READING MAUPASSANT, WEARING OZZ (BOOK REVIEW AND OUTFIT POST)

Hello dear readers and fellow bloggers. This post is going is going to combine literature and fashion. One could say that's a pretty common combination on my blog. When I post my book reviews, I like to add in some fashion images as well.  In this post, I'll share a review for a few short story written by Maupassant, a French author. I'll also show you some cute outfits I wore, so let's get started. 

I'm sharing two outfits today, both of them have a touch of metallic in them. One of them is a more romantic lilac outfit worn with a silver cropped top, while the other is an all black look completed with a vintage black vest with golden imitation pearls. I think the vintage vest really added something to that look. Similarly, the silver cropped top complemented the lilac dress and skirt pretty well. The skirt and the dress I wore under the skirt and the top are both from a local brand Ozz by fashion designer Stanka Zovko. I'll share the links to 'how I wore it before' below. However, let's talk and literature books first and leave the fashion for later!

Who was Guy de Maupassant? He was a writer, and a well know one. Maupassant was a French naturalist writer of short stories and novels who is Sometimes he's even referred to as the best short story writer.  What is certain is that he is the greatest French short-story writer. Born in 1850, he died in Paris in 1893. 

I fell in love with his writing many years ago. I have enjoyed both his novels and short stories. If he's a master of the short stories, he's a competent novelist as well. He was such a proficient writer. Maupassant wrote around 300 short stories and six novels! He also wrote three travel books and a poetry book. He was truly amazingly proficient, especially considering he died at a relatively young age. I still haven't read all of his works!

I have reviewed a number of his works on my blog. You can read them by clicking on the links below. 

BOOK REVIEW AND RECOMMENDATION: BEL-AMI

 ( I published a review for this novel in 2021)

Bel- Ami is a true masterpiece. This novel fulfilled my expectations in the best way possible. Never have I liked a novel featuring an immoral protagonist as much. I tend to have issues connecting with a book if I don't like the protagonist, but this time it wasn't the case. Possibly because this novel isn't really about the protagonist Bel-Ami, or rather, not just about him but about the French (or more precisely Parisian) society of the time. 

As a young girl, I adored Balzac (and I still love him) but as an adult woman I perhaps treasure Maupassant over all the other great French writers. There is something in his pessimism that I find surprisingly uplifting. In the best of his naturalistic writing, Maupassant lifts a veil over us humans and let us see ourselves for what we often are: instinct driven social animals. It is a painful view, for sure, but there is something wonderfully honest about it, something educating and paradoxically even uplifting. 

It is as if the writer puts a finger at many of dilemmas that bother us. I think being naive is something we are all often guilty of and when there is a writer who shows us a harsher but a more realistic view of the world, it can be quite liberating. Speaking of the realistic portrayal of things, Maupassant is know for being a representative of naturalist school of writing, meaning that he takes realism one step further and shows things in a disillusioned even pessimistic way. 

BOOK REVIEW AND RECOMMENDATION: MONT ORIOL 

( I published a review for this novel in 2016)

In Mont- Oriol, there is a number of interesting characters. The narrative is elegant and natural; it follows a few different threads that make it a really fascinating read. However, I can't help feeling that this novel is actually all about Christiane, a young woman who has a great capacity and hunger for love but she doesn't even realize it at the start of this novel. It is her story that I found most touching and real. I felt like I could really relate to her on so many levels. It is on basis of the success of her characterization that I consider this novel to be a true masterpiece.

This writer has a reputation for being a cynic and pessimist, so I might come as surprise to some that his writing is very uplifting to me. I guess there are different types of cynics and maybe that is it, but to be honest this writer doesn't strike me as a cynic at all. It is certainly true that Maupassant reveals dark sides of human nature but the way he does it is very honest and straight forward. I always respect that in a writer. He is the kind of writer that lets you come to your own conclusions, he doesn't force you to see the world in a particular way. That's what I love about his works and writing, his books make you think!

THE FATHER, A SHORT STORY BY GUY DE MAUPASSANT 5/5

The first short story that I'm going to review is The Father. I've actually first listened to an audio version of this story in Italian, and then I read it in English.

