 موضوع: A Coward الجمعة أبريل 19, 2013 4:37 pm | |
| A Coward
Guy de Maupassant
Society called him Handsome Signoles. His name was Viscount Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.
An orphan, and possessed of an adequate income, he cut a dash, as the
saying is. He had a good figure and a good carriage, a sufficient flow
of words to pass for wit, a certain natural grace, an air of nobility
and pride, a gallant moustache and an eloquent eye, attributes which
women like.
He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought after for valses, and in men
he inspired that smiling hostility which is reserved for vital and
attractive rivals. He had been suspected of several love-affairs of a
sort calculated to create a good opinion of a youngster. He lived a
happy, care-free life, in the most complete well-being of body and mind.
He was known to be a fine swordsman and a still finer shot with the
pistol.
"When I come to fight a duel," he would say, "I shall choose pistols. With that weapon, I'm sure of killing my man."
One evening, he went to the theatre with two ladies, quite young,
friends of his, whose husbands were also of the party, and after the
performance he invited them to take ices at Tortoni's.
They had been sitting there for a few minutes when he noticed a
gentleman at a neighbouring table staring obstinately at one of the
ladies of the party. She seemed embarrassed and ill at ease, and bent
her head. At last she said to her husband:
"There's a man staring at me. I don't know him; do you?"
The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes, but declared:
"No, not in the least."
Half smiling, half in anger, she replied:
"It's very annoying; the creature's spoiling my ice."
Her husband shrugged his shoulders.
"Deuce take him, don't appear to notice it. If we had to deal with all
the discourteous people one meets, we'd never have done with them."
But the Viscount had risen abruptly. He could not permit this stranger
to spoil an ice of his giving. It was to him that the insult was
addressed, since it was at his invitation and on his account that his
friends had come to the cafe. The affair was no business of anyone but
himself.
He went up to the man and said:
"You have a way of looking at those ladies, sir, which I cannot stomach.
Please be so good as to set a limit to your persistence."
"You hold your tongue," replied the other.
"Take care, sir," retorted the Viscount, clenching his teeth;" you'll force me to overstep the bounds of common politeness."
The gentleman replied with a single word, a vile word which rang across
the cafe from one end to the other, and, like the release of a spring,
jerked every person present into an abrupt movement. All those with
their backs towards him turned round, all the rest raised their heads;
three waiters spun round on their heels like tops; the two ladies behind
the counter started, then the whole upper half of their bodies twisted
round, as though they were a couple of automata worked by the same
handle.
There was a profound silence. Then suddenly a sharp noise resounded in
the air. The Viscount had boxed his adversary's ears. Every one rose to
intervene. Cards were exchanged.
Back in his home, the Viscount walked for several minutes up and down
his room with long quick strides. He was too excited to think. A
solitary idea dominated his mind: "a duel"; but as yet the idea stirred
in him no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was compelled to do;
he had shown himself to be what he ought to be. People would talk of it,
would approve of him, congratulate him. He repeated aloud, speaking as a
man speaks in severe mental distress:
"What a hound the fellow is!"
Then he sat down and began to reflect. In the morning he must find
seconds. Whom should he choose? He searched his mind for the most
important and celebrated names of his acquaintance. At last he decided
on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin, an aristocrat and a
soldier; they would do excellently. Their names would look well in the
papers. He realised that he was thirsty, and drank three glasses of
water one after the other; then he began to walk up and down again. He
felt full of energy. If he played the gallant, showed himself
determined, insisted on the most strict and dangerous arrangements,
demanded a serious duel, a thoroughly serious duel, a positively
terrible duel, his adversary would probably retire an apologist.
He took up once more the card which he had taken from his pocket and
thrown down upon the table, and read it again as he had read it before,
in the cafe, at a glance, and in the cab, by the light of each gas-lamp,
on his way home.
"Georges Lamil, 51 rue Moncey." Nothing more.
He examined the grouped letters; they seemed to him mysterious, full of
confused meaning. Georges Lamil? Who was this man? What did he do? Why
had he looked at the woman in that way? Was it not revolting that a
stranger, an unknown man, could thus disturb a man's life, without
warning, just because he chose to fix his insolent eyes upon a woman?
Again the Viscount repeated aloud:
"What a hound!"
Then he remained standing stock-still, lost in thought, his eyes still
fixed upon the card. A fury against this scrap of paper awoke in him, a
fury of hatred in which was mingled a queer sensation of uneasiness.
This sort of thing was so stupid! He took up an open knife which lay
close at hand and thrust it through the middle of the printed name, as
though he had stabbed a man.
