The Mustache

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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My Dear Lucy:I have no news. We live in the drawing-room, looking out at the rain.We cannot go out in this frightful weather, so we have theatricals.How stupid they are, my dear, these drawing entertainments in therepertory of real life! All is forced, coarse, heavy. The jokes arelike cannon balls, smashing everything in their passage. No wit, nothingnatural, no sprightliness, no elegance. These literary men, in truth,know nothing of society. They are perfectly ignorant of how people thinkand talk in our set. I do not mind if they despise our customs, ourconventionalities, but I do not forgive them for not knowing them. Whenthey want to be humorous they make puns that would do for a barrack; whenthey try to be jolly, they give us jokes that they must have picked up onthe outer boulevard in those beer houses artists are supposed tofrequent, where one has heard the same students' jokes for fifty years.So we have taken to Theatricals. As we are only two women, my husbandtakes the part of a soubrette, and, in order to do that, he has shavedoff his mustache. You cannot imagine, my dear Lucy, how it changes him!I no longer recognize him-by day or at night. If he did not let it growagain I think I should no longer love him; he looks so horrid like this.In fact, a man without a mustache is no longer a man. I do not care muchfor a beard; it almost always makes a man look untidy. But a mustache,oh, a mustache is indispensable to a manly face. No, you would neverbelieve how these little hair bristles on the upper lip are a relief tothe eye and good in other ways. I have thought over the matter a greatdeal but hardly dare to write my thoughts. Words look so different onpaper and the subject is so difficult, so delicate, so dangerous that itrequires infinite skill to tackle it.Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, I understood at once that I nevercould fall in love with a strolling actor nor a preacher, even if it wereFather Didon, the most charming of all! Later when I was alone with him(my husband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucy, never let yourself bekissed by a man without a mustache; their kisses have no flavor, nonewhatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and the snap-yes, the snap--of a real kiss. The mustache is the spice.Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry--or moist--parchment. Thatis the kiss of the man without a mustache. It is not worth while.Whence comes this charm of the mustache, will you tell me? Do I knowmyself? It tickles your face, you feel it approaching your mouth and itsends a little shiver through you down to the tips of your toes.And on your neck! Have you ever felt a mustache on your neck? Itintoxicates you, makes you feel creepy, goes to the tips of your fingers.You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss back your head. You wish to getaway and at the same time to remain there; it is delightful, butirritating. But how good it is!A lip without a mustache is like a body without clothing; and one mustwear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing.I recall a sentence (uttered by a politician) which has been running inmy mind for three months. My husband, who keeps up with the newspapers,read me one evening a very singular speech by our Minister ofAgriculture, who was called M. Meline. He may have been superseded bythis time. I do not know.I was paying no attention, but the name Meline struck me. It recalled,I do not exactly know why, the 'Scenes de la vie de boheme'. I thoughtit was about some grisette. That shows how scraps of the speech enteredmy mind. This M. Meline was making this statement to the people ofAmiens, I believe, and I have ever since been trying to understand whathe meant: "There is no patriotism without agriculture!" Well, I havejust discovered his meaning, and I affirm in my turn that there is nolove without a mustache. When you say it that way it sounds comical,does it not?There is no love without a mustache!"There is no patriotism without agriculture," said M. Meline, and he wasright, that minister; I now understand why.From a very different point of view the mustache is essential. It givescharacter to the face. It makes a man look gentle, tender, violent, amonster, a rake, enterprising! The hairy man, who does not shave off hiswhiskers, never has a refined look, for his features are concealed; andthe shape of the jaw and the chin betrays a great deal to those whounderstand.The man with a mustache retains his own peculiar expression and hisrefinement at the same time.And how many different varieties of mustaches there are! Sometimes theyare twisted, curled, coquettish. Those seem to be chiefly devoted towomen.Sometimes they are pointed, sharp as needles, and threatening. That kindprefers wine, horses and war.Sometimes they are enormous, overhanging, frightful. These big onesgenerally conceal a fine disposition, a kindliness that borders onweakness and a gentleness that savors of timidity.But what I adore above all in the mustache is that it is French,altogether French. It came from our ancestors, the Gauls, and hasremained the insignia of our national character.It is boastful, gallant and brave. It sips wine gracefully and knows howto laugh with refinement, while the broad-bearded jaws are clumsy ineverything they do.I recall something that made me weep all my tears and also--I see it now--made me love a mustache on a man's face.It was during the war, when I was living with my father. I was a younggirl then. One day there was a skirmish near the chateau. I had heardthe firing of the cannon and of the artillery all the morning, and thatevening a German colonel came and took up his abode in our house. Heleft the following day.My father was informed that there were a number of dead bodies in thefields. He had them brought to our place so that they might be buriedtogether. They were laid all along the great avenue of pines as fast asthey brought them in, on both sides of the avenue, and as they began tosmell unpleasant, their bodies were covered with earth until the deeptrench could be dug. Thus one saw only their heads which seemed toprotrude from the clayey earth and were almost as yellow, with theirclosed eyes.I wanted to see them. But when I saw those two rows of frightful faces,I thought I should faint. However, I began to look at them, one by one,trying to guess what kind of men these had been.The uniforms were concealed beneath the earth, and yet immediately, yes,immediately, my dear, I recognized the Frenchmen by their mustache!Some of them had shaved on the very day of the battle, as though theywished to be elegant up to the last; others seemed to have a week'sgrowth, but all wore the French mustache, very plain, the proud mustachethat seems to say: "Do not take me for my bearded friend, little one; Iam a brother."And I cried, oh, I cried a great deal more than I should if I had notrecognized them, the poor dead fellows.It was wrong of me to tell you this. Now I am sad and cannot chatter anylonger. Well, good-by, dear Lucy. I send you a hearty kiss. Long livethe mustache!JEANNE.

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