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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780720618082 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Owen, Peter Limited |
| Publication date: | 10/01/1997 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893) was a prolific French writer best remembered as a master of the short story and a father of the genre. He delighted in clever plotting and served as a model for later short story practitioners through favorites such as "The Necklace," "The Horla," "The False Gems," and "Useless Beauty." Maupassant wrote some 300 short stories, as well as six novels, three travel books, and one volume of verse.
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A Parisian Bourgeois' Sundays and Other Stories
By Guy de Maupassant, Marlo Johnson
Peter Owen LTD
Copyright © 1997 Marlo JohnstonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7206-1810-5
CHAPTER 1
A Parisian Bourgeois' Sundays
I
Travel preparations
Monsieur Patissot, who was born in Paris and had studied unsuccessfully like so many others at the Henri IV College, had gone into a Ministry thanks to the influence of one of his aunts, who kept the tobacconists where a divisional head bought his supplies.
He progressed very slowly, and might perhaps have died as a clerk in the fourth grade were it not for the benevolent chance which sometimes orders our destinies.
Today he is fifty-two, and it is only at this age that he is beginning to explore, like a tourist, the whole area of France that extends between the Paris fortifications and the provinces.
The story of his promotion may be useful to many employees, just as the account of his expeditions may be helpful to many Parisians, who may use them as an itinerary for their own excursions and thereby, thanks to his example, avoid certain misadventures which befell him.
In 1854 Monsieur Patissot was still earning only 1,800 francs. Owing to an unusual effect of his nature he was displeasing to all his superiors, who left him to languish, eternally and despairingly waiting for a rise, that ideal of the employee.
He worked nevertheless, but he did not know how to make it look as if he did, and then, as he would say, he was too proud. His pride amounted to never greeting his superiors in a base and obsequious manner, as in his opinion did certain of his colleagues, whom he would prefer not to name. He would add further that his frankness upset quite a few people, since he spoke out (as did everyone else, mind you) against unfair promotions, injustices and good turns done for outsiders who were nothing to do with the bureaucracy. But his indignant voice was never heard beyond the door of the cubicle where he toiled or, as he liked to say, 'I slave ... in every sense, monsieur.'
First of all as an employee, then as a Frenchman, and finally as a man of order, he supported on principle every established government, since he was an enthusiastic upholder of power ... apart from that of his bosses.
Whenever he could, he would position himself on the Emperor's route so as to have the honour of removing his hat, and off he would go filled with pride at having saluted the Head of State.
Through contemplating the Sovereign, he did as many do: he imitated him in the cut of his beard, the arrangement of his hair, the shape of his overcoat, his walk, his gestures. How many men, in every country, seem to be portraits of the prince! Perhaps he did bear a vague resemblance to Napoleon III, but his hair was black – so he dyed it. Then the likeness was total; and when he met another man in the street who also reproduced the imperial features he would be jealous and would look him over disdainfully. This need for imitation soon became his idée fixe, and having heard a bailiff from the Tuileries imitate the Emperor's voice, Patissot in turn took on his intonation and calculated slowness.
In this way he became so very like his model that you might have taken one for the other, and the people in the Ministry, the top civil servants, whispered to one another, finding it unseemly, even improper. Someone spoke about it to the Minister, who requested this employee to come and see him. But at the sight of him he began to laugh, and repeated two or three times, 'It's comic, really comic!' This was overheard, and the next day Patissot's immediate superior put forward his subordinate's name for a rise of three hundred francs, which he got at once.
From that time he progressed in a regular fashion, thanks to this simian faculty for imitation. Even a vague unease came over his superiors, like the feeling of a great fortune suspended above your head, and they spoke to him with deference.
But when the Republic came it was a disaster for him. He felt finished, drowned and, losing his head, stopped dying his hair, shaved himself completely and had his hair cut short, thereby achieving a gentle and benevolent appearance which compromised him very little.
Then his superiors took revenge for the prolonged intimidation he had exercised over them and, all becoming republican from conservative instinct, they persecuted him through his bonuses and blocked his promotion. He, too, changed his opinions, but the Republic not being a palpable and living character which it was possible to resemble, and the presidents succeeding each other with rapidity, he found himself plunged into the most cruel embarrassment, in such terrible distress, impeded in his need to imitate, after the failure of an attempt at his most recent ideal, Monsieur Thiers.
Yet he needed a new manifestation of his personality. He sought for a long time; then one morning he presented himself in the office with a new hat which had as a cockade a very small tricolour rosette on the right side. His colleagues were dumb-founded; they laughed about it all day, and again the next day, and all week, for a month. But in the end the gravity of his attitude disconcerted them; and once more his superiors became uneasy. What mystery was this sign hiding? Was it a simple statement of patriotism? Was it a witness to his support of the Republic? Or perhaps the secret sign of some powerful affiliation? But then, to wear it so determinedly, you would have to be very sure of powerful and hidden protection. In any event it would be wise to be on guard, the more so because his imperturbable sang-froid at all the joking increased their uneasiness even more. They spared him a second time, and his simpleton's courage saved him, for he was at last appointed senior clerk on 1 January 1880.
