Waiter, a "Bock"

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular evening? I do notknow. It was cold; a fine rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps witha transparent fog, made the side walks reflect the light that streamedfrom the shop windows--lighting up the soft slush and the muddy feet ofthe passers-by.I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk afterdinner. I had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and severalother streets. I suddenly descried a large beer hall which was more thanhalf full. I walked inside, with no object in view. I was not the leastthirsty.I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded, and went andsat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who wassmoking a two-sous clay pipe, which was as black as coal. From six toeight glasses piled up on the table in front of him indicated the numberof "bocks" he had already absorbed. At a glance I recognized a"regular," one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in themorning when the place opens, and do not leave till evening when it isabout to close. He was dirty, bald on top of his head, with a fringe ofiron-gray hair falling on the collar of his frock coat. His clothes,much too large for him, appeared to have been made for him at a time whenhe was corpulent. One could guess that he did not wear suspenders, forhe could not take ten steps without having to stop to pull up histrousers. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots and of thatwhich they covered filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs wereperfectly black at the edges, as were his nails.As soon as I had seated myself beside him, this individual said to me ina quiet tone of voice:"How goes it?"I turned sharply round and closely scanned his features, whereupon hecontinued:"I see you do not recognize me.""No, I do not.""Des Barrets."I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.I seized him by the hand, and was so dumbfounded that I could findnothing to say. At length I managed to stammer out:"And you, how goes it with you?"He responded placidly:"I get along as I can.""What are you doing now?" I asked."You see what I am doing," he answered quit resignedly.I felt my face getting red. I insisted:"But every day?""Every day it is the same thing," was his reply, accompanied with a thickpuff of tobacco smoke.He then tapped with a sou on the top of the marble table, to attract theattention of the waiter, and called out:"Waiter, two 'bocks.'"A voice in the distance repeated:"Two bocks for the fourth table."Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:"Here they are!"Immediately a man with a white apron appeared, carrying two "bocks,"which he set down, foaming, on the table, spilling some of the yellowliquid on the sandy floor in his haste.Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on thetable, while he sucked in the foam that had been left on his mustache.He next asked:"What is there new?"I really had nothing new to tell him. I stammered:"Nothing, old man. I am a business man."In his monotonous tone of voice he said:"Indeed, does it amuse you?""No, but what can I do? One must do something!""Why should one?""So as to have occupation.""What's the use of an occupation? For my part, I do nothing at all, asyou see, never anything. When one has not a sou I can understand why oneshould work. But when one has enough to live on, what's the use? Whatis the good of working? Do you work for yourself, or for others? If youwork for yourself, you do it for your own amusement, which is all right;if you work for others, you are a fool."Then, laying his pipe on the marble table, he called out anew:"Waiter, a 'bock.'" And continued: "It makes me thirsty to keep callingso. I am not accustomed to that sort of thing. Yes, yes, I do nothing.I let things slide, and I am growing old. In dying I shall have nothingto regret. My only remembrance will be this beer hall. No wife, nochildren, no cares, no sorrows, nothing. That is best."He then emptied the glass which had been brought him, passed his tongueover his lips, and resumed his pipe.I looked at him in astonishment, and said:"But you have not always been like that?""Pardon me; ever since I left college.""That is not a proper life to lead, my dear fellow; it is simplyhorrible. Come, you must have something to do, you must love something,you must have friends.""No, I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my beer,I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink beer. Then abouthalf-past one in the morning, I go home to bed, because the place closesup; that annoys me more than anything. In the last ten years I havepassed fully six years on this bench, in my corner; and the other four inmy bed, nowhere else. I sometimes chat with the regular customers.""But when you came to Paris what did you do at first?""I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis.""What next?""Next I crossed the water and came here.""Why did you take that trouble?""What do you mean? One cannot remain all one's life in the LatinQuarter. The students make too much noise. Now I shall not move again.Waiter, a 'bock.'"I began to think that he was making fun of me, and I continued:"Come now, be frank. You have been the victim of some great sorrow; somedisappointment in love, no doubt! It is easy to see that you are a manwho has had some trouble. What age are you?""I am thirty, but I look forty-five, at least."I looked him straight in the face. His wrinkled, ill-shaven face gaveone the impression that he was an old man. On the top of his head a fewlong hairs waved over a skin of doubtful cleanliness. He had enormouseyelashes, a heavy mustache, and a thick beard. Suddenly I had a kind ofvision, I know not why, of a basin filled with dirty water in which allthat hair had been washed. I said to him:"You certainly look older than your age. You surely must haveexperienced some great sorrow."He