Simon's Papa

by Guy de Maupassant

Noon had just struck. The school door opened and the youngsters dartedout, jostling each other in their haste to get out quickly. But insteadof promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as usual, they stopped afew paces off, broke up into knots, and began whispering.The fact was that, that morning, Simon, the son of La Blanchotte, had,for the first time, attended school.They had all of them in their families heard talk of La Blanchotte; and,although in public she was welcome enough, the mothers among themselvestreated her with a somewhat disdainful compassion, which the children hadimitated without in the least knowing why.As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he never went out, anddid not run about with them in the streets of the village, or along thebanks of the river. And they did not care for him; so it was with acertain delight, mingled with considerable astonishment, that they metand repeated to each other what had been said by a lad of fourteen orfifteen who appeared to know all about it, so sagaciously did he wink."You know--Simon--well, he has no papa."Just then La Blanchotte's son appeared in the doorway of the school.He was seven or eight years old, rather pale, very neat, with a timid andalmost awkward manner.He was starting home to his mother's house when the groups of hisschoolmates, whispering and watching him with the mischievous andheartless eyes of children bent upon playing a nasty trick, graduallyclosed in around him and ended by surrounding him altogether. There hestood in their midst, surprised and embarrassed, not understanding whatthey were going to do with him. But the lad who had brought the news,puffed up with the success he had met with already, demanded:"What is your name, you?"He answered: "Simon.""Simon what?" retorted the other.The child, altogether bewildered, repeated: "Simon."The lad shouted at him: "One is named Simon something--that is not aname--Simon indeed."The child, on the brink of tears, replied for the third time:"My name is Simon."The urchins began to laugh. The triumphant tormentor cried: "You can seeplainly that he has no papa."A deep silence ensued. The children were dumfounded by thisextraordinary, impossible, monstrous thing--a boy who had not a papa;they looked upon him as a phenomenon, an unnatural being, and they feltthat hitherto inexplicable contempt of their mothers for La Blanchottegrowing upon them. As for Simon, he had leaned against a tree to avoidfalling, and he remained as if prostrated by an irreparable disaster.He sought to explain, but could think of nothing-to say to refute thishorrible charge that he had no papa. At last he shouted at them quiterecklessly: "Yes, I have one.""Where is he?" demanded the boy.Simon was silent, he did not know. The children roared, tremendouslyexcited; and those country boys, little more than animals, experiencedthat cruel craving which prompts the fowls of a farmyard to destroy oneof their number as soon as it is wounded. Simon suddenly espied a littleneighbor, the son of a widow, whom he had seen, as he himself was to beseen, always alone with his mother."And no more have you," he said; "no more have you a papa.""Yes," replied the other, "I have one.""Where is he?" rejoined Simon."He is dead," declared the brat, with superb dignity; "he is in thecemetery, is my papa."A murmur of approval rose among the little wretches as if this fact ofpossessing a papa dead in a cemetery had caused their comrade to grow bigenough to crush the other one who had no papa at all. And these boys,whose fathers were for the most part bad men, drunkards, thieves, and whobeat their wives, jostled each other to press closer and closer,as though they, the legitimate ones, would smother by their pressure onewho was illegitimate.The boy who chanced to be next Simon suddenly put his tongue out at himwith a mocking air and shouted at him:"No papa! No papa!"Simon seized him by the hair with both hands and set to work to disablehis legs with kicks, while he bit his cheek ferociously. A tremendousstruggle ensued between the two combatants, and Simon found himselfbeaten, torn, bruised, rolled on the ground in the midst of the ring ofapplauding schoolboys. As he arose, mechanically brushing with his handhis little blouse all covered with dust, some one shouted at him:"Go and tell your papa."Then he felt a great sinking at his heart. They were stronger than hewas, they had beaten him, and he had no answer to give them, for he knewwell that it was true that he had no papa. Full of pride, he attemptedfor some moments to struggle against the tears which were choking him.He had a feeling of suffocation, and then without any sound he commencedto weep, with great shaking sobs. A ferocious joy broke out among hisenemies, and, with one accord, just like savages in their fearfulfestivals, they took each other by the hand and danced round him in acircle, repeating as a refrain:"No papa! No papa!"But suddenly Simon ceased sobbing. He became ferocious. There werestones under his feet; he picked them up and with all his strength hurledthem at his tormentors. Two or three were struck and rushed off yelling,and so formidable did he appear that the rest became panic-stricken.Cowards, as the mob always is in presence of an exasperated man, theybroke up and fled. Left alone, the little fellow without a father setoff running toward the fields, for a recollection had been awakened inhim which determined his soul to a great resolve. He made up his mind todrown himself in the river.He remembered, in fact, that eight days