He was a popular writer during his lifetime and had the good fortune to see that his stories were widely read. As a young man he fought in the Franco-Prussian War. He drew heavily on that experience and that war provides the setting for many of his stories which often depict the tragedy and suffering of innocent civilians caught in war's path. He also found inspiration in the not-so-admirable behavior of the bourgeoisie, and made them targets of his biting pessimism and skewering pen.
This edition published by eBooks Adelaide.
|The Little Cask by Guy de Maupassant||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.|
Last updated Tuesday, January 26, at HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website.
It is your responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before downloading this work. Setting out from Etretat at break of day, in order to visit the ruins of Tancarville, we were still asleep, benumbed by the fresh air of the morning. The women, especially, who were little accustomed to these early excursions, let their eyelids fall and rise every moment, nodding their heads or yawning, quite insensible to the emotion of the breaking of day.
On both sides of the road, the bare fields stretched out, yellowed by the corn and wheat stubble which covered the soil, like a beard that had been badly shaved.
The spongy earth seemed to smoke. The larks were singing, high up in the air, while other birds piped in the bushes. The sun rose at length in front of us, a 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, stretch itself, like a young girl who is leaving her bed, in her white vapor chemise.
The Count of Etraille, who was seated on the box, cried: The animal threaded its way along, almost concealed by the field, raising only its large ears. Then it swerved across a deep rut, stopped, pursued again its easy course, changed its direction, stopped anew, disturbed, spying out every danger, undecided as to the route it should take; when suddenly it began to run with great bounds of the hind legs, disappearing finally, in a large patch of beet-root.
All the men had woke up to watch the course of the beast. Reassure yourself; he will not return before Saturday, so you have still four days.
You, Monsieur Chenal, who have the reputation of possessing a larger fortune than the Duke of Richelieu, tell us a love story in which you have been mixed up, anything you like. I know 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 tomorrow.
One goes in any direction one pleases, without any guide, save his fancy, without any counselor save his eyes.
One pulls up, because a running brook seduces one, because one is attracted, in front of an inn, by the smell of potatoes frying.
Do not despise me for my affection for these rustics. These girls have a soul as well as feeling, not to mention firm cheeks and fresh lips; while their hearty and willing kisses have the flavor of wild fruit.
Love always has its price, come whence it may. A heart that beats when you make your appearance, 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 rendezvoux in ditches in which cattle repose, and in barns among the straw, still steaming from the heat of the day. I have recollections of canvas being spread on rude and elastic benches, and of hearty and fresh, free kisses, more delicate and unaffectedly sincere than the subtle attractions of charming and distinguished women.
But what one loves most amidst all these varied adventures is the country, the woods, the risings of the sun, the twilight, the light of the moon.
These are, for the painter, honeymoon trips with nature. One is alone with her in that long and tranquil rendezvous. You go to bed in the fields, amidst marguerites and wild poppies, and, with eyes wide open, you watch the going down of the sun, and descry in the distance the little village, with its pointed clock tower, which sounds the hour of midnight.
You sit down by the side of a spring which gushes out from the foot of an oak, amidst a covering of fragile herbs, upright and redolent of life. You go down on your knees, bend forward, you drink that cold and pellucid water which wets your moustache and nose, you drink it with a physical pleasure, as though you kissed the spring, lip to lip.
Sometimes, when you encounter a deep hole, along the course of these tiny brooks, you plunge into it, quite naked, and you feel on your skin, from head to foot, like an icy and delicious caress, the lovely and gentle quivering of the current.
You are gay on the hills, melancholy on the verge of pools, exalted when the sun is crowned in an ocean of blood-red shadows, and when it casts on the rivers its red reflection.And if some scandalous episode or other occurs in the neighborhood, the disreputable story dies a natural death when it reaches the threshold of the house.
The father and mother may, perhaps, exchange a few words on the subject when alone together some evening, but they speak in hushed tones--for even walls have ears. Guy de Maupassant's "The Necklace" During the course of Guy de Maupassant's short story "The Necklace," the main character, Matilda Loisel, makes a number of ironic discoveries.
In addition, there are other discoveries that the reader makes but Matilda does not.
The False Gems By Guy De Maupassant - The story “The False Gems” is filled with many mixed messages. It leaves its readers puzzled at first and then leads into deeper meaning and different perspectives.
So, what is the true meaning of this short story. This is a question that could have many answers but some seem to stand out. The Little Cask.
He was a tall man of forty or thereabout, this Jules Chicot, the innkeeper of Spreville, with a red face and a round stomach, and said by those who knew him to be a smart business man. He stopped his buggy in front of Mother Magloire's farmhouse, and, .
Maupassant's death, which crowns the story's plot, occurred on 6 July , antedating by a year Babel''s birth (13 July ) and the appearance of Tolstoy's "Foreword to the Works of Guy de Maupassant" (; hereafter "Foreword") Babel''s obsession with both authors makes his unfamiliarity with "Foreword" highly improbable.
Miss Harriet by Guy de Maupassant (Author).