would break off in the middle of a sentence, spring up from
her seat and walk away so rapidly and so strangely that I was at my wits' ends to discover
whether I had done or said anything to displease or wound her.
"I finally came to the conclusion that those were her normal manners, somewhat modified
no doubt in my honor during the first days of our acquaintance.
"When she returned to the farm, after walking for hours on the windy coast, her long curls
often hung straight down, as if their springs had been broken. This had hitherto seldom
given her any concern, and she would come to dinner without embarrassment all
dishevelled by her sister, the breeze.
But now she would go to her room and arrange the untidy locks, and when I would say,
with familiar gallantry, which, however, always offended her "'You are as beautiful as a star
to-day, Miss Harriet,' a blush would immediately rise to her cheeks, the blush of a young
girl, of a girl of fifteen.
"Then she would suddenly become quite reserved and cease coming to watch me paint. I
thought, 'This is only a fit of temper; it will blow over.' But it did not always blow over, and
when I spoke to her she would answer me either with affected indifference or with sullen
annoyance.
"She became by turns rude, impatient and nervous. I never saw her now except at meals,
and we spoke but little. I concluded at length that I must have offended her in some way,
and, accordingly, I said to her one evening:
"'Miss Harriet, why is it that you do not act toward me as formerly? What have I done to
displease you? You are causing me much pain!'
"She replied in a most comical tone of anger:
"'I am just the same with you as formerly. It is not true, not true,' and she ran upstairs and
shut herself up in her room.
"Occasionally she would look at me in a peculiar manner. I have often said to myself since
then that those who are condemned to death must look thus when they are informed that
their last day has come. In her eye there lurked a species of insanity, an insanity at once
mystical and violent; and even more, a fever, an aggravated longing, impatient and
impotent, for the unattained and unattainable.
"Nay, it seemed to me there was also going on within her a struggle in which her heart
wrestled with an unknown force that she sought to master, and even, perhaps, something
else. But what do I know? What do I know?
"It was indeed a singular revelation.
"For some time I had commenced to work, as soon as daylight appeared, on a picture the
subject of which was as follows:
"A deep ravine, enclosed, surmounted by two thickets of trees and vines, extended into the
distance and was lost, submerged in that milky vapor, in that cloud like cotton down that
sometimes floats over valleys at daybreak. And at the extreme end of that heavy,
transparent fog one saw, or, rather, surmised, that a couple of human beings were
approaching, a human couple, a youth and a maiden, their arms interlaced, embracing each
other, their heads inclined toward each other, their lips meeting.
"A first ray of the sun, glistening through the branches, pierced that fog of the dawn,
illuminated it with a rosy reflection just behind the rustic lovers, framing their vague
shadows in a silvery background. It was well done; yes, indeed, well done.
"I was working on the declivity which led to the Valley of Etretat. On this particular
morning I had, by chance, the sort of floating vapor which I needed. Suddenly something
rose up in front of me like a phantom; it was Miss Harriet. On seeing me she was about to
flee. But I called after her, saying: 'Come here, come here, mademoiselle. I have a nice little
picture for you.'
"She came forward, though with seeming reluctance. I handed her my sketch. She said
nothing, but stood for a long time, motionless, looking at it, and suddenly she burst into
tears. She wept spasmodically, like men who have striven hard to restrain their tears, but
who can do so no longer and abandon themselves to grief, though still resisting. I sprang to
my feet, moved at the sight of a sorrow I did not comprehend, and I took her by the hand
with an impulse of brusque affection, a true French impulse which acts before it reflects.
"She let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, and I felt them quiver as if all her nerves
were being wrenched. Then she withdrew her hands abruptly, or, rather, snatched them
away.
"I recognized that tremor, for I had felt it, and I could not be deceived. Ah! the love tremor
of a woman, whether she be fifteen or fifty years of age, whether she be of the people or of
society, goes so straight to my heart that I never have any hesitation in understanding it!
"Her whole frail being had trembled, vibrated, been overcome. I knew it. She walked away
before I had time to say a word, leaving me as surprised as if I had witnessed a miracle and
as troubled as if I had committed a crime.
"I did not go in to breakfast. I went to take a turn on the edge of the cliff, feeling that I
would just as lief weep as laugh, looking on the adventure as both comic and deplorable
and my position as ridiculous, believing her unhappy enough to go insane.
"I asked myself what I ought to do. It seemed best for me to leave the place, and I
immediately resolved to do so.
"Somewhat sad and perplexed, I wandered about until dinner time and entered the
farmhouse just when the soup had been served up.
"I sat down at the table as usual. Miss Harriet was there, eating away solemnly, without
speaking to any one, without even lifting her eyes. Her manner and expression were,
however, the same as usual.
"I waited patiently till the meal had been finished, when, turning toward the landlady, I said:
'Well, Madame Lecacheur, it will not be long now before I shall have to take my leave of
you.'