His whole life had been sedentary. He had remained a bachelor from a love of peace and tranquillity, for he detested movement and noise. His Sundays were generally spent in reading adventure novels and in carefully arranging transparencies which he would afterwards give to his colleagues. He had only had leave three times in his life, on each occasion for a week, in order to move house. But sometimes, when there was a big public holiday, he would take an excursion train to Dieppe or Le Havre, so as to elevate his soul with the imposing sight of the sea.
He was full of the kind of good sense that verges on stupidity.
He had lived for a long time peacefully, economically, being prudently moderate, and in any case he was chaste by temperament, but then a terrible anxiety came over him. In the street one evening, all of a sudden, he felt a giddiness which made him fear an attack. He took himself off to a doctor and obtained from him, for a hundred sous, this prescription:
Monsieur X, fifty-two years, unmarried, employed. Sanguine type, risk of stroke. Cold water lotions, moderate nourishment, plenty of exercise.
Montellier, MD, Paris.
Patissot was appalled, and for a month he spent the whole day in his office with a moistened towel round his forehead, rolled like a turban; drops of water would constantly fall on his work, which he had to start again. Over and again he would re-read the prescription, no doubt in the hope of grasping some unnoticed meaning, of penetrating the doctor's secret thoughts and also of discovering what propitious exercise could really protect him from apoplexy.
So he consulted his friends, showing them the deadly paper. One of them advised boxing. He straight away sought out a teacher, and on the very first day took a straight punch on the nose which released him for ever from this healthy diversion. The singlestick made him gasp for breath, and he ached so much after fencing that he spent two nights without sleep. Then he saw the light. He would go on foot every Sunday to see the surroundings of Paris, and even parts of the capital that he did not know well.
How to equip himself for these journeys preoccupied him for a whole week, and on Sunday, the thirtieth day of May, he began his preparations.
After having read all the oddest advertisements, which poor wretches, one-eyed or lame, determinedly handed out on street corners, he went to the shops with the sole intention of looking around, saving the buying for later.
First he went to the premises of a so-called American bootmaker, asking to see some stout travelling shoes! He was shown a kind of appliance that was copper clad like a warship, bristling with nails like a steel harrow and made (he was assured) from bison leather from the Rocky Mountains. He was so enthusiastic that he would willingly have bought two pairs. One was enough, however. He contented himself with that, and he left, carrying them under his arm, which was soon numb.
He got some corduroy fatigue trousers, like the ones carpenters wear; then gaiters of oiled sailcloth which came up to the knees.
He still needed a soldier's knapsack for his provisions, a marine telescope to identify distant villages clinging to the hillsides, and finally an ordnance survey map, which would enable him to find his way without asking farm workers as they stooped low in the fields.
Then, the better to tolerate the heat, he decided to acquire a light alpaca garment which the famous firm of Raminau produced to the highest quality, according to its advertisements, for the modest sum of six francs fifty centimes.
He went to this establishment, and a tall, refined young man, hair cut à la Capoul,* pink nails like a lady and a constant smile, showed him the garment he asked for. It did not match the magnificence of the advertisement. So Patissot hesitantly asked, 'But will it do the job?' The other looked away with well-simulated embarrassment like an honest man who does not want to betray the client's trust and, lowering his voice with a hesitant air, 'Good lord, sir, you know that for six francs fifty you can't produce an article like this one, for example ...' And he produced a jacket noticeably better than the first. After examining it, Patissot asked the price. 'Twelve francs fifty.' It was tempting. But, before deciding, he once more questioned the tall young man, who was looking at him fixedly, observantly. 'And ... that's a good one? Do you guarantee it?' 'Oh, certainly, sir, it is excellent and it is flexible. Of course, you mustn't let it get wet! Oh, as good goes, it's good; but you know there's quality and quality. For the price, it's ideal. Twelve francs fifty, think of it, it's nothing. Certainly a jacket at twenty-five francs is better value. For twenty-five francs you get the very best; as strong as twill, even more durable. When there has been rain, a touch of the iron and it's good as new. The colour never changes, it doesn't redden in the sun. It is warmer and lighter at the same time.' And he spread out his merchandise, made the material shimmer, crumpled it, shook it, spread it out to show off the excellent quality.
He was talking interminably, convincingly, dissipating hesitation with gesture and rhetoric.
Patissot was convinced; he bought it. The pleasant salesman tied the parcel with string, still talking, and up at the cash desk, near the door, he continued to praise the value of the purchase emphatically. When it was paid for, he suddenly fell silent; he bowed with an 'It's a pleasure, sir,' accompanied by a superior smile, and holding the door open he watched his client leaving, vainly trying to wave goodbye, both his hands laden with parcels.
Back at home, Monsieur Patissot studied his first itinerary carefully and wanted to try on his shoes, whose steel fittings created a kind of sled. He slipped on the floor, fell and made up his mind to be careful. Then he spread out all his purchases on the chairs and contemplated them at length. He went off to sleep thinking to himself: It's strange that I didn't think before about excursions to the countryside!
