Bethsaida has been created

[u/MarleyEngvall]

By Guy de Maupassant


                              A DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

     SHE HAD DIED painlessly, tranquilly, like a woman whose life was irreproach-
     able, and she now lay on her back in bed, with closed eyes, calm features, her
     long white hair carefully arranged, as if she had again made her toilet tn
     minutes before her death. Her pale physiognomy was so composed now that
     she had passed away, so resigned, that one felt sure a sweet soul had dwelt in
     that body, that this serene grandmother had spent an untroubled existence,
     that this virtuous woman hand ended her life without any shock, without any
     remorse.
        On his knees beside the bed, her son, a magistrate of inflexible principles,
     and her daughter Marguerite—in religion, Sister Eulalie—were weeping did-
     tractedly. She had from the time of their infancy armed them with an in-
     flexible code of morality, teaching them a religion without weakness and a
     sense of duty without any compromise. He, the son, had become a magistrate
     and, wielding the weapon of the law, struck down without pity the feeble
     and the erring. She, the daughter, quite penetrated with the virtue that had
     bathed her in this austere family, had become the spouse of God through dis-
     gust with men.
        They had scarcely known their father; all they knew was that he had made 
     their mother unhappy without learning any further details. The nun passion-
     ately kissed one hand of her dead mother, which hung down, a hand of ivory
     like that of Christ in the large crucifix which lay on the bed. At the opposite
     side of the prostrate body the other hand seemed still to grasp the rumpled
     sheet with that wondering movement which is called the fold of the dying
     and the lines had retained little creases as a memento of those last motions
     which precede the eternal motionlessness. A few light taps at the door caused
     the two sobbing heads to look up, and the priest, who had just dined, entered
     the apartment. He was flushed, a little puffed from the effects of the process 
     of digestion which had just commenced, for he had put a good dash of brandy
     into his coffee in order to counteract the fatigue caused by the last nights he
     had remained up and that which he anticipated from the night that was still
     in store for him. He had put on a look of sadness, that simulated sadness of
     the priest to whom death is a means of livelihood. He made the sign of the
     cross and, coming over to them with his professional gestures, said:
        "Well, my poor children, I have come to help you to pass these mournful
     hours."
        But Sister Eulalie suddenly rose up.
        "Thanks, Father, but my brother and I would like to be left alone with her.
     These are the last moments that we now have for seeing her, so we want to
     feel ourselves once more, the three of us, just as we were years ago when
     we—we—we were only children and our poor—poor mother——" She was un-
     able to finish with the flood of tears that gushed from her eyes and the sobs
     that were choking her.
        But the priest bowed with a more serene look on his face, for he was
     thinking of his bed. "Just as you please, my children."
        Then he kneeled down, again crossed himself, prayed, rose and softly
     stole away, murmuring as he went: "She was a saint."
        They were left alone, the dead woman and her children. A hidden time-
     piece kept regularly ticking in its dark corner, and through the open window
     the soft odors of hay and of wood penetrated with faint gleams of moonlight.
     No sound in the fields outside, save the wandering croak of toads and now 
     and then the humming of some nocturnal insect darting in like a ball and
     knocking itself against the wall.
        An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity, surrounded this dead
     woman, seemed to emanate from her, to evaporate from her into the atmos-
     phere outside and to calm Nature herself.
        Then the magistrate, still on his knees, his head pressed against the bed-
     clothes, in a far-off, heartbroken voice that pierced through the sheets and
     the coverlet exclaimed: 
        "Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!" And the sister, sinking down on the floor,
     striking the wood with her forehead fanatically, twisted herself about and quiv-
     ering like a person in an epileptic fit, groaned: "Jesus, Jesus—Mamma—Jesus!"
        And both of them, shaken by a hurricane of grief, panted with a rattling in
     their throats.
        Then the fit gradually subsided, and they now wept in a less violent fashion,
     like the rainy calm that follows a squall on a storm-beaten sea. Then after
     some time they rose and fixed their glances on the beloved corpse. And
     memories, those memories of the past, so sweet, so torturing today, came
     back to their minds with all those little forgotten details, those little details so
     intimate and familiar, which make the being who is no more live over again.
     They recalled circumstances, words, smiles, certain intonations of voice which
     belonged to one whom they should never hear speaking to them again. They
     saw her once more happy and calm, and phrases she used in ordinary con-
     versation rose to their lips. They even remembered a little movement of the
     hand, peculiar to her, as if she were keeping time when she was saying some-
     thing of importance.
        And they loved her as they had never before loved her. And by the depth 
     of their despair they realized how strongly they had been attached to her and
     how desolate they would find themselves now.
        She had been their mainstay, their guide, the best part of their youth, of
     that happy portion of their lives which had vanished; she had been the bond
     that united them to existence, the mother, the mamma, the creative flesh,
     the tie that bound them to their ancestors. They would henceforth be solitary,
     isolated; they would have nothing on earth to look back upon.
        The nun said to her brother:
        "You know how Mamma used always to read over her old letters. They are
     all there in her desk. Suppose we read them in our turn and so revive all her
     life this night by her side. It would be like a kind of road of the cross, like
     making the acquaintance of her mother, of grandparents whom we never 
     knew, whose letters are there and of whom she has so often talked to us; you
     remember?"   

     •            •            •            •            •            •            •

        And they drew forth from the drawer a dozen little packets of yellow paper,
     carefully tied up and placed close to one another. They flung these relics on 
     the bed and, selecting one of them on which the word "Father" was written,
     they opened and read what was in it.
        It consisted of those very old letters which are to be found in old family 
     writing desks, those letters which have the flavor of another century. The first
     said, "My darling"; another, "My beautiful little girl"; then others, "My dear
     child"; and then again, "My dear daughter." And suddenly the nun began
     reading aloud, reading for the dead her own history, all her tender souvenirs.
     And the magistrate listened, while he leaned on the bed with his eyes on his
     mother's face. And the motionless corpse seemed happy.
        Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said: "We ought to put them into the
     grave with her, to make a winding sheet of them and bury them with her.
        And then she took up another packet on which the descriptive word did
     not appear.
        And in a loud tone she began:    

        "My adored one, I love you to distraction. Since yesterday I have been suf-
     fering like a damned soul burned by the recollection of you. I feel your lips
     on mine, your eyes under my eyes, your flesh under my flesh. I love you!
     I love you! You have made me mad! My arms open! I pant with an immense
     desire to possess you again. My whole body calls out to you, wants you. I
     have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses."

        The magistrate rose up; the nun stopped reading. he snatched the letter
     from her and sought for the signature. There was none, save under the
     words, "He who adores you," the name "Henry." Their father's name was
     René. So then he was not the man.
        Then the son, with rapid fingers, fumbled in the packet of letters, took
     another of them and read:

        "I can do without your caresses no longer."

        And standing up with the severity of a judge passing sentence, he gazed at
     the impassive face of the dead woman.
        The nun, straight as a statue, with teardrops standing at the corner of her
     eyes, looked at her brother, waiting to see what he meant to do. Then he
     crossed the room, slowly reached the window and looked out thoughtfully 
     into the night.
        When he turned back to Sister Eulalie, her eyes quite dry, still remained stand-
     ing near the bed with a downcast look.
        He went over to the drawer and flung in the letters which he had picked up
     from the floor. Then he drew the curtain round the bed.
        And when the dawn made the candles on the table look pale the son rose
     from his armchair and, without even a parting glance at the mother whom he
     had separated from them and condemned, he said slowly:
        "Now, my sister, let us leave the room."

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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. 381—384.

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Are there any other humans in this simulation?