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Selected Writings-Part13_Guy De Maupassant(1850-1893)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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hearty and willing kisses have the flavor of wild fruit. Love

always has its price, come whence it may. A heart that beats when



you make your appearance, an eye that weeps when you go away,

these are things so rare, so sweet, so precious, that they must



never be despised.

"I have had rendezvous in ditches in which cattle repose, and in



barns among the straw, still steaming from the heat of the day. I

have recollections of canvas spread on rude and creaky benches,



and of hearty, fresh, free kisses, more delicate, free from

affectation, and sincere than the subtle attractions of charming



and distinguished women.

"But what you love most amid all these varied adventures are the



country, the woods, the risings of the sun, the twilight, the

light of the moon. For the painter these are honeymoon trips with



Nature. You are alone with her in that long and tranquil

rendezvous. You go to bed in the fields amid marguerites and wild



poppies, and, with eyes wide open, you watch the going down of

the sun, and descry in the distance the little village, with its



pointed clock-tower, which sounds the hour of midnight.

"You sit down by the side of a spring which gushes out from the



foot of an oak, amid a covering of fragile herbs, growing and

redolent of life. You go down on your knees, bend forward, and



drink the cold and pellucid water, wetting your mustache and

nose; you drink it with a physical pleasure, as though you were



kissing the spring, lip to lip. Sometimes, when you encounter a

deep hole, along the course of these tiny brooks, you plunge into



it, quite naked, and on your skin, from head to foot, like an icy

and deliciouscaress, you feel the lovely and gentle quivering of



the current.

"You are gay on the hills, melancholy on the verge of pools,



exalted when the sun is crowned in an ocean of blood-red shadows,

and when it casts on the rivers its red reflection. And at night,



under the moon, as it passes across the vault of heaven, you

think of things, singular things, which would never have occurred



to your mind under the brilliant light of day.

"So, in wandering through the same country we are in this year, I



came to the little village of Benouville, on the Falaise, between

Yport and Etretat. I came from Fecamp, following the coast, a



high coast, perpendicular as a wall, with projecting and rugged

rocks falling sheer down into the sea. I had walked since the



morning on the close clipped grass, as smooth and as yielding as

a carpet. Singing lustily, I walked with long strides, looking



sometimes at the slow and lazy flight of a gull, with its short,

white wings, sailing in the blue heavens, sometimes at the green



sea, or at the brown sails of a fishing bark. In short, I had

passed a happy day, a day of listlessness and of liberty.



"I was shown a little farmhouse, where travelers were put up, a

kind of inn, kept by a peasant, which stood in the center of a



Norman court, surrounded by a double row of beeches.

"Quitting the Falaise. I gained the hamlet, which was hemmed in



by great trees, and I presented myself at the house of Mother

Lecacheur.



"She was an old, wrinkled, and austererustic, who always seemed

to yield to the pressure of new customs with a kind of contempt.



"It was the month of May: the spreading apple-trees covered the

court with a whirling shower of blossoms which rained unceasingly



both upon people and upon the grass.

"I said:



" 'Well, Madame Lecacheur, have you a room for me?'

"Astonished to find that I knew her name, she answered:



" 'That depends; everything is let; but, all the same, there will

be no harm in looking.'



"In five minutes we were in perfect accord, and I deposited my

bag upon the bare floor of a rustic room, furnished with a bed,



two chairs, a table, and a washstand. The room opened into the

large and smoky kitchen, where the lodgers took their meals with



the people of the farm and with the farmer himself, who was a

widower.



"I washed my hands, after which I went out. The old woman was

fricasseeing a chicken for dinner in a large fireplace, in which



hung the stew-pot, black with smoke.

" 'You have travelers, then, at the present time?' said I to her.



"She answered in an offended tone of voice:

" 'I have a lady, an English lady, who has attained to years of






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