The Son

by Guy de Maupassant

The two old friends were walking in the garden in bloom, where spring wasbringing everything to life.One was a senator, the other a member of the French Academy, both seriousmen, full of very logical but solemn arguments, men of note andreputation.They talked first of politics, exchanging opinions; not on ideas, but onmen, personalities in this regard taking the predominance over ability.Then they recalled some memories. Then they walked along in silence,enervated by the warmth of the air.A large bed of wallflowers breathed out a delicate sweetness. A mass offlowers of all species and color flung their fragrance to the breeze,while a cytisus covered with yellow clusters scattered its fine pollenabroad, a golden cloud, with an odor of honey that bore its balmy seedacross space, similar to the sachet-powders of perfumers.The senator stopped, breathed in the cloud of floating pollen, looked atthe fertile shrub, yellow as the sun, whose seed was floating in the air,and said:"When one considers that these imperceptible fragrant atoms will createexistences at a hundred leagues from here, will send a thrill through thefibres and sap of female trees and produce beings with roots, growingfrom a germ, just as we do, mortal like ourselves, and who will bereplaced by other beings of the same order, like ourselves again!"And, standing in front of the brilliant cytisus, whose live pollen wasshaken off by each breath of air, the senator added:"Ah, old fellow, if you had to keep count of all your children you wouldbe mightily embarrassed. Here is one who generates freely, and then letsthem go without a pang and troubles himself no more about them.""We do the same, my friend," said the academician."Yes, I do not deny it; we let them go sometimes," resumed the senator,"but we are aware that we do, and that constitutes our superiority.""No, that is not what I mean," said the other, shaking his head."You see, my friend, that there is scarcely a man who has not somechildren that he does not know, children--'father unknown'--whom he hasgenerated almost unconsciously, just as this tree reproduces."If we had to keep account of our amours, we should be just asembarrassed as this cytisus which you apostrophized would be in countingup his descendants, should we not?"From eighteen to forty years, in fact, counting in every chance cursoryacquaintanceship, we may well say that we have been intimate with two orthree hundred women."Well, then, my friend, among this number can you be sure that you havenot had children by at least one of them, and that you have not in thestreets, or in the bagnio, some blackguard of a son who steals from andmurders decent people, i.e., ourselves; or else a daughter in somedisreputable place, or, if she has the good fortune to be deserted by hermother, as cook in some family?"Consider, also, that almost all those whom we call 'prostitutes' haveone or two children of whose paternal parentage they are ignorant,generated by chance at the price of ten or twenty francs. In everybusiness there is profit and loss. These wildings constitute the 'loss'in their profession. Who generated them? You--I--we all did, the mencalled 'gentlemen'! They are the consequences of our jovial littledinners, of our gay evenings, of those hours when our comfortablephysical being impels us to chance liaisons."Thieves, marauders, all these wretches, in fact, are our children.And that is better for us than if we were their children, for thosescoundrels generate also!"I have in my mind a very horrible story that I will relate to you. Ithas caused me incessant remorse, and, further than that, a continualdoubt, a disquieting uncertainty, that, at times, torments mefrightfully."When I was twenty-five I undertook a walking tour through Brittany withone of my friends, now a member of the cabinet."After walking steadily for fifteen or twenty days and visiting theCotes-du-Nord and part of Finistere we reached Douarnenez. From there wewent without halting to the wild promontory of Raz by the bay of LesTrepaases, and passed the night in a village whose name ends in 'of.'The next morning a strange lassitude kept my friend in bed; I say bedfrom habit, for our couch consisted simply of two bundles of straw."It would never do to be ill in this place. So I made him get up, and wereached Andierne about four or five o'clock in the evening."The following day he felt a little better, and we set out again. But onthe road he was seized with intolerable pain, and we could scarcely getas far as Pont Labbe."Here, at least, there was an inn. My friend went to bed, and thedoctor, who had been sent for from Quimper, announced that he had a highfever, without being able to determine its nature."Do you know Pont Labbe? No? Well, then, it is the most Breton of allthis Breton Brittany, which extends from the promontory of Raz to theMorbihan, of this land which contains the essence of the Breton manners,legends and customs. Even to-day this corner of the country has scarcelychanged. I say 'even to-day,' for I now go there every year, alas!"An old chateau laves the walls of its towers in a great melancholy pond,melancholy and frequented by flights of wild birds. It has an outlet ina river on which boats can navigate as far as the town. In the narrowstreets with their old-time houses the men wear big hats, embroideredwaistcoats and four coats, one on top of the other; the inside one, aslarge as your hand, barely covering the shoulder-blades, and the outsideone coming to just above the seat of the trousers."The girls, tall, handsome and fresh have their bosoms crushed in a clothbodice which makes an armor, compresses them, not allowing one even toguess at their robust and tortured neck. They also wear a strangeheaddress. On their temples two bands embroidered in colors frame theirface, inclosing the hair, which falls in a shower at the back of theirheads, and is then turned up and gathered on top of the head under asingular cap, often woven with gold or silver thread."The servant at our inn was eighteen at most, with very blue