The Impolite Sex

by Guy de Maupassant

My Dear Aunt:I am coming to see you without anyone knowing it. I shall be at LesFresnes on the 2d of September, the day before the hunting season opens,as I do not want to miss it, so that I may tease these gentlemen. Youare too good, aunt, and you will allow them, as you usually do when thereare no strange guests, to come to table, under pretext of fatigue,without dressing or shaving for the occasion.They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall bethere and will hold a review, like a general, at dinner time; and, if Ifind a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter how little,I mean to send them down to the kitchen with the servants.The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so littlegood manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed inan age of vulgarity. When they quarrel, they insult each other in termsworthy of longshoremen, and, in our presence, they do not conductthemselves even as well as our servants. It is at the seaside that yousee this most clearly. They are to be found there in battalions, and youcan judge them in the lump. Oh! what coarse beings they are!Just imagine, in a train, a gentleman who looked well, as I thought atfirst sight, thanks to his tailor, carefully took off his boots in orderto put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an old man who was probably somewealthy upstart (these are the most ill-bred), while sitting opposite tome, had the delicacy to place his two feet on the seat quite close to me.This is a positive fact.At the watering-places the vulgarity is unrestrained. I must here makeone admission--that my indignation is perhaps due to the fact that I amnot accustomed to associate, as a rule, with the sort of people one comesacross here, for I should be less shocked by their manners if I had theopportunity of observing them oftener. In the office of the hotel I wasnearly thrown down by a young man who snatched the key over my head.Another knocked against me so violently without begging my pardon orlifting his hat, coming away from a ball at the Casino, that it gave me apain in the chest. It is the same way with all of them. Watch themaddressing ladies on the terrace; they scarcely ever bow. They merelyraise their hands to their headgear. But, indeed, as they are all moreor less bald, it is the best plan.But what exasperates and disgusts me particularly is the liberty theytake of talking in public, without any kind of precaution, about the mostrevolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to eachother, in the broadest language and with the most abominable commentsreally horrible stories, without caring in the slightest degree whether awoman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach, Iwas forced to leave the place where I was sitting in order not to be anylonger the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told in suchimmodest language that I felt just as humiliated as indignant at havingheard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding teach them tospeak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near at hand.Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From five toseven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of scandal,which they retail from group to group. As you remarked to me, my dearaunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty individuals and petty minds.It is also the consolation of women who are no longer loved or soughtafter. It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest ofgossiping to be persuaded that you are quite right.The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given bya remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightfulmanner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, aswell as two charming vaudeville performers, M---- and Meillet. I met, onthis occasion, all the bathers who were at the beach. It is no greatdistinction this year.Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard,coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean PaulLaurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the subjects ofhis pictures, he insists on imprisoning himself.Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, ofgentle and refined appearance, who was reading poetry. But he read itwith such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did noteven raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished and asked theproprietor of the baths, without appearing to be much concerned, the nameof this gentleman. I laughed to myself a little at this reader ofrhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought,must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about thisstranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I went back and satdown beside him again so as to get a good look at him. His face has anexpression of calmness and of penetration. Somebody came to look forhim, and I heard his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He wouldcertainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public or knock up againstladies without apologizing. He is assuredly a man of refinement, but hisrefinement is of an almost morbid, sensitive character, I will try thiswinter to get an introduction to him.I have no more news, my dear aunt, and I must finish this letter inhaste, as the mail will soon close. I kiss your hands and your cheeks.Your devoted niece,BERTHE DE X.P. S.--I should add, however, by way of justification of Frenchpoliteness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when travelling, models ofgood manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to havebeen brought up in a stable, so careful are they not to discommodethemselves in any way, while they always discommode their neighbors. Madame de L. to Madame de X.LES FRESNES, Saturday.My Dear Child:Many of the things you have said to me are very sensible, but that doesnot prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I used formerly to feel veryindignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as I supposed, constantlytreated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and reflected oneverything, putting aside coquetry, and observing things without takingany part in them myself, I perceived this much--that if men are notalways polite, women are always indescribably rude.We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and atthe same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect, andin the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that elementarygood-breeding of which you speak so feelingly.I find, on the contrary, that men consider us much more than we considerthem. Besides, darling, men must needs be, and are, what we make them.In a state of society, where women are all true gentlewomen, all menwould become gentlemen.Come now; just observe and reflect.Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumestowards the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throwinto each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect eachother to find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, doyou think one woman would make room for another, or would beg pardon asshe sweeps by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident insome narrow lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of theother's way, while we women press against each other stomach to stomach,face to face, insolently staring each other out of countenance.Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a staircase outsidethe door of a friend's drawing-room, one of them just leaving, the otherabout to go in. They begin to talk to each other and block up all thelanding. If anyone happens to be coming up behind them, man or woman, doyou imagine that they will put themselves half an inch out of their way?Never! never!I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter at acertain drawing-room door. And, behind me, two gentlemen were alsowaiting without showing any readiness, as I did, to lose their temper.The reason was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionableinsolence.The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a personthan your husband, in the Champs Elysees, in order to enjoy the freshair. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us to wait and therewould soon be a vacant table.At that moment I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, havingpaid for her dinner, seemed on the point of going away. She saw me,scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a quarterof an hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves, and calmlystaring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young men whowere just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn, hastilysummoned the waiter, paid what they owed, and at once offered me theirseats, even insisting on standing while waiting for their change. And,bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer pretty, like you, butold and white-haired.It is we, you see, who should be taught politeness, and the task would besuch a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal to it. Youspeak to me about Etretat and about the people who indulged in "tittle-tattle" along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It is a spotnow lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much amusement thereindays gone by.There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good society,and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little attention togossip in those days.As we had no monotonous Casino, where people only gather for show, wherethey whisper, where they dance stupidly, where they succeed in thoroughlyboring one another, we sought some other way of passing our eveningspleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head of one of ourhusbands? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in one of thefarm-houses in the neighborhood.We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by LePoittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two mencarried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chatteringlike a pack of fools.We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and farm hands. We got themto make onion soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple trees, to thesound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in thedarkness of the out-houses; the horses began prancing on the straw oftheir stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with thesmell of grass and of new-mown hay.How long ago it is! How long ago it is! It is thirty years since then!I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the huntingseason. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on themfashionable toilettes on this day of vigorous exercise in the country?This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you. Your oldaunt,GENEVIEVE DE L.

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