before, a poor devil who beggedfor his livelihood had thrown himself into the water because he had nomore money. Simon had been there when they fished him out again; and thewretched man, who usually seemed to him so miserable, and ugly, had thenstruck him as being so peaceful with his pale cheeks, his long drenchedbeard, and his open eyes full of calm. The bystanders had said:"He is dead."And some one had said:"He is quite happy now."And Simon wished to drown himself also, because he had no father, justlike the wretched being who had no money.He reached the water and watched it flowing. Some fish were sportingbriskly in the clear stream and occasionally made a little bound andcaught the flies flying on the surface. He stopped crying in order towatch them, for their maneuvers interested him greatly. But, atintervals, as in a tempest intervals of calm alternate suddenly withtremendous gusts of wind, which snap off the trees and then losethemselves in the horizon, this thought would return to him with intensepain:"I am going to drown myself because I have no papa."It was very warm, fine weather. The pleasant sunshine warmed the grass.The water shone like a mirror. And Simon enjoyed some minutes ofhappiness, of that languor which follows weeping, and felt inclined tofall asleep there upon the grass in the warm sunshine.A little green frog leaped from under his feet. He endeavored to catchit. It escaped him. He followed it and lost it three times insuccession. At last he caught it by one of its hind legs and began tolaugh as he saw the efforts the creature made to escape. It gathereditself up on its hind legs and then with a violent spring suddenlystretched them out as stiff as two bars; while it beat the air with itsfront legs as though they were hands, its round eyes staring in theircircle of yellow. It reminded him of a toy made of straight slips ofwood nailed zigzag one on the other; which by a similar movementregulated the movements of the little soldiers fastened thereon. Then hethought of his home, and then of his mother, and, overcome by sorrow, heagain began to weep. A shiver passed over him. He knelt down and saidhis prayers as before going to bed. But he was unable to finish them,for tumultuous, violent sobs shook his whole frame. He no longerthought, he no longer saw anything around him, and was wholly absorbed incrying.Suddenly a heavy hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a rough voiceasked him:"What is it that causes you so much grief, my little man?"Simon turned round. A tall workman with a beard and black curly hair wasstaring at him good-naturedly. He answered with his eyes and throat fullof tears:"They beat me--because--I--I have no--papa--no papa.""What!" said the man, smiling; "why, everybody has one."The child answered painfully amid his spasms of grief:"But I--I--I have none."Then the workman became serious. He had recognized La Blanchotte's son,and, although himself a new arrival in the neighborhood, he had a vagueidea of her history."Well," said he, "console yourself, my boy, and come with me home to yourmother. They will give you--a papa."And so they started on the way, the big fellow holding the little fellowby the hand, and the man smiled, for he was not sorry to see thisBlanchotte, who was, it was said, one of the prettiest girls of thecountryside, and, perhaps, he was saying to himself, at the bottom of hisheart, that a lass who had erred might very well err again.They arrived in front of a very neat little white house."There it is," exclaimed the child, and he cried, "Mamma!"A woman appeared, and the workman instantly left off smiling, for he sawat once that there was no fooling to be done with the tall pale girl whostood austerely at her door as though to defend from one man thethreshold of that house where she had already been betrayed by another.Intimidated, his cap in his hand, he stammered out:"See, madame, I have brought you back your little boy who had losthimself near the river."But Simon flung his arms about his mother's neck and told her, as heagain began to cry:"No, mamma, I wished to drown myself, because the others had beaten me--had beaten me--because I have no papa."A burning redness covered the young woman's cheeks; and, hurt to thequick, she embraced her child passionately, while the tears coursed downher face. The man, much moved, stood there, not knowing how to get away.But Simon suddenly ran to him and said:"Will you be my papa?"A deep silence ensued. La Blanchotte, dumb and tortured with shame,leaned herself against the wall, both her hands upon her heart. Thechild, seeing that no answer was made him, replied:"If you will not, I shall go back and drown myself."The workman took the matter as a jest and answered, laughing:"Why, yes, certainly I will.""What is your name," went on the child, "so that I may tell the otherswhen they wish to know your name?""Philip," answered the man:Simon was silent a moment so that he might get the name well into hishead; then he stretched out his arms, quite consoled, as he said:"Well, then, Philip, you are my papa."The workman, lifting him from the ground, kissed him hastily on bothcheeks, and then walked away very quickly with great strides.When the child returned to school next day he was received with aspiteful laugh, and at the end of school, when the lads were on the pointof recommencing, Simon threw these words at their heads as he would havedone a stone: "He is named Philip, my papa."Yells of delight burst out from all sides."Philip who? Philip what? What on earth is Philip? Where did you pickup your Philip?"Simon answered nothing; and, immovable in his faith, he defied them withhis eye, ready to be martyred rather than fly before them. The schoolmaster came to his rescue and he returned home to his mother.During three months, the tall workman, Philip, frequently passed by LaBlanchotte's house, and sometimes he made bold to speak to her when hesaw her sewing near the window. She answered him civilly, alwayssedately, never joking with him, nor permitting him to enter her house.Notwithstanding, being, like all men, a bit of a coxcomb, he imaginedthat she was often rosier than usual when she chatted with him.But a lost reputation is so difficult to regain and always remains sofragile that, in spite of the shy reserve of La Blanchotte, they alreadygossiped in the neighborhood.As for Simon he loved his new papa very much, and walked with him nearlyevery evening when the day's work was done. He went regularly to school,and mixed with great dignity with his schoolfellows without everanswering them back.One day, however, the lad who had first attacked him said to him:"You have lied. You have not a papa named Philip.""Why do you say that?" demanded Simon, much disturbed.The youth rubbed his hands. He replied:"Because if you had one he would be your mamma's husband."Simon was confused by the truth of this reasoning; nevertheless, heretorted:"He is my papa, all the same.""That can very well be," exclaimed the urchin with a sneer, "but that isnot being your papa altogether."La Blanchotte's little one bowed his head and went off dreaming in thedirection of the forge belonging to old Loizon, where Philip worked.This forge was as though buried beneath trees. It was very dark there;the red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit up with great flashesfive blacksmiths; who hammered upon their anvils with a terrible din.They were standing enveloped in flame, like demons, their eyes fixed onthe red-hot iron they were pounding; and their dull ideas rose and fellwith their hammers.Simon entered without being noticed, and went quietly to pluck his friendby the sleeve. The latter turned round. All at once the work came to astandstill, and all the men looked on, very attentive. Then, in themidst of this unaccustomed silence, rose the slender pipe of Simon:"Say, Philip, the Michaude boy told me just now that you were notaltogether my papa.""Why not?" asked the blacksmith,The child replied with all innocence:"Because you are not my mamma's husband."No one laughed. Philip remained standing, leaning his forehead upon theback of his great hands, which supported the handle of his hammerstanding upright upon the anvil. He mused. His four companions watchedhim, and Simon, a tiny mite among these giants, anxiously waited.Suddenly, one of the smiths, answering to the sentiment of all, said toPhilip:"La Blanchotte is a good, honest girl, and upright and steady in spite ofher misfortune, and would make a worthy wife for an honest man.""That is true," remarked the three others.The smith continued:"Is it the girl's fault if she went wrong? She had been promisedmarriage; and I know more than one who is much respected to-day, and whosinned every bit as much.""That is true," responded the three men in chorus.He resumed:"How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to bring up her child all alone,and how she has wept all these years she has never gone out except tochurch, God only knows.""This is also true," said the others.Then nothing was heard but the bellows which fanned the fire of thefurnace. Philip hastily bent himself down to Simon:"Go and tell your mother that I am coming to speak to her this evening."Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders. He returned to his work,and with a single blow the five hammers again fell upon their anvils.Thus they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy, likecontented hammers. But just as the great bell of a cathedral resoundsupon feast days above the jingling of the other bells, so Philip'shammer, sounding above the rest, clanged second after second with adeafening uproar. And he stood amid the flying sparks plying his tradevigorously.The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La Blanchotte's door. He hadon his Sunday blouse, a clean shirt, and his beard was trimmed. Theyoung woman showed herself upon the threshold, and said in a grievedtone:"It is ill to come thus when night has fallen, Mr. Philip."He wished to answer, but stammered and stood confused before her.She resumed:"You understand, do you not, that it will not do for me to be talkedabout again.""What does that matter to me, if you will be my wife!"No voice replied to him, but he believed that he heard in the shadow ofthe room the sound of a falling body. He entered quickly; and Simon, whohad gone to bed, distinguished the sound of a kiss and some words thathis mother murmured softly. Then, all at once, he found himself liftedup by the hands of his friend, who, holding him at the length of hisherculean arms, exclaimed:"You will tell them, your schoolmates, that your papa is Philip Remy, theblacksmith, and that he will pull the ears of all who do you any harm."On the morrow, when the school was full and lessons were about to begin,little Simon stood up, quite pale with trembling lips:"My papa," said he in a clear voice, "is Philip Remy, the blacksmith, andhe has promised to pull the ears of all who does me any harm."This time no one laughed, for he was very well known, was Philip Remy,the blacksmith, and was a papa of whom any one in the world would havebeen proud.

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