eyes, a paleblue with two tiny black pupils, short teeth close together, which sheshowed continually when she laughed, and which seemed strong enough togrind granite."She did not know a word of French, speaking only Breton, as did most ofher companions."As my friend did not improve much, and although he had no definitemalady, the doctor forbade him to continue his journey yet, orderingcomplete rest. I spent my days with him, and the little maid would comein incessantly, bringing either my dinner or some herb tea."I teased her a little, which seemed to amuse her, but we did not chat,of course, as we could not understand each other."But one night, after I had stayed quite late with my friend and wasgoing back to my room, I passed the girl, who was going to her room.It was just opposite my open door, and, without reflection, and more forfun than anything else, I abruptly seized her round the waist, and beforeshe recovered from her astonishment I had thrown her down and locked herin my room. She looked at me, amazed, excited, terrified, not daring tocry out for fear of a scandal and of being probably driven out, first byher employers and then, perhaps, by her father."I did it as a joke at first. She defended herself bravely, and at thefirst chance she ran to the door, drew back the bolt and fled."I scarcely saw her for several days. She would not let me come nearher. But when my friend was cured and we were to get out on our travelsagain I saw her coming into my room about midnight the night before ourdeparture, just after I had retired."She threw herself into my arms and embraced me passionately, giving meall the assurances of tenderness and despair that a woman can give whenshe does not know a word of our language."A week later I had forgotten this adventure, so common and frequent whenone is travelling, the inn servants being generally destined to amusetravellers in this way."I was thirty before I thought of it again, or returned to Pont Labbe."But in 1876 I revisited it by chance during a trip into Brittany, whichI made in order to look up some data for a book and to become permeatedwith the atmosphere of the different places."Nothing seemed changed. The chateau still laved its gray wall in thepond outside the little town; the inn was the same, though it had beenrepaired, renovated and looked more modern. As I entered it I wasreceived by two young Breton girls of eighteen, fresh and pretty, boundup in their tight cloth bodices, with their silver caps and wideembroidered bands on their ears."It was about six o'clock in the evening. I sat down to dinner, and asthe host was assiduous in waiting on me himself, fate, no doubt, impelledme to say:"'Did you know the former proprietors of this house? I spent about tendays here thirty years ago. I am talking old times.'"'Those were my parents, monsieur,' he replied."Then I told him why we had stayed over at that time, how my comrade hadbeen delayed by illness. He did not let me finish."'Oh, I recollect perfectly. I was about fifteen or sixteen. You sleptin the room at the end and your friend in the one I have taken formyself, overlooking the street.'"It was only then that the recollection of the little maid came vividlyto my mind. I asked : 'Do you remember a pretty little servant who wasthen in your father's employ, and who had, if my memory does not deceiveme, pretty eyes and freshlooking teeth?'"'Yes, monsieur; she died in childbirth some time after.'"And, pointing to the courtyard where a thin, lame man was stirring upthe manure, he added:"'That is her son.'"I began to laugh:"'He is not handsome and does not look much like his mother. No doubt helooks like his father.'"'That is very possible,' replied the innkeeper; 'but we never knew whosechild it was. She died without telling any one, and no one here knew ofher having a beau. Every one was hugely astonished when they heard shewas enceinte, and no one would believe it.'"A sort of unpleasant chill came over me, one of those painful surfacewounds that affect us like the shadow of an impending sorrow. And Ilooked at the man in the yard. He had just drawn water for the horsesand was carrying two buckets, limping as he walked, with a painful effortof his shorter leg. His clothes were ragged, he was hideously dirty,with long yellow hair, so tangled that it looked like strands of ropefalling down at either side of his face."'He is not worth much,' continued the innkeeper; 'we have kept him forcharity's sake. Perhaps he would have turned out better if he had beenbrought up like other folks. But what could one do, monsieur? Nofather, no mother, no money! My parents took pity on him, but he was nottheir child, you understand.'"I said nothing."I slept in my old room, and all night long I thought of this frightfulstableman, saying to myself: 'Supposing it is my own son? Could I havecaused that girl's death and procreated this being? It was quitepossible!'"I resolved to speak to this man and to find out the exact date of hisbirth. A variation of two months would set my doubts at rest."I sent for him the next day. But he could not speak French. He lookedas if he could not understand anything, being absolutely ignorant of hisage, which I had inquired of him through one of the maids. He stoodbefore me like an idiot, twirling his hat in 'his knotted, disgustinghands, laughing stupidly, with something of his mother's laugh in thecorners of his mouth and of his eyes."The landlord, appearing on the scene, went to look for the birthcertificate of this wretched being. He was born eight months and twenty-six days after my stay at Pont Labbe, for I recollect perfectly that wereached Lorient on the fifteenth of August. The certificate containedthis description: 'Father unknown.' The mother called herself JeanneKerradec."Then my heart began to beat rapidly. I could not utter a word, for Ifelt as if I were choking. I looked at this animal whose long yellowhair reminded me of a straw heap, and the beggar, embarrassed by my gaze,stopped laughing, turned his head aside, and wanted to get away."All day long I wandered beside the