This is a story about a father than abandons his son, but ends up regretting it bitterly. It made me think of a lot of real life examples that I know of, where a parent would abandon a child, but they would always regret it. It seems there's justice in life after all.

It's a story that definitely made me think. It feels very authentic. I can imagine Maupassant drawing from life when he created this story. It seems like a story we might hear from someone we know, and reflect on it.

The Father is a story narrated from a third person view. The narrator of the story has a full view into events, and we can assume it's a reliable narrator. 

Is this a moralist story? Maupassant certainly isn't considered a writer of moralist stories. He's known for showing humanity in an unflattering, grim and even pessimistic view. Still, perhaps a number of Maupassant stories could be called moralist, as there's a clear moral message. However, they are always also very human and realistic. 

What follows is my review accompanied by quotes from the work itself. This is how the story starts. The protagonist of this story is a clerk who falls in love with a girl. 

He was a clerk in the Bureau of Public Education and lived at Batignolles. He took the omnibus to Paris every morning and always sat opposite a girl, with whom he fell in love. She was employed in a shop and went in at the same time every day. 

The story starts innocently enough. The protagonist falls in love with a little brunette. The writer/narrator gives us a precise description, and it's easy to imagine this beautiful young girl. 

She was a little brunette, one of those girls whose eyes are so dark that they look like black spots, on a complexion like ivory. He always saw her coming at the corner of the same street, and she generally had to run to catch the heavy vehicle, and sprang upon the steps before the horses had quite stopped. Then she got inside, out of breath, and, sitting down, looked round her.

It's a story of love at first time, as old as time. The writer is really good in portraying Francois feelings, and as readers we feel both for the protagonist and the brunette girl. 

The first time that he saw her, Francois Tessier liked the face. One sometimes meets a woman whom one longs to clasp in one's arms without even knowing her. That girl seemed to respond to some chord in his being, to that sort of ideal of love which one cherishes in the depths of the heart, without knowing it.

It seems that the girl takes the liking to our protagonist, so he's not without hope. The words the writer i.e. narrator uses are both simple and poetical. Everything seems ideal. The humans means who are young and innocent. This creates a sharp contrast with the end of the story. 

He looked at her intently, not meaning to be rude, and she became embarrassed and blushed. He noticed it, and tried to turn away his eyes; but he involuntarily fixed them upon her again every moment, although he tried to look in another direction; and, in a few days, they seemed to know each other without having spoken. He gave up his place to her when the omnibus was full, and got outside, though he was very sorry to do it. By this time she had got so far as to greet him with a little smile; and, although she always dropped her eyes under his looks, which she felt were too ardent, yet she did not appear offended at being looked at in such a manner.

An opportunity to become friends appears, and both grasp at it.  What will become of their shared affection? Is there a future for this love at first sight. 

They ended by speaking. A kind of rapid friendship had become established between them, a daily freemasonry of half an hour, and that was certainly one of the most charming half hours in his life to him. He thought of her all the rest of the day, saw her image continually during the long office hours. He was haunted and bewitched by that floating and yet tenacious recollection which the form of a beloved woman leaves in us, and it seemed to him that if he could win that little person it would be maddening happiness to him, almost above human realization.

Clearly, the protagonist is head over heels in  love with this girl, and she seems to share his feelings. To him it seems like impossible happiness to win her over. The narrator adds little details that make the story seem more realistic, like for example the protagonist preserving the sense of touch when they shake hands daily. 

Every morning she now shook hands with him, and he preserved the sense of that touch and the recollection of the gentle pressure of her little fingers until the next day, and he almost fancied that he preserved the imprint on his palm. He anxiously waited for this short omnibus ride, while Sundays seemed to him heartbreaking days. However, there was no doubt that she loved him, for one Saturday, in spring, she promised to go and lunch with him at Maisons-Laffitte the next day.

The plot develops, as the girl promises to have lunch with him. Does it mean they are going to be a couple now? We'll find out soon enough. Before they leave to have lunch together, the girl wants to talk with him. 

She was at the railway station first, which surprised him, but she said: “Before going, I want to speak to you. We have twenty minutes, and that is more than I shall take for what I have to say.”