II
First outing
Monsieur Patissot worked badly all week at his Ministry. He was dreaming of the excursion planned for the following Sunday, and a great longing for the countryside came over him suddenly, a need to feel sentimental beneath the trees, a thirst for the pastoral ideal which haunts Parisians in springtime.
On Saturday he went to bed early, and as soon as it was day he was up.
His window opened on to a dark and narrow yard, a sort of chimney perpetually funnelling all the smells produced by poor households. At once he raised his eyes to the little square of sky that was showing between the roofs, and he made out a bit of deep blue, already full of sun, endlessly crossed by flights of swallows that could only be followed for a second. He said to himself that from up there they must be able to see the distant countryside, the green of the wooded hills, a whole array of horizons.
Then a confused desire came over him to lose himself amongst the freshness of the leaves. He quickly got dressed, put on his fearsome shoes and spent a very long time buckling his gaiters, which he was not at all used to. After loading on his back his bag stuffed with meat, bread, cheeses and bottles of wine (for the exercise would surely make him hungry), he set out, walking stick in hand.
He adopted a rhythmic marching stride (as hunters do, he thought), whistling lively tunes which made his pace lighter. People turned to look at him, a dog yapped; a passing coachman shouted to him, 'Bon voyage, Monsieur Dumollet!'* But he didn't care a bit, and went on his way without turning round, ever faster, whirling his walking stick with a bold air.
The town was waking up joyfully, in the warmth and light of a beautiful spring day. The fronts of the houses were gleaming, the canaries were singing in their cages, and gaiety was running through the streets, lighting up the faces, spreading laughter everywhere, like a contentment with everything under the bright rising sun.
He was on his way to the Seine to take the packet boat which would drop him at Saint-Cloud. Amid the stupefaction of passers-by he followed the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, the Boulevard and the Rue Royale, comparing himself mentally to the Wandering Jew. As he mounted a pavement, the steel reinforcements of his shoes slipped once more on the granite, and he fell heavily, producing a terrible noise in his bag. Some passers-by helped him up, and he started walking again more gently, as far as the Seine, where he awaited a boat.
In the distance, far off under the bridges, he could see it appearing, tiny at first, then larger, growing ever bigger, and in his mind it took on the aspect of a tramp-steamer, as if he was about to set off on a long voyage, across the seas, to see new people and unknown things. It came alongside and he got a ticket. People in their Sunday best were already aboard, wearing showy outfits with gaudy ribbons on their hats and with fat scarlet faces. Patissot found a place right in the bow, standing up, legs apart like a sailor, to make himself look well travelled. But since he was worried about the slight wash of the boat he braced himself on his walking stick, the better to keep his balance.
After the stop at the Point-du-Jour the river began to widen, peaceful in the brilliant light; then, when they had passed between two islands, the boat followed the curve of a hillside whose greenery was covered with white houses. A voice announced Bas-Meudon, then Sevres, at last Saint-Cloud, and Patissot got off.
Once on the quay he opened his ordnance survey map, so as not to make any mistakes.
In any case, it was quite clear. He would go by that path to find La Celle, turn left, go a little obliquely to the right, and by that road he would reach Versailles, where he would visit the park before having dinner.
The path was climbing and Patissot was puffing, crushed under his bag, his legs uncomfortable in his gaiters, and dragging his big shoes in the dust, heavier than a ball and chain. All at once he stopped with a gesture of despair. In the haste of his departure he had forgotten the marine telescope!
At last, here were the woods. Then despite the frightful heat, despite the sweat running down his forehead, the weight of his trappings and the lurches of his bag, he ran, or rather trotted towards the verdure with little jumps, as old, broken-winded horses do.
He went into the shade, into delicious coolness, and felt overcome by emotion at the multitudes of different little flowers spread all along the ditches, yellow, red, blue, violet, charming, delicate, long-stemmed. Insects of all colours and shapes, squat, elongated, extraordinarily constructed, frightening and microscopic monsters, were painfully climbing up blades of grass which bent under their weight. And Patissot sincerely admired creation. But, since he was exhausted, he sat down.
Then he felt like eating. He was horrified, however, at the inside of his bag. One of the bottles had broken, undoubtedly when he had fallen, and the liquid, contained by the waterproof oilcloth, had made a wine soup from his numerous provisions. All the same he ate a slice of carefully wiped leg of lamb, a piece of ham and some soggy red crusts of bread, quenching his thirst with some fermented Bordeaux covered with an unsightly pink scum.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Parisian Bourgeois' Sundays and Other Stories by Guy de Maupassant, Marlo Johnson. Copyright © 1997 Marlo Johnston. Excerpted by permission of Peter Owen LTD.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction,A Parisian Bourgeois' Sundays,
A Page of Unpublished History,
Public Opinion,
Recollection,
Other Times,
Yveline Samoris,
The Cough,
The Avenger,
A True-Life Drama,
Advice Given in Vain,
Doctors and Patients,
The Rondoli Sisters,
Letter from a Madman,
From Paris to Heyst,
The Donkey,
Chronology,
Short Bibliography and Translation Notes,