little river, giving way to painfulreflections. But what was the use of reflection? I could be sure ofnothing. For hours and hours I weighed all the pros and cons in favor ofor against the probability of my being the father, growing nervous overinexplicable suppositions, only to return incessantly to the samehorrible uncertainty, then to the still more atrocious conviction thatthis man was my son."I could eat no dinner, and went to my room.I lay awake for a long time, and when I finally fell asleep I was hauntedby horrible visions. I saw this laborer laughing in my face and callingme 'papa.' Then he changed into a dog and bit the calves of my legs, andno matter how fast I ran he still followed me, and instead of barking,talked and reviled me. Then he appeared before my colleagues at theAcademy, who had assembled to decide whether I was really his father; andone of them cried out: 'There can be no doubt about it! See how heresembles him.' And, indeed, I could see that this monster looked likeme. And I awoke with this idea fixed in my mind and with an insanedesire to see the man again and assure myself whether or not we hadsimilar features."I joined him as he was going to mass (it was Sunday) and I gave him fivefrancs as I gazed at him anxiously. He began to laugh in an idioticmanner, took the money, and then, embarrassed afresh at my gaze, he ranoff, after stammering an almost inarticulate word that, no doubt, meant'thank you.'"My day passed in the same distress of mind as on the previous night.I sent for the landlord, and, with the greatest caution, skill and tact,I told him that I was interested in this poor creature, so abandoned byevery one and deprived of everything, and I wished to do something forhim."But the man replied: 'Oh, do not think of it, monsieur; he is of noaccount; you will only cause yourself annoyance. I employ him to cleanout the stable, and that is all he can do. I give him his board and lethim sleep with the horses. He needs nothing more. If you have an oldpair of trousers, you might give them to him, but they will be in rags ina week.'"I did not insist, intending to think it over."The poor wretch came home that evening frightfully drunk, came nearsetting fire to the house, killed a horse by hitting it with a pickaxe,and ended up by lying down to sleep in the mud in the midst of thepouring rain, thanks to my donation."They begged me next day not to give him any more money. Brandy drovehim crazy, and as soon as he had two sous in his pocket he would spendit in drink. The landlord added: 'Giving him money is like trying tokill him.' The man had never, never in his life had more than a fewcentimes, thrown to him by travellers, and he knew of no destination forthis metal but the wine shop."I spent several hours in my room with an open book before me which Ipretended to read, but in reality looking at this animal, my son! my son!trying to discover if he looked anything like me. After careful scrutinyI seemed to recognize a similarity in the lines of the forehead and theroot of the nose, and I was soon convinced that there was a resemblance,concealed by the difference in garb and the man's hideous head of hair."I could not stay here any longer without arousing suspicion, and I wentaway, my heart crushed, leaving with the innkeeper some money to softenthe existence of his servant."For six years now I have lived with this idea in my mind, this horribleuncertainty, this abominable suspicion. And each year an irresistibleforce takes me back to Pont Labbe. Every year I condemn myself to thetorture of seeing this animal raking the manure, imagining that heresembles me, and endeavoring, always vainly, to render him someassistance. And each year I return more uncertain, more tormented, moreworried."I tried to have him taught, but he is a hopeless idiot. I tried to makehis life less hard. He is an irreclaimable drunkard, and spends in drinkall the money one gives him, and knows enough to sell his new clothes inorder to get brandy."I tried to awaken his master's sympathy, so that he should look afterhim, offering to pay him for doing so. The innkeeper, finally surprised,said, very wisely: 'All that you do for him, monsieur, will only help todestroy him. He must be kept like a prisoner. As soon as he has anyspare time, or any comfort, he becomes wicked. If you wish to do good,there is no lack of abandoned children, but select one who willappreciate your attention.'"What could I say?"If I allowed the slightest suspicion of the doubts that tortured me toescape, this idiot would assuredly become cunning, in order to blackmailme, to compromise me and ruin me. He would call out 'papa,' as in mydream."And I said to myself that I had killed the mother and lost thisatrophied creature, this larva of the stable, born and raised amid themanure, this man who, if brought up like others, would have been likeothers."And you cannot imagine what a strange, embarrassed and intolerablefeeling comes over me when he stands before me and I reflect that he camefrom myself, that he belongs to me through the intimate bond that linksfather and son, that, thanks to the terrible law of heredity, he is myown self in a thousand ways, in his blood and his flesh, and that he haseven the same germs of disease, the same leaven of emotions."I have an incessant restless, distressing longing to see him, and thesight of him causes me intense suffering, as I look down from my windowand watch him for hours removing and carting the horse manure, saying tomyself: 'That is my son.'"And I sometimes feel an irresistible longing to embrace him. I havenever even touched his dirty hand."The academician was silent. His companion, a tactful man, murmured:"Yes, indeed, we ought to take a closer interest in children who have nofather."A gust of wind passing through the tree shook its yellow clusters,enveloping in a fragrant and delicate mist the two old men, who inhaledin the fragrance with deep breaths.The senator added: "It is good to be twenty-five and even to havechildren like that."

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