She trembled as she hung on his arm, and looked down, her cheeks pale, as she continued: “I do not want you to be deceived in me, and I shall not go there with you, unless you promise, unless you swear—not to do—not to do anything—that is at all improper.”

She had suddenly become as red as a poppy, and said no more. He did not know what to reply, for he was happy and disappointed at the same time. He should love her less, certainly, if he knew that her conduct was light, but then it would be so charming, so delicious to have a little flirtation.

What does it mean that he was happy and disappointed at the same time? A part of him is happy that her feelings for him are serious, but a part of him is also disappointed that it's not a fling. Perhaps a part of him longs for a serious relationship, and the other part is afraid of it. Isn't that often the case. I like how Maupassant shows us the complexity that is a human being. The writer understands how a person can be happy and sad at the same time- and for the same reason! No wonder that our protagonist is lost for words. He's fighting an inner battle!

As he did not say anything, she began to speak again in an agitated voice and with tears in her eyes. “If you do not promise to respect me altogether, I shall return home.” And so he squeezed her arm tenderly and replied: “I promise, you shall only do what you like.” She appeared relieved in mind, and asked, with a smile: “Do you really mean it?” And he looked into her eyes and replied: “I swear it” “Now you may take the tickets,” she said.

The protagonist promises to respect the girl, and the seems content with his promise. They continue on their journey, and what follows is a day filled with happiness. The words that Maupassant uses are quite poetical at times, reflecting the magic of young love. 

During the journey they could hardly speak, as the carriage was full, and when they reached Maisons-Laffite they went toward the Seine. The sun, which shone full on the river, on the leaves and the grass, seemed to be reflected in their hearts, and they went, hand in hand, along the bank, looking at the shoals of little fish swimming near the bank, and they walked on, brimming over with happiness, as if they were walking on air.

At last she said: “How foolish you must think me!”

“Why?” he asked. “To come out like this, all alone with you.”

“Certainly not; it is quite natural.” “No, no; it is not natural for me —because I do not wish to commit a fault, and yet this is how girls fall. But if you only knew how wretched it is, every day the same thing, every day in the month and every month in the year. I live quite alone with mamma, and as she has had a great deal of trouble, she is not very cheerful. I do the best I can, and try to laugh in spite of everything, but I do not always succeed. But, all the same, it was wrong in me to come, though you, at any rate, will not be sorry.”

By way of an answer, he kissed her ardently on the ear that was nearest him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and, getting suddenly angry, exclaimed: “Oh! Monsieur Francois, after what you swore to me!” And they went back to Maisons-Laffitte.

They enjoys themselves, but the girl is worried what he will think of her. When she talked about her difficult life, I really felt for her. She's worried that he will think ill of her if she enjoys her time with him, and is worried whether she's behaving as proper as women were expected to behave back then in order to be considered as suitable to wed. It's honestly easy to understand them both. She wants to enjoy her time with a man she likes. What is wrong with that? He wants the same, and says it's only natural. Yet, life is not so simple. They're seizing one another as potential partners, and who knows what might happen. Sometimes the most intense love feelings are the most fragile ones. At any rate, the two young birds, continue their day and have lunch as agreed. It's only during their conversation that he asks her name for the first time. It seems odd he never asked it before. Maybe he wanted her to be just a beautiful dream?

They had lunch at the Petit-Havre, a low house, buried under four enormous poplar trees, by the side of the river. The air, the heat, the weak white wine and the sensation of being so close together made them silent; their faces were flushed and they had a feeling of oppression; but, after the coffee, they regained their high spirits, and, having crossed the Seine, started off along the bank, toward the village of La Frette. Suddenly he asked: “What-is your name?”

“Louise.”

“Louise,” he repeated and said nothing more.

The girl picked daisies and made them into a great bunch, while he sang vigorously, as unrestrained as a colt that has been turned into a meadow. On their left a vine-covered slope followed the river. Francois stopped motionless with astonishment: “Oh, look there!” he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the whole slope was covered with lilac bushes in flower. It was a purple wood! A kind of great carpet of flowers stretched over the earth, reaching as far as the village, more than two miles off. She also stood, surprised and delighted, and murmured: “Oh! how pretty!” And, crossing a meadow, they ran toward that curious low hill, which, every year, furnishes all the lilac that is drawn through Paris on the carts of the flower venders.