"The good woman, at once surprised and troubled, replied in her drawling voice: 'My dear
sir, what is it you say? You are going to leave us after I have become so accustomed to
you?'
"I glanced at Miss Harriet out of the corner of my eye. Her countenance did not change in
the least. But Celeste, the little servant, looked up at me. She was a fat girl, of about
eighteen years of age, rosy, fresh, as strong as a horse, and possessing the rare attribute of
cleanliness. I had kissed her at odd times in out-of-the-way corners, after the manner of
travellers--nothing more.
"The dinner being at length over, I went to smoke my pipe under the apple trees, walking up
and down from one end of the enclosure to the other. All the reflections which I had made
during the day, the strange discovery of the morning, that passionate and grotesque
attachment for me, the recollections which that revelation had suddenly called up,
recollections at once charming and perplexing, perhaps also that look which the servant had
cast on me at the announcement of my departure--all these things, mixed up and combined,
put me now in a reckless humor, gave me a tickling sensation of kisses on the lips and in
my veins a something which urged me on to commit some folly.
"Night was coming on, casting its dark shadows under the trees, when I descried Celeste,
who had gone to fasten up the poultry yard at the other end of the enclosure. I darted toward
her, running so noiselessly that she heard nothing, and as she got up from closing the small
trapdoor by which the chickens got in and out, I clasped her in my arms and rained on her
coarse, fat face a shower of kisses. She struggled, laughing all the time, as she was
accustomed to do in such circumstances. Why did I suddenly loose my grip of her? Why did
I at once experience a shock? What was it that I heard behind me?
"It was Miss Harriet, who had come upon us, who had seen us and who stood in front of us
motionless as a spectre. Then she disappeared in the darkness.
"I was ashamed, embarrassed, more desperate at having been thus surprised by her than if
she had caught me committing some criminal act.
"I slept badly that night. I was completely unnerved and haunted by sad thoughts. I seemed
to hear loud weeping, but in this I was no doubt deceived. Moreover, I thought several
times that I heard some one walking up and down in the house and opening the hall door.
"Toward morning I was overcome by fatigue and fell asleep. I got up late and did not go
downstairs until the late breakfast, being still in a bewildered state, not knowing what kind
of expression to put on.
"No one had seen Miss Harriet. We waited for her at table, but she did not appear. At length
Mother Lecacheur went to her room. The English woman had gone out. She must have set
out at break of day, as she was wont to do, in order to see the sun rise.
"Nobody seemed surprised at this, and we began to eat in silence.
"The weather was hot, very hot, one of those broiling, heavy days when not a leaf stirs. The
table had been placed out of doors, under an apple tree, and from time to time Sapeur had
gone to the cellar to draw a jug of cider, everybody was so thirsty. Celeste brought the
dishes from the kitchen, a ragout of mutton with potatoes, a cold rabbit and a salad.
Afterward she placed before us a dish of strawberries, the first of the season.
"As I wished to wash and freshen these, I begged the servant to go and draw me a pitcher of
cold water.
"In about five minutes she returned, declaring that the well was dry. She had lowered the
pitcher to the full extent of the cord and had touched the bottom, but on drawing the pitcher
up again it was empty. Mother Lecacheur, anxious to examine the thing for herself, went
and looked down the hole. She returned, announcing that one could see clearly something
in the well, something altogether unusual. But this no doubt was bundles of straw, which a
neighbor had thrown in out of spite.
"I wished to look down the well also, hoping I might be able to clear up the mystery, and I
perched myself close to the brink. I perceived indistinctly a white object. What could it be?
I then conceived the idea of lowering a lantern at the end of a cord. When I did so the
yellow flame danced on the layers of stone and gradually became clearer. All four of us
were leaning over the opening, Sapeur and Celeste having now joined us. The lantern rested
on a black-and-white indistinct mass, singular, incomprehensible. Sapeur exclaimed:
"'It is a horse. I see the hoofs. It must have got out of the meadow during the night and
fallen in headlong.'
"But suddenly a cold shiver froze me to the marrow. I first recognized a foot, then a leg
sticking up; the whole body and the other leg were completely under water.
"I stammered out in a loud voice, trembling so violently that the lantern danced hither and
thither over the slipper:
"'It is a woman! Who-who-can it be? It is Miss Harriet!'
"Sapeur alone did not manifest horror. He had witnessed many such scenes in Africa.
"Mother Lecacheur and Celeste began to utter piercing screams and ran away.
"But it was necessary to recover the corpse of the dead woman. I attached the young man
securely by the waist to the end of the pulley rope and lowered him very slowly, watching
him disappear in the darkness. In one hand he held the lantern and a rope in the other. Soon
I recognized his voice, which seemed to come from the centre of the earth, saying:
'Stop!'
"I then saw him fish something out of the water. It was the other leg. He then bound the two
feet together and shouted anew:
"'Haul up!'
