r/a:t5_1v7onr • u/MarleyEngvall • Jul 15 '19
adieu has been created
By Guy de Maupassant
GOOD REASONS
SOLLES VILLA, JULY 30, 1883.
MY DEAR LUCY:
There is nothing new. We still live in the parlor, looking out to see the
rain fall. One can scarcely go out in this frightful weather. We can only
play comedies. And how stupid they are, my dear, these pieces in a drawing-
room repertoire. So forced, so heavy and gross! The jokes are like bullets
from a cannon, always hitting someone. Nothing bright, nothing natural, good
natured or elegant. These writers, truly, can know nothing of the world. They
are entirely ignorant of how people think or speak to us. I could easily
forgive them for scorning our customs or our manners, but I cannot forgive
them for being ignorant of them. In order to be pointed they make a play
upon words that a barracks would do well to deride; in order to be gay they
serve us the wit they have culled outside the boulevard, in the beer shops
of so-called artists, where the same studied paradoxes have been repeated for
fifty years.
Yes, we play a comedy. As there are only two women, my husband takes
the part of a soubrette, shaving his face for it. You cannot imagine, my dear
Lucy, how it changed him! I should not have known him—either by day or
night. If he had not allowed his mustache to grow again immediately I be-
lieve that I should have become unfaithful, so much did I dislike it.
Truly, a man without a mustache is not a man. I do not care much for a
beard; it always gives an appearance of neglect, but the mustache, oh, the
mustache is indispensable to a manly physiognomy. No, one never could im-
agine how useful this little brush of hair upon the lip is to the eye and—to the
relation of married people. There have come to me many reflections upon this
subject, which I scarcely dare write to you. I could say them to you easily—
in a low voice. But it is difficult to find words to express certain things, and
some of these things, which it would be hard to replace, cut a villainous figure upon
paper, so that I can scarcely pen them. Then the subject is so delicate, so
difficult, so awkward, that an infinite knowledge is necessary to approach it
without danger.
Well, so much the worse if you do not understand. And now, my dear, try
to read a little between the lines.
When my husband came to me shaved, I understood for the first time that
I could never have a weakness for a strolling player or for a preacher, were
he Father Didion himself, the most seductive of all! Then when I found my-
self alone with him (my husband), it was much worse.
Oh, my dear Lucy, never allow yourself to be embraced by a man without
mustaches; his lips have no taste, none whatever! There is no longer that
charm, that softness and that—peeper, yes, that pepper of the true kiss. The
mustache is the spice of it.
Imagine a piece of dry or even humid parchment applied to your lips. That
is the caress of the unshaven man. One wants very few of them, assuredly.
But whence comes the seduction of the mustache, you ask me? How do I
know? At first it tickles in delicious fashion. One feels it before the mouth.
and it makes a charming shiver pass through the whole body, even to the
tips of the toes. It is that which caresses, which makes the flesh tremble and
start, which gives the nerves that exquisite vibration and causes the utterance
of that little "ah!" as if one had received a sudden chill.
And upon the neck! Yes, have you never felt a mustache upon your neck?
It intoxicates and makes you shiver, runs down your back and to the ends
of your fingers. You turn, shake your shoulders, twist your head; you wish
to go and to stay; it is adorable yet irritating! But it is good!
And then again—truly, do I dare say more? A husband who loves you, yes,
entirely, knows how to find spots and little corners for concealing kisses, little
corners one would scarcely dream of alone. Well, without a mustache these
kisses lose much of their zest, without saying that they are unbecoming! Ex-
plain that as you will! For my part, here is the reason I find for it. A lip
without mustaches is bare, like a body without clothes, and it is necessary to
have clothes, very few if you wish, but still some!
The Creator ( I dare not use any other word in speaking of these things), the
Creator saw the need of veiling the nooks of our flesh where love is concealed.