There was a narrow path beneath the trees, so they took it, and when they came to a small clearing, sat down.

Swarms of flies were buzzing around them and making a continuous, gentle sound, and the sun, the bright sun of a perfectly still day, shone over the bright slopes and from that forest of blossoms a powerful fragrance was borne toward them, a breath of perfume, the breath of the flowers.

Everything seems perfect, but when a church clock strikes, the girl cries. Perhaps she senses trouble. Is the church clock a symbol of something here? It could be said that it's foreshadowing. 

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then, without the knowledge of anything but that kiss, lay down on the grass. But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great misfortune, and began to cry and sob with grief, with her face buried in her hands.

He tried to console her, but she wanted to start to return and to go home immediately; and she kept saying, as she walked along quickly: “Good heavens! good heavens!”

He said to her: “Louise! Louise! Please let us stop here.” But now her cheeks were red and her eyes hollow, and, as soon as they got to the railway station in Paris, she left him without even saying good-by. III

When he met her in the omnibus, next day, she appeared to him to be changed and thinner, and she said to him: “I want to speak to you; we will get down at the Boulevard.”

As soon as they were on the pavement, she said:

“We must bid each other good-by; I cannot meet you again.” “But why?” he asked. “Because I cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not be so again.”

Then he implored her, tortured by his love, but she replied firmly: “No, I cannot, I cannot.” He, however, only grew all the more excited and promised to marry her, but she said again: “No,” and left him.

The protagonist promises to marry her? Did he really mean it? Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn't. However, the girl disappears and we don't get to learn more at this stage. This story is fast paced, and very eventful for a short story so in a course of a few sentences she returns and she doesn't resist him anymore. There's a bit of ambiguity here. 

For a week he did not see her. He could not manage to meet her, and, as he did not know her address, he thought that he had lost her altogether. On the ninth day, however, there was a ring at his bell, and when he opened the door, she was there. She threw herself into his arms and did not resist any longer, and for three months they were close friends. 

Human tragedies can take just a sentence of describe. What does she whispers to him? We'll never know. Did he intent to marry her or is it just something he said in the heat of moment? When she returns, he quickly grows tired of her. After that one sentence of them being close friends, we don't learn much about their time together. Was he disappointed by her surrender? 

He was beginning to grow tired of her, when she whispered something to him, and then he had one idea and wish: to break with her at any price. As, however, he could not do that, not knowing how to begin, or what to say, full of anxiety through fear of the consequences of his rash indiscretion, he took a decisive step: one night he changed his lodgings and disappeared.

We find out what happened, but not why. So, as readers we're invited to interpret the events as we see fit. Did she doubt him? Did he doubt her? What happened? What did she whisper to him? Whatever happened, the result is clear. Francoise abandoned Louise. Moreover, he did in a cruel way. He didn't even say goodbye to her, or tried to explain. He simply disappeared. The narrator informs us that Louise didn't even try to look for Francoise, because the blow was so hard.

The blow was so heavy that she did not look, for the man who had abandoned her, but threw herself at her mother's knees and confessed her misfortune, and, some months after, gave birth to a boy. 

Maupassant expresses so much in so many words. A sentence covers months and years. We learn that Francoise grew old and led a dull life. We cannot exactly feel sorry for him, seeing that he made his own choices, yet what person hasn't fled before their emotions or responsibilities at least once? 

Years passed, and Francois Tessier grew old, without there having been any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of an office clerk, without hope and without expectation. Every day he got up at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the same door, past the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the same chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone during the day in the midst of his different colleagues, and alone at night in his bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month against old age.

Every Sunday he went to the Champs-Elysees, to watch the elegant people, the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to say to one of his colleagues: “The return of the carriages from the Bois du Boulogne was very brilliant yesterday.” 

Completely by change, Francoise sees the woman he abandoned- and she's not alone, she's two children. 

One fine Sunday morning, however, he went into the Parc Monceau, where the mothers and nurses, sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing, and suddenly Francois Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two children by the hand, a little boy of about ten and a little girl of four. It was she!