So he must fight. Should he choose swords or pistols?--for he regarded
himself as the insulted party. With swords there would be less risk, but
with pistols there was a chance that his adversary might withdraw. It
is very rare that a duel with swords is fatal, for mutual prudence is
apt to restrain combatants from engaging at sufficiently close quarters
for a point to penetrate deeply. With pistols he ran a grave risk of
death; but he might also extricate himself from the affair with all the
honours of the situation and without actually coming to a meeting.
"I must be firm," he said. "He will take fright."
The sound of his voice set him trembling, and he looked round. He felt
very nervous. He drank another glass of water, then began to undress for
bed.
As soon as he was in bed, he blew out the light and closed his eyes.
"I've the whole of to-morrow," he thought, "in which to set my affairs
in order. I'd better sleep now, so that I shall be quite calm."
He was very warm in the blankets, but he could not manage to compose
himself to sleep. He turned this way and that, lay for five minutes upon
his back, turned on to his left side, then rolled over on to his right.
He was still thirsty. He got up to get a drink. A feeling of uneasiness crept over him:
"Is it possible that I'm afraid?"
Why did his heart beat madly at each familiar sound in his room? When
the clock was about to strike, the faint squeak of the rising spring
made him start; so shaken he was that for several seconds afterwards he
had to open his mouth to get his breath.
He began to reason with himself on the possibility of his being afraid.
"Shall I be afraid?"
No, of course he would not be afraid, since he was resolved to see the
matter through, and had duly made up his mind to fight and not to
tremble. But he felt so profoundly distressed that he wondered:
"Can a man be afraid in spite of himself?"
He was attacked by this doubt, this uneasiness, this terror; suppose a
force more powerful than himself, masterful, irresistible, overcame him,
what would happen? Yes, what might not happen? Assuredly he would go to
the place of the meeting, since he was quite ready to go. But supposing
he trembled? Supposing he fainted? He thought of the scene, of his
reputation, his good name.
There came upon him a strange need to get up and look at himself in the
mirror. He relit his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the
polished glass, he scarcely recognised it, it seemed to him as though he
had never yet seen himself. His eyes looked to him enormous; and he was
pale; yes, without doubt he was pale, very pale.
He remained standing in front of the mirror. He put out his tongue, as
though to ascertain the state of his health, and abruptly the thought
struck him like a bullet:
"The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead."
His heart began again its furious beating.
"The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead. This person
facing me, this me I see in the mirror, will be no more. Why, here I am,
I look at myself, I feel myself alive, and in twenty-four hours I shall
be lying in that bed, dead, my eyes closed, cold, inanimate, vanished."
He turned back towards the bed, and distinctly saw himself lying on his
back in the very sheets he had just left. He had the hollow face of a
corpse, his hands had the slackness of hands that will never make
another movement.
At that he was afraid of his bed, and, to get rid of the sight of it,
went into the smoking-room. Mechanically he picked up a cigar, lit it,
and began to walk up and down again. He was cold; he went to the bell to
wake his valet; but he stopped, even as he raised his hand to the rope.
"He will see that I am afraid."
He did not ring; he lit the fire. His hands shook a little, with a
nervous tremor, whenever they touched anything. His brain whirled, his
troubled thoughts became elusive, transitory, and gloomy; his mind
suffered all the effects of intoxication, as though he were actually
drunk.
Over and over again he thought:
"What shall I do? What is to become of me?"
His whole body trembled, seized with a jerky shuddering; he got up and, going to the window, drew back the curtains.
Dawn was at hand, a summer dawn. The rosy sky touched the town, its
roofs and walls, with its own hue. A broad descending ray, like the
caress of the rising sun, enveloped the awakened world; and with the
light, hope--a gay, swift, fierce hope--filled the Viscount's heart! Was
he mad, that he had allowed himself to be struck down by fear, before
anything was settled even, before his seconds had seen those of this
Georges Lamil, before he knew whether he was going to fight?
He washed, dressed, and walked out with a firm step.
He repeated to himself, as he walked:
"I must be energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am not afraid."
His seconds, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his
disposal, and after hearty handshakes discussed the conditions.
"You are anxious for a serious duel? " asked the Colonel.
"Yes, a very serious one," replied the Viscount.
"You still insist on pistols?" said the Marquis.
"Yes."
"You will leave us free to arrange the rest?"
In a dry, jerky voice the Viscount stated:
"Twenty paces; at the signal, raising the arm, and not lowering it. Exchange of shots till one is seriously wounded."