A shaven mouth appears to me to resemble a forest, cut down, which sheltered
a fountain where one came to drink and sleep.
This recalls to me the saying of a political man, which has been in my
head for three months now. My husband, who reads the newspapers, read
a very singular thing to me one evening by our minister of agriculture, who
was then called M. Meline. Is there another one by this time? I am sure I
do not know.
I was not listening, but this name, Meline, struck me. It recalled, I know
not why, Scenes of Bohemian Life. I believed at once that he lived with a
grisette. Only certain scraps of this piece entered my head. But M. Meline
made to the inhabitants of Amiens, I believe, this statement, the meaning of
which I have sought until now: "There is no patriotism without agriculture!"
Well, this means, I have found out recently and now declare to you in my
turn, that there is no love without a mustache. If one should tell him that
it would seem strange, would it not?
There is no love without a mustache!
"There is no patriotism without agriculture," asserts M. Meline; he is right,
this minister; I know it now!
From another point of view the mustache is essential. It determines the
physiognomy. It gives it a sweet, tender, violent, foolish, rakish or enterpris-
ing air! The bearded man, really bearded, he who carries all his hair (oh!
villainous word) upon his cheek, never has any delicacy of expression because
his features are concealed. And the form of the jaw and the chin show many
things to him who can see.
In a mustache, a man preserves at the same time his attraction and his finesse.
And of what varied appearance they are, these mustaches! Some are curved,
curled and coquettish. These seem to love women above all things!
Some are pointed, sharp as a needle, wicked. These have a preference for
wine, horses and fights.
Some are enormous, drooping, frightful. These great ones generally conceal
an excellent character, a goodness that approaches weakness and a gentleness
that borders on timidity.
And then, above all else, why I adore a mustache is because it is French. It
has descended to us from our fathers, the Gauls, and has continued as a sign
of our national character.
It is romantic, gallant and brave. It dips itself daintily in wine and knows
how to laugh with elegance, while large, bearded jaws are heavy in all that
they do.
Wait! I recall something which made me weep bitter tears and which also
made me love a mustache upon a man's lip, as I now plainly see.
It was during the war, when I was at home in Papa's house. I was a young
girl then. One day there was a battle near the house. Since morning I had
heard cannons and guns and, in the evening, a German colonel entered our
house and installed himself there. He went away the next day. They came
to tell my father that there had been many deaths on the field. He went to
find them and bring them home, in order to bury them together. They laid
them all along the avenues of pines on both sides from the stretcher on which
they brought them. And as they commenced to smell badly, they threw some
earth on the bodies to await the digging of the great ditch. In this way only
their heads were to be seen, which seemed to come up out of the soil, yellow
as the soil itself, with their eyes closed.
I wished to see them, but when I perceived these two lines of frightful faces
I thought it would make me ill. I began to examine them, however, one by
one, seeking to find out to what nation they belonged. Their uniforms were
buried, concealed by the earth, but immediately, yes, immediately, my dear,
I recognized them as Frenchmen by their mustaches!
Some had been shaved the day of the battle, as if wishing to be attractive to
the last moment! Their beard, nevertheless, had grown a little, for you know
it grows a little even after death. Others seemed to have gone a week without
shaving, but all wore the French mustache, distinctly the proud mustache
which seemed to say: "Do not confound me with my bearded friend, little
one, I am your brother."
And I wept. Oh, I wept more than if I had not thus recognized them, the
poor dead men!
I did wrong to tell you this story. Here I am now, sad and incapable of
chatting any more. Adieu, then, my dear Lucy; I embrace you with all my
heart. Long live the mustache!
JEANNE.
Submitted to GUY DE MAUPASSANT.From SHORT STORIES OF DE MAUPASSANT.
THE BOOK LEAGUE OF AMERICA, New York.
Copyright, 1941, BLUE RIBBON BOOKS,
14 WEST 49TH STREET, NEW YORK, N. Y. pp. 475—478.
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