"I began to wind up, but I felt my arms crack, my muscles twitch, and I was in terror lest I
should let the man fall to the bottom. When his head appeared at the brink I asked:
"'Well?' as if I expected he had a message from the drowned woman.
"We both got on the stone slab at the edge of the well and from opposite sides we began to
haul up the body.
"Mother Lecacheur and Celeste watched us from a distance, concealed from view behind
the wall of the house. When they saw issuing from the hole the black slippers and white
stockings of the drowned person they disappeared.
"Sapeur seized the ankles, and we drew up the body of the poor woman. The head was
shocking to look at, being bruised and lacerated, and the long gray hair, out of curl
forevermore, hanging down tangled and disordered.
"'In the name of all that is holy! how lean she is,' exclaimed Sapeur in a contemptuous tone.
"We carried her into the room, and as the women did not put in an appearance I, with the
assistance of the stable lad, dressed the corpse for burial.
"I washed her disfigured face. Under the touch of my finger an eye was slightly opened and
regarded me with that pale, cold look, that terrible look of a corpse which seems to come
from the beyond. I braided as well as I could her dishevelled hair and with my clumsy hands
arranged on her head a novel and singular coiffure. Then I took off her dripping wet
garments, baring, not without a feeling of shame, as though I had been guilty of some
profanation, her shoulders and her chest and her long arms, as slim as the twigs of a tree.
"I next went to fetch some flowers, poppies, bluets, marguerites and fresh, sweet-smelling
grass with which to strew her funeral couch.
"I then had to go through the usual formalities, as I was alone to attend to everything. A
letter found in her pocket, written at the last moment, requested that her body be buried in
the village in which she had passed the last days of her life. A sad suspicion weighed on my
heart. Was it not on my account that she wished to be laid to rest in this place?
"Toward evening all the female gossips of the locality came to view the remains of the
defunct, but I would not allow a single person to enter. I wanted to be alone, and I watched
beside her all night.
"I looked at the corpse by the flickering light of the candles, at this unhappy woman,
unknown to us all, who had died in such a lamentable manner and so far away from home.
Had she left no friends, no relations behind her? What had her infancy been? What had
been her life? Whence had she come thither alone, a wanderer, lost like a dog driven from
home? What secrets of sufferings and of despair were sealed up in that unprepossessing
body, in that poor body whose outward appearance had driven from her all affection, all
love?
"How many unhappy beings there are! I felt that there weighed upon that human creature
the eternal injustice of implacable nature! It was all over with her, without her ever having
experienced, perhaps, that which sustains the greatest outcasts to wit, the hope of being
loved once! Otherwise why should she thus have concealed herself, fled from the face of
others? Why did she love everything so tenderly and so passionately, everything living that
was not a man?
"I recognized the fact that she believed in a God, and that she hoped to receive
compensation from the latter for all the miseries she had endured. She would now
disintegrate and become, in turn, a plant. She would blossom in the sun, the cattle would
browse on her leaves, the birds would bear away the seeds, and through these changes she
would become again human flesh. But that which is called the soul had been extinguished
at the bottom of the dark well. She suffered no longer. She had given her life for that of
others yet to come.
"Hours passed away in this silent and sinister communion with the dead. A pale light at
length announced the dawn of a new day; then a red ray streamed in on the bed, making a
bar of light across the coverlet and across her hands. This was the hour she had so much
loved. The awakened birds began to sing in the trees.
"I opened the window to its fullest extent and drew back the curtains that the whole heavens
might look in upon us, and, bending over the icy corpse, I took in my hands the mutilated
head and slowly, without terror or disgust, I imprinted a kiss, a long kiss, upon those lips
which had never before been kissed."
Leon Chenal remained silent. The women wept. We heard on the box seat the Count
d'Atraille blowing his nose from time to time. The coachman alone had gone to sleep. The
horses, who no longer felt the sting of the whip, had slackened their pace and moved along
slowly. The drag, hardly advancing at all, seemed suddenly torpid, as if it had been
freighted with sorrow.
[Miss Harriet appeared in Le Gaulois, July 9, 1883, under the title of Miss
Hastings. The story was later revised, enlarged; and partly reconstructed. This is
what De Maupassant wrote to Editor Havard March 15, 1884, in an unedited
letter, in regard to the title of the story that was to give its name to the volume:
"I do not believe that Hastings is a bad name, inasmuch as it is known all over
the world, and recalls the greatest facts in English history. Besides, Hastings is
as much a name as Duval is with us.
"The name Cherbuliez selected, Miss Revel, is no more like an English name
than like a Turkish name. But here is another name as English as Hastings, and
more euphonious; it is Miss Harriet. I will ask you therefore to substitute
Harriet for Hastings."
It was in regard to this very tittle that De Maupassant had a disagreement with
Audran and Boucheron director of the Bouffes Parisiens in October, 1890 They
had given this title to an operetta about to be played at the Bouffes. It ended
however, by their ceding to De Maupassant, and the title of the operetta was
changed to Miss Helyett.]
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