"They are excellent conditions," declared the Colonel in a tone of satisfaction. "You shoot well, you have every chance."
They departed. The Viscount went home to wait for them. His agitation,
momentarily quietened, was now growing minute by minute. He felt a
strange shivering, a ceaseless vibration, down his arms, down his legs,
in his chest; he could not keep still in one place, neither seated nor
standing. There was not the least moistening of saliva in his mouth, and
at every instant he made a violent movement of his tongue, as though to
prevent it sticking to his palate.
He was eager to have breakfast, but could not eat. Then
the idea came to him to drink in order to give himself courage, and he
sent for a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed six liqueur glasses
full one after the other.
A burning warmth flooded through his body, followed immediately by a sudden dizziness of the mind and spirit.
"Now I know what to do," he thought. "Now it is all right."
But by the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his state of
agitation had once more become intolerable. He was conscious of a wild
need to roll on the ground, to scream, to bite. Night was falling.
The ringing of a bell gave him such a shock that he had not strength to rise and welcome his seconds.
He did not even dare to speak to them, to say "Good evening" to them, to
utter a single word, for fear they guessed the whole thing by the
alteration in his voice.
"Everything is arranged in accordance with the conditions you fixed,"
observed the Colonel. "At first your adversary claimed the privileges of
the insulted party, but he yielded almost at once, and has accepted
everything. His seconds are two military men."
"Thank you," said the Viscount.
"Pardon us," interposed the Marquis, "if we merely come in and leave
again immediately, but we have a thousand things to see to. We must have
a good doctor, since the combat is not to end until a serious wound is
inflicted, and you know that pistol bullets are no laughing-matter. We
must appoint the ground, near a house to which we may carry the wounded
man if necessary, etc. In fact, we shall be occupied for two or three
hours arranging all that there is to arrange."
"Thank you," said the Viscount a second time.
"You are all right?" asked the Colonel. "You are calm?"
"Yes, quite calm, thank you."
The two men retired.
When he realised that he was once more alone, he thought that he was
going mad. His servant had lit the lamps, and he sat down at the table
to write letters. After tracing, at the head of a sheet: "This is my
will," he rose shivering and walked away, feeling incapable of
connecting two ideas, of taking a resolution, of making any decision
whatever.
So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. Then what was the
matter with him? He wished to fight, he had absolutely decided upon
this plan of action and taken his resolve, and he now felt clearly, in
spite of every effort of mind and forcing of will, that he could not
retain even the strength necessary to get him to the place of meeting.
He tried to picture the duel, his own attitude and the bearing of his
adversary.
From time to time his teeth chattered in his mouth with a slight
clicking noise. He tried to read, and took down Chateauvillard's code of
duelling. Then he wondered:
"Does my adversary go to shooting-galleries? Is he well known? Is he classified anywhere? How can I find out?"
He bethought himself of Baron Vaux's book on marksmen with the pistol,
and ran through it from end to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned in
it. Yet if the man were not a good shot, he would surely not have
promptly agreed to that dangerous weapon and those fatal conditions?
He opened, in passing, a case by Gastinne Renette standing on a small
table, and took out one of the pistols, then placed himself as though to
shoot and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot and
the barrel moved in every direction.
At that, he said to himself:
"It's impossible. I cannot fight in this state."
He looked at the end of the barrel, at the little, black, deep hole that
spits death; he thought of the disgrace, of the whispers at the club,
of the laughter in drawing-rooms, of the contempt of women, of the
allusions in the papers, of the insults which cowards would fling at
him.
He was still looking at the weapon, and, raising the hammer, caught a
glimpse of a cap gleaming beneath it like a tiny red flame. By good
fortune or forgetfulness, the pistol had been left loaded. At the
knowledge, he was filled with a confused inexplicable sense of joy.
If, when face to face with the other man, he did not show a proper
gallantry and calm, he would be lost for ever. He would be sullied,
branded with a mark of infamy, hounded out of society. And he would not
be able to achieve that calm, that swaggering poise; he knew it, he felt
it. Yet he was brave, since he wanted to fight I ... He was brave,
since....
The thought which hovered in him did not even fulfil itself in his mind;
but, opening his mouth wide, he thrust in the barrel of his pistol with
savage gesture until it reached his throat, and pressed on the trigger.
When his valet ran in, at the sound of the report, he found him lying
dead upon his back. A shower of blood had splashed the white paper on
the table, and made a great red mark beneath these four words:
"This is my will."
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