Chapter 40
Section 40 of Complete Original Short Stories of Guy de Maupassant. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tatiana Chichilla, Columbus, Ohio. Section 40. The Moribund. The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard. Under the grass, which had been cropped close by the cows, the earth soaked by recent rains, was soft and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise,
and the apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their pale green fruit in the dark green grass. Four young heifers, tied in a line, were grazing, and at times looking toward the house and lowing. The fowls made a colored patch on the dung heap before the stable, scratching, moving about, and cackling, while two roosters crowed continually, digging worms for their hens, whom they were calling with a loud clucking. The wooden gate opened and a man entered.
He might have been forty years old, but he looked at least sixty, wrinkled, bent, walking slowly, impeded by the weight of heavy wooden shoes full of straw. His long arms hung down on both sides of his body. When he got near the farm, a yellow cur, tied at the foot of an enormous pear tree, beside a barrel which served as his kennel, began at first to wag his tail and then to bark for joy.
The man cried, Down, Fino. The dog was quiet. A peasant woman came out of the house. Her large, flat, bony body was outlined under a long woolen jacket drawn in at the waist.
A gray skirt, too short, fell to the middle of her legs, which were encased in blue stockings. She, too, wore wooden shoes filled with straw. The white cap, turned yellow, covered a few hairs which were plastered to the scalp, and her brown, thin, ugly, toothless face had that wild animal expression which is often to be found on the faces of the peasants.
The man asked, How's he getting along? The woman answered, The priest said it's the end, that he will never live through the night. Both of them went into the house.
After passing through the kitchen, they entered a low, dark room, barely lighted by one window, in front of which a piece of calico was hanging. The big beams, turned brown with age and smoke, crossed the room from one side to the other, supporting the thin floor of the garret, where an army of rats ran about day and night. The moist, lumpy earthen floor looked greasy, and at the back of the room, the bed made an indistinct white spot.
A harsh regular noise, a difficult, hoarse, wheezing breathing, like the gurgling of water from a broken pump, came from the darkened couch where an old man, the father of the peasant woman, was dying. The man and the woman approached the dying man and looked at him with calm, resigned eyes. The son-in-law said, I guess it's all up with him this time. He will not last the night. The woman answered, he's been gurgling like that ever since midday. They were silent.
The father's eyes were closed. His face was the color of the earth and so dry that it looked like wood. Through his open mouth came his harsh, rattling breath, and the gray linen sheet rose and fell with each respiration. The son-in-law, after a long silence, said, There's nothing more to do. I can't help him. It's a nuisance just the same, because the weather is good and we've got a lot of work to do. His wife seemed annoyed at this idea. She reflected a few moments and then said,
He won't be buried till Saturday, and that will give you all day tomorrow. The peasant thought the matter over and answered, Yes, but tomorrow I'll have to invite the people to the funeral. That means five or six hours to go around to Torville and Manitou to see everybody. The woman, after meditating two or three minutes, declared, It isn't three o'clock yet.
You could begin this evening and go all around the country to Torville. You could just as well say that he's dead, seeing as he's as good as that now. The man stood perplexed for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the idea. At last, he declared, Well, I'll go.
He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute's hesitation. As you haven't got anything to do, you might shake down some apples and bake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the funeral, for one must have something to cheer them. You can light the fire with the wood that's under the shed. It's dry.
He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took out a six-pound loaf of bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gathered the crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth so as not to lose anything. Then, with the end of his knife,
he scraped out a little salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on his bread, and began to eat slowly, as he did everything. He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barking again,
went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared in the direction of Tourville. As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work. She uncovered the meal bin and made the dough for the dumplings. She kneaded it a long time, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing it. Finally, she made a big round yellow-white ball, which she placed on the corner of the table. Then she went to get her apples, and in order
not to injure the tree with a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruit with care, only taking the ripe ones and gathering them in her apron. A voice called from the road, Hey, Madame Chicot. She turned round. It was the neighbor, Osim Fave, the mayor, on his way to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure wagon with his feet hanging over the side. She turned round and answered, What can I do for you, Maitre Osim? And how is the father? She cried, He is as
good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven because there's lots of work to be done. The neighbor answered, so, good luck to you, take care of yourself. To his kind remarks, she answered, thanks, the same to you, and she continued picking apples. When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father, expecting to find him dead, but as soon as she reached the door, she heard his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time to go over to him, she began to
prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up the fruit, one by one, in a thin layer of paste, and then she lined them up on the edge of the table. When she had made 48 dumplings, arranged in dozens, one in front of the other, she began to think of preparing supper, and she hung her kettle over the fire to cook potatoes, for she judged it useless to heat the oven that day, as she had all the next day in which to finish the preparations. Her husband returned at about five. As soon as he had
crushed the threshold, he asked, is it over? She answered, not yet, he's still gurgling. They went to look at him. The old man was in exactly the same condition. His hoarse rattle, as regular as the ticking of a clock, was neither quicker nor slower. It returned every second, the tone varying a little, according as the air entered or left his chest. His son-in-law looked at him and then said,
He'll pass away without our noticing it, just like a candle. They returned to the kitchen and started to eat without saying a word. When they had swallowed their soup, they ate another piece of bread and butter. Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, they returned to the dying man. The woman, carrying a little lamp with a smoky wick, held it in front of her father's face.
If he had not been breathing, one would have certainly thought him dead. The couple's bed was hidden in a little recess at the other end of the room. Silently they retired, put out the light, closed their eyes, and soon two unequal snores, one deep in the other's shriller, accompanied the uninterrupted rattle of the dying man. The rats ran about him in the garret.
The husband awoke at the first streaks of dawn. His father-in-law was still alive. He shook his wife, worried by the tenacity of the old man. Say, Fimi, he don't want to quit. What would you do?
He knew that she gave good advice. She answered, You needn't be afraid, he can't live through the day, and the mayor won't stop our burying him tomorrow, because he allowed it for Maitre Renard's father,
who died just during the planting season. He was convinced by this argument and left for the fields. His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework. At noon, the old man was not dead. The people hired for the day's work came by in groups to look at him.
Each one had his say. Then they left again for the fields. At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing. At last, his son-in-law was frightened. What would you do now, Fimi?
She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor. He promised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for the following day. They also went to the health officer, who likewise promised, in order to oblige Maetro Chico, to antedate the death certificate.
The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease. They went to bed and to sleep, and just as they did the preceding day, their sonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man. When they awoke, he was not yet dead. Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watching him with distrust,
as though he had wished to play them a mean trick, to deceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him for the time which he was making them lose. The son-in-law asked, What am I going to do? She did not know. She answered,
It certainly is annoying. The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to wait and explain the case to them. Toward a quarter to seven, the first ones arrived. The women in black, their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill at ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in couples,
talking business. Maitre Chico and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the first group. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that everybody would have done as they did, talking continually
and giving nobody a chance to answer. They were going from one person to another. I never would have thought it. It's incredible how he can last this long. The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed as though they had missed an expected entertainment,
did not know what to do. Some remaining seated, others standing. Several wished to leave. Maître Chico held them back. You must take something anyhow.
We made some dumplings. Might as well make use of them. The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by little. The early arrivals were telling the news to those who had arrived later.
Everybody was whispering. the idea of the dumplings seemed to cheer everybody up. The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer, and went out again. The men, less anxious for the spectacle, cast a look through the window which had been opened. Madame Chicot explained her distress. That's how he's been for two days, neither better
nor worse. Doesn't he sound like a pump that's gone dry? When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the refreshments, but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold, the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes, attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing that there would not be enough, but four remained over. Maître Chacot,
his mouth full, said, Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much when he was alive. A big jovial peasant declared, He won't eat any more now, each one in his turn. This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up. It was their turn now to eat dumplings. Madame Chico, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the cellar continually for cider.
The pitchers were emptied in quick succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were beginning to shout as they do at feasts. Suddenly, an old peasant woman, who had stayed beside the dying man, held there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself,
appeared at the window and cried in a shrill voice. He's dead. He's dead. Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was indeed dead.
The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other, looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings. Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicos were no longer weeping.
It was over. They were relieved. They kept repeating, I knew it couldn't last. If he would have only done it last night, it would have saved us all this trouble.
Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all, and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion. The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the chance to see him and of getting something to eat.
And when the husband and wife were alone face to face, she said, her face distorted with grief, We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have made his mind up last night? The husband, more resigned, answered,
Well, we'll not have to do this every day. End of section 40. Recording by Tatiana Chichilla, Columbus, Ohio.