He walked another hundred yards anti then fell into a chair, choking with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It was she, it was certainly she, but she had the reserved appearance of a lady, was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He looked at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near; but the little boy raised his head, and Francois Tessier felt himself tremble. It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And, as he looked at him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in an old photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tree, waiting for her to go that he might follow her.

Francois is tormented, and when his investigation reveals that the son is certainly his, and that Louise has remarried a kind man who raised Francois' child as his own. Did it make him feel better or worse? Or perhaps both? 

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially tormented him. His son! Oh, if he could only have known, have been sure! But what could he have done? However, he went to the house where she lived and asked about her. He was told that a neighbor, an honorable man of strict morals, had been touched by her distress and had married her; he knew the fault she had committed and had married her, and had even recognized the child, his, Francois Tessier's child, as his own.

As readers, it's easy to sympathize with Louise. Nevertheless, from what we can learn, she's living a happy family life and appears calm and dignified. It is Francois that suffers in his isolation. Has he loved her? Is that why he never remarried? Was he simply a coward? What can he do about it now? Francois suffers, and while one can feels sorry for him, it's clear that what happens is the consequence of his own decision. He abandoned Louise. He has no rights here, and he's aware of it. Francoise doesn't seem to be in love with Louise anymore, he doesn't seem to want her, perhaps because she's a married woman now. However, he would like to be a father to his son. 

He returned to the Parc Monceau every Sunday, for then he always saw her, and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing to take his son into his arms, to cover him with kisses and to steal him, to carry him off.

He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture, torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and jealousy and from that need of loving one's own children which nature has implanted in all. 

Francoise finally summons courage to approach Louise, but she understandingly runs away from him and months pass during which he suffers while his paternal love awakens. 

At last he determined to make a despairing attempt, and, going up to her, as she entered the park, he said, standing in the middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips: “You do not recognize me.” She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered an exclamation of horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the hand, she rushed away, dragging them after her, while he went home and wept inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have died, if he could only have kissed his son; he would have committed murder, performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. 

Francoise writes to Louise, but when she doesn't answer, in a desperate attempt, he decides to write to her husband, begging him to allow him to see the child. 

He wrote to her, but she did not reply, and, after writing her some twenty letters, he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination, and then he formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband, being quite prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be. His letter only consisted of a few lines, as follows:

“Monsieur: You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so wretched, so overcome by misery that my only hope is in you, and, therefore, I venture to request you to grant me an interview of only five minutes.

“I have the honor, etc.”

The next day he received the reply:

“Monsieur: I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock.”

The man who married Louise and raised his son agrees to a meeting and allows Francois to see his son. Maupassant describes Francois' turbulent emotions in detail. 

As he went up the staircase, Francois Tessier's heart beat so violently that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent thumping noise in his breast, as of some animal galloping; and he could breathe only with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters, in order not to fall.

He rang the bell on the third floor, and when a maid servant had opened the door, he asked: “Does Monsieur Flamel live here?” “Yes, monsieur. Kindly come in.”

He was shown into the drawing-room; he was alone, and waited, feeling bewildered, as in the midst of a catastrophe, until a door opened, and a man came in. He was tall, serious and rather stout, and wore a black frock coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. Francois Tessier sat down, and then said, with choking breath: “Monsieur—monsieur—I do not know whether you know my name—whether you know——”

Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. “You need not tell it me, monsieur, I know it. My wife has spoken to me about you.” He spoke in the dignified tone of voice of a good man who wishes to be severe, and with the commonplace stateliness of an honorable man, and Francois Tessier continued:

“Well, monsieur, I want to say this: I am dying of grief, of remorse, of shame, and I would like once, only once to kiss the child.”

Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, and when the servant came in, he said: “Will you bring Louis here?” When she had gone out, they remained face to face, without speaking, as they had nothing more to say to one another, and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of ten rushed into the room and ran up to the man whom he believed to be his father, but he stopped when he saw the stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him and said: “Now, go and kiss that gentleman, my dear.” And the child went up to the stranger and looked at him.

Francois Tessier had risen. He let his hat fall, and was ready to fall himself as he looked at his son, while Monsieur Flamel had turned away, from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.

