Short Fiction

telling the news to the new arrivals. They whispered together; everyone was cheered at the thought of the dumplings.

The women went in to see the dying man. They crossed themselves at the bedside, stammered a prayer, and came out again. The men, less eager for the spectacle, threw a single glance through the window, which had been set ajar.

Madame Chicot recounted the death agony.

“For two days now he’s been like that, neither more nor less, neither higher nor lower. Isn’t it just like a pump run dry?”

When everybody had seen the dying man, their thoughts were turned towards the collation; but as the guests were too numerous for the kitchen to hold, the table was carried out in front of the door. The four dozen dumplings, golden and appetising, attracted all eyes, set out in two large dishes. Everyone reached forward to take one, fearing that there were not enough. But four were left over.

Maître Chicot, his mouth full, declared:

“If the old man could see us, it’ud be a rare grief to him; he was rare and fond of them in his time.”

“He’ll never eat any more now,” said a fat, jovial peasant. “We all come to it in the end.”

This reflection, far from saddening the guests, appeared to cheer them up. At the moment it had come to them to eat the dumplings.

Madame Chicot, heartbroken at the expense, ran ceaselessly to and from the cellar to fetch cider. The jugs came up and were emptied one after another. Everyone was laughing now, talking loudly, beginning to shout, as people will shout at meals.

Suddenly an old peasant woman, who had remained near the dying man, held there by a greedy terror of the thing which was so soon to come to her, appeared at the window and shouted in a shrill voice:

“He’s gone! He’s gone!”

Everyone was silent. The women rose quickly, to go and see.

He really was dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at one another with downcast eyes. The old blackguard had chosen his time ill.

The Chicots were no longer crying. It was all over; they were calm. They kept on saying:

“We knew it couldn’t last. If only he could have made up his mind last night, we shouldn’t have had all this bother.”

Never mind, it was all over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all, and would eat more dumplings for the occasion.

The guests departed, talking of the affair, pleased all the same at having seen it, and also at having had a bite to eat.

And when the man and his wife were by themselves, face to face, she said, with her face contracted with anguish:

“All the same, I shall have to make four dozen more dumplings. If only he could have made up his mind last night!”

And her husband, more resigned, replied:

“You won’t have to do it every day.”

Letter Found on a Drowned Man

You ask me whether I am making fun of you, Madame? You cannot believe that a man has never been in love? All I can say is that I have never loved anyone!

How did that happen? I really don’t know. I have never known that intoxication which is called love. I have never known that particular dream, that state of exaltation, of folly, which the thought of some one woman can produce. I have never been pursued, haunted, thrown into a fever or entranced by the thought of meeting, or by the possession of, a being who suddenly seemed more desirable than all other happiness, more beautiful than any other creature, or more important than the whole world. Not one of you has ever made me shed tears or caused me a moment’s pain. I have never spent long nights, wide-awake, thinking of her. Awakenings radiant with the thought, the memory of her, are unknown to me. I know nothing of the maddening folly of hope when waiting for her arrival, the divine melancholy of regret after she has vanished leaving behind a faint scent of violets mingled with the odour of her skin.

I have never loved.

I have also often asked myself why. I must confess I hardly know. It is true that I have found reasons but, as they touch on metaphysics, you would probably not appreciate them.

I am afraid I am too critical of women to be entirely dominated by their charm. You must excuse this remark. I will explain what I mean. Every human being is composed of a moral and a physical nature; I would have to meet someone in whom the two natures were completely harmonious before I could fall in love. So far as I have seen, the one invariably outweighs the other, sometimes the moral predominates, sometimes the physical.

The intelligence which we have a right to demand from a woman when we love her has nothing of man’s intelligence. It is greater and it is less. A woman should have an open mind, she should be tactful, tenderhearted, refined, and sensitive. She need not be strong-minded or original, but she must be amiable, elegant, kind, coaxing, and possess that faculty of assimilation which will make her like her life’s partner within a short time. Tact must be her greatest quality: that subtle sense which is to the mind what touch is to the body, which reveals a thousand and one little things to her: the contours, angles and shapes of the intellectual world. The intelligence of the greater number of pretty women does not correspond with their physical charms, and the slightest lack of harmony in this connection strikes me at once. In friendship this is of no importance, for friendship is a compact in which defects and merits are both recognised. Friends may be criticised, their good qualities taken into consideration, their faults passed over, they may be estimated at their real value and still be the objects of a deep and beautiful feeling, full of intimacy.

In love one must be blind, give up one’s self