replied:"I tell you that I have not. I am old because I never go out into theair. Nothing makes a man deteriorate more than the life of a cafe."I still could not believe him."You must surely also have been married? One could not get as bald-headed as you are without having been in love."He shook his head, shaking dandruff down on his coat as he did so."No, I have always been virtuous."And, raising his eyes toward the chandelier which heated our heads, hesaid:"If I am bald, it is the fault of the gas. It destroys the hair.Waiter, a 'bock.' Are you not thirsty?""No, thank you. But you really interest me. Since when have you been somorbid? Your life is not normal, it is not natural. There is somethingbeneath it all.""Yes, and it dates from my infancy. I received a great shock when I wasvery young, and that turned my life into darkness which will last to theend.""What was it?""You wish to know about it? Well, then, listen. You recall, of course,the castle in which I was brought up, for you used to spend five or sixmonths there during vacation. You remember that large gray building, inthe middle of a great park, and the long avenues of oaks which opened tothe four points of the compass. You remember my father and mother, bothof whom were ceremonious, solemn, and severe."I worshipped my mother; I was afraid of my father; but I respected both,accustomed always as I was to see every one bow before them. They wereMonsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse to all the country round, andour neighbors, the Tannemares, the Ravelets, the Brennevilles, showedthem the utmost consideration."I was then thirteen years old. I was happy, pleased with everything, asone is at that age, full of the joy of life."Well, toward the end of September, a few days before returning tocollege, as I was playing about in the shrubbery of the park, among thebranches and leaves, as I was crossing a path, I saw my father andmother, who were walking along."I recall it as though it were yesterday. It was a very windy day. Thewhole line of trees swayed beneath the gusts of wind, groaning, andseeming to utter cries-those dull, deep cries that forests give outduring a tempest."The falling leaves, turning yellow, flew away like birds, circling andfalling, and then running along the path like swift animals."Evening came on. It was dark in the thickets. The motion of the windand of the branches excited me, made me tear about as if I were crazy,and howl in imitation of the wolves."As soon as I perceived my parents, I crept furtively toward them, underthe branches, in order to surprise them, as though I had been a veritableprowler. But I stopped in fear a few paces from them. My father, whowas in a terrible passion, cried:"'Your mother is a fool; moreover, it is not a question of your mother.It is you. I tell you that I need this money, and I want you to signthis.'"My mother replied in a firm voice:"'I will not sign it. It is Jean's fortune. I shall guard it for himand I will not allow you to squander it with strange women, as you haveyour own heritage.'"Then my father, trembling with rage, wheeled round and, seizing his wifeby the throat, began to slap her with all his might full in the face withhis disengaged hand."My mother's hat fell off, her hair became loosened and fell over hershoulders; she tried to parry the blows, but she could not do so. And myfather, like a madman, kept on striking her. My mother rolled over onthe ground, covering her face with her hands. Then he turned her over onher back in order to slap her still more, pulling away her hands, whichwere covering her face."As for me, my friend, it seemed as though the world was coming to anend, that the eternal laws had changed. I experienced the overwhelmingdread that one has in presence of things supernatural, in presence ofirreparable disasters. My childish mind was bewildered, distracted.I began to cry with all my might, without knowing why; a prey to afearful dread, sorrow, and astonishment. My father heard me, turnedround, and, on seeing me, started toward me. I believe that he wanted tokill me, and I fled like a hunted animal, running straight ahead into thethicket."I ran perhaps for an hour, perhaps for two. I know not. Darkness setin. I sank on the grass, exhausted, and lay there dismayed, frantic withfear, and devoured by a sorrow capable of breaking forever the heart of apoor child. I was cold, hungry, perhaps. At length day broke. I wasafraid to get up, to walk, to return home, to run farther, fearing toencounter my father, whom I did not wish to see again."I should probably have died of misery and of hunger at the foot of atree if the park guard had not discovered me and led me home by force."I found my parents looking as usual. My mother alone spoke to me"'How you frightened me, you naughty boy. I lay awake the whole night.'"I did not answer, but began to weep. My father did not utter a singleword."Eight days later I returned to school."Well, my friend, it was all over with me. I had witnessed the otherside of things, the bad side. I have not been able to perceive the goodside since that day. What has taken place in my mind, what strangephenomenon has warped my ideas, I do not know. But I no longer had ataste for anything, a wish for anything, a love for anybody, a desire foranything whatever, any ambition, or any hope. And I always see my poormother on the ground, in the park, my father beating her. My mother diedsome years later; my, father still lives. I have not seen him since.Waiter, a 'bock.'"A waiter brought him his "bock," which he swallowed at a gulp. But, intaking up his pipe again, trembling as he was, he broke it. "Confoundit!" he said, with a gesture of annoyance. "That is a real sorrow. Itwill take me a month to color another!"And he called out across the vast hall, now reeking with smoke and fullof men drinking, his everlasting: "Garcon, un 'bock'--and a new pipe."

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