The child waited in surprise; but he picked up the hat and gave it to the stranger. Then Francois, taking the child up in his arms, began to kiss him wildly all over his face; on his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, his hair; and the youngster, frightened at the shower of kisses, tried to avoid them, turned away his head, and pushed away the man's face with his little hands. But suddenly Francois Tessier put him down and cried: “Good-by! good-by!” And he rushed out of the room as if he had been a thief.

The ending of the story feels sudden. After kissing his son, Francois rushes out of he room as a thief. Undoubtedly, Francois is ashamed of himself for abandoning the woman, and hence the child as well. While it is true that he didn't know that Louse was pregnant, the manner in which he left her was cowardly. Louise had no way of letting him know she was pregnant. Now, an old and alone man Francoise wishes to be the father to his child, but it is too late. He himself understands this. The child already has a father, a man who raised it and gave it its name. This story is an example of- you reap what you sow. 

The second story I'm going to review is titled Coward.  It's a story of a young man who commits suicide in an unexpected way. I read it doing the holidays. I read two short stories by Maupassant during the holidays, and they both focused on suicide. My holidays started alright, but then I got sick. Somehow it seems appropriate that during that time I watched and read series and films that were anything but easy. Films, series, book, stories, everything I have seen and read lately seems to be difficult, sad or straight out depressive. Is the universe telling me I need catharsis? Maybe I do. Maybe that is why I happened on so many bleak things lately. Bleak, but well written. Tragic and sad stories, but also warm and human.

COWARD, A SHORT STORY MY MAUPASSANT 5/5

Coward is a story that impressed me with its powerful uniqueness. It's a brief and fast paced story, that nevertheless explores and dives in a complex issue- that of a suicide. The psychological portrayal of the protagonist is done exceptionally feel. It's easy to relate to him, and to feel sympathy for him. He is a young man of excellent manners and morals. When he finds himself facing a duel with an individual he doesn't know, he feels 'fear' for the first time. The fear is not only the natural fear of death, bur rather something more complex- our protagonist Vicomte is terrified of others noticing his fear. However, let's look at the story for the beginning. 

The author opens with the description of our protagonist- Victomte de Signoles. 

In society he was called “Handsome Signoles.” His name was Vicomte Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.

An orphan, and possessed of an ample fortune, he cut quite a dash, as it is called. He had an attractive appearance and manner, could talk well, had a certain inborn elegance, an air of pride and nobility, a good mustache, and a tender eye, that always finds favor with women.

He was in great request at receptions, waltzed to perfection, and was regarded by his own sex with that smiling hostility accorded to the popular society man. He had been suspected of more than one love affair, calculated to enhance the reputation of a bachelor. He lived a happy, peaceful life—a life of physical and mental well-being. He had won considerable fame as a swordsman, and still more as a marksman.

“When the time comes for me to fight a duel,” he said, “I shall choose pistols. With such a weapon I am sure to kill my man.”

The opportunity for a duel arrives sooner than later. When an unknown men stares at women in our protagonist's company, Victomcte de Signoles feels an obligation to defend them, being a gentlemen that he is. 

One evening, having accompanied two women friends of his with their husbands to the theatre, he invited them to take some ice cream at Tortoni's after the performance. They had been seated a few minutes in the restaurant when Signoles noticed that a man was staring persistently at one of the ladies. She seemed annoyed, and lowered her eyes. At last she said to her husband:

“There's a man over there looking at me. I don't know him; do you?”

The husband, who had noticed nothing, glanced across at the offender, and said:

“No; not in the least.”

His wife continued, half smiling, half angry:

“It's very tiresome! He quite spoils my ice cream.”

The husband shrugged his shoulders.

“Nonsense! Don't take any notice of him. If we were to bother our heads about all the ill-mannered people we should have no time for anything else.”

But the vicomte abruptly left his seat. He could not allow this insolent fellow to spoil an ice for a guest of his. It was for him to take cognizance of the offence, since it was through him that his friends had come to the restaurant. He went across to the man and said:

“Sir, you are staring at those ladies in a manner I cannot permit. I must ask you to desist from your rudeness.”

The other replied:

“Let me alone, will you!”

“Take care, sir,” said the vicomte between his teeth, “or you will force me to extreme measures.”

The man replied with a single