Clair de Lune

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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Abbe Marignan's martial name suited him well. He was a tall, thinpriest, fanatic, excitable, yet upright. All his beliefs were fixed,never varying. He believed sincerely that he knew his God, understoodHis plans, desires and intentions.When he walked with long strides along the garden walk of his littlecountry parsonage, he would sometimes ask himself the question: "Why hasGod done this?" And he would dwell on this continually, putting himselfin the place of God, and he almost invariably found an answer. He wouldnever have cried out in an outburst of pious humility: "Thy ways, O Lord,are past finding out."He said to himself: "I am the servant of God; it is right for me to knowthe reason of His deeds, or to guess it if I do not know it."Everything in nature seemed to him to have been created in accordancewith an admirable and absolute logic. The "whys" and "becauses" alwaysbalanced. Dawn was given to make our awakening pleasant, the days toripen the harvest, the rains to moisten it, the evenings for preparationfor slumber, and the dark nights for sleep.The four seasons corresponded perfectly to the needs of agriculture, andno suspicion had ever come to the priest of the fact that nature has nointentions; that, on the contrary, everything which exists must conformto the hard demands of seasons, climates and matter.But he hated woman--hated her unconsciously, and despised her byinstinct. He often repeated the words of Christ: "Woman, what have I todo with thee?" and he would add: "It seems as though God, Himself, weredissatisfied with this work of His." She was the tempter who led thefirst man astray, and who since then had ever been busy with her work ofdamnation, the feeble creature, dangerous and mysteriously affecting one.And even more than their sinful bodies, he hated their loving hearts.He had often felt their tenderness directed toward himself, and though heknew that he was invulnerable, he grew angry at this need of love that isalways vibrating in them.According to his belief, God had created woman for the sole purpose oftempting and testing man. One must not approach her without defensiveprecautions and fear of possible snares. She was, indeed, just like asnare, with her lips open and her arms stretched out to man.He had no indulgence except for nuns, whom their vows had renderedinoffensive; but he was stern with them, nevertheless, because he feltthat at the bottom of their fettered and humble hearts the everlastingtenderness was burning brightly--that tenderness which was shown even tohim, a priest.He felt this cursed tenderness, even in their docility, in the low tonesof their voices when speaking to him, in their lowered eyes, and in theirresigned tears when he reproved them roughly. And he would shake hiscassock on leaving the convent doors, and walk off, lengthening hisstride as though flying from danger.He had a niece who lived with her mother in a little house near him. Hewas bent upon making a sister of charity of her.She was a pretty, brainless madcap. When the abbe preached she laughed,and when he was angry with her she would give him a hug, drawing him toher heart, while he sought unconsciously to release himself from thisembrace which nevertheless filled him with a sweet pleasure, awakening inhis depths the sensation of paternity which slumbers in every man.Often, when walking by her side, along the country road, he would speakto her of God, of his God. She never listened to him, but looked abouther at the sky, the grass and flowers, and one could see the joy of lifesparkling in her eyes. Sometimes she would dart forward to catch someflying creature, crying out as she brought it back: "Look, uncle, howpretty it is! I want to hug it!" And this desire to "hug" flies orlilac blossoms disquieted, angered, and roused the priest, who saw, evenin this, the ineradicable tenderness that is always budding in women'shearts.Then there came a day when the sexton's wife, who kept house for AbbeMarignan, told him, with caution, that his niece had a lover.Almost suffocated by the fearful emotion this news roused in him, hestood there, his face covered with soap, for he was in the act ofshaving.When he had sufficiently recovered to think and speak he cried: "It isnot true; you lie, Melanie!"But the peasant woman put her hand on her heart, saying: "May our Lordjudge me if I lie, Monsieur le Cure! I tell you, she goes there everynight when your sister has gone to bed. They meet by the river side; youhave only to go there and see, between ten o'clock and midnight."He ceased scraping his chin, and began to walk up and down impetuously,as he always did when he was in deep thought. When he began shavingagain he cut himself three times from his nose to his ear.All day long he was silent, full of anger and indignation. To hispriestly hatred of this invincible love was added the exasperation of herspiritual father, of her guardian and pastor, deceived and tricked by achild, and the selfish emotion shown by parents when their daughterannounces that she has chosen a husband without them, and in spite ofthem.After dinner he tried to read a little, but could not, growing more and,more angry. When ten o'clock struck he seized his cane, a formidable oakstick, which he was accustomed to carry in his nocturnal walks whenvisiting the sick. And he smiled at the enormous club which he twirledin a threatening manner in his strong, country fist. Then he raised itsuddenly and, gritting his teeth, brought it down on a chair, the brokenback of which fell over on the floor.He opened the door to go out, but stopped on the sill, surprised by thesplendid moonlight, of such brilliance as is seldom seen.And, as he was gifted with an emotional nature, one such as had all thosepoetic dreamers, the Fathers of the Church, he felt suddenly distractedand moved by all the grand and serene beauty of this pale night.In his little garden, all bathed in soft light, his fruit trees in a rowcast on the ground the shadow of their slender branches, scarcely in fullleaf, while the giant honeysuckle, clinging to the wall of his house,exhaled a delicious sweetness, filling the warm moonlit atmosphere with akind of perfumed soul.He began to take long breaths, drinking in the air as drunkards drinkwine, and he walked along slowly, delighted, marveling, almost forgettinghis niece.As soon as he was outside of the garden, he stopped to gaze upon theplain all flooded with the caressing light, bathed in that tender,languishing charm of serene nights. At each moment was heard the short,metallic note of the cricket, and distant nightingales shook out theirscattered notes--their light, vibrant music that sets one dreaming,without thinking, a music made for kisses, for the seduction ofmoonlight.The abbe walked on again, his heart failing, though he knew not why. Heseemed weakened, suddenly exhausted; he wanted to sit down, to restthere, to think, to admire God in His works.Down yonder, following the undulations of the little river, a great lineof poplars wound in and out. A fine mist, a white haze through which themoonbeams passed, silvering it and making it gleam, hung around and abovethe mountains, covering all the tortuous course of the water with a kindof light and transparent cotton.The priest stopped once again, his soul filled with a growing andirresistible tenderness.And a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came over him; he was asking oneof those questions that he sometimes put to himself."Why did God make this? Since the night is destined for sleep,unconsciousness, repose, forgetfulness of everything, why make it morecharming than day, softer than dawn or evening? And does why thisseductive planet, more poetic than the sun, that seems destined, sodiscreet is it, to illuminate things too delicate and mysterious for thelight of day, make the darkness so transparent?"Why does not the greatest of feathered songsters sleep like the others?Why does it pour forth its voice in the mysterious night?"Why this half-veil cast over the world? Why these tremblings of theheart, this emotion of the spirit, this enervation of the body? Why thisdisplay of enchantments that human beings do not see, since they arelying in their beds? For whom is destined this sublime spectacle, thisabundance of poetry cast from heaven to earth?"And the abbe could not understand.But see, out there, on the edge of the meadow, under the arch of treesbathed in a shining mist, two figures are walking side by side.The man was the taller, and held his arm about his sweetheart's neck andkissed her brow every little while. They imparted life, all at once, tothe placid landscape in which they were framed as by a heavenly hand.The two seemed but a single being, the being for whom was destined thiscalm and silent night, and they came toward the priest as a livinganswer, the response his Master sent to his questionings.He stood still, his heart beating, all upset; and it seemed to him thathe saw before him some biblical scene, like the loves of Ruth and Boaz,the accomplishment of the will of the Lord, in some of those gloriousstories of which the sacred books tell. The verses of the Song of Songsbegan to ring in his ears, the appeal of passion, all the poetry of thispoem replete with tenderness.And he said unto himself: "Perhaps God has made such nights as these toidealize the love of men."He shrank back from this couple that still advanced with armsintertwined. Yet it was his niece. But he asked himself now if he wouldnot be disobeying God. And does not God permit love, since He surroundsit with such visible splendor?And he went back musing, almost ashamed, as if he had intruded into atemple where he had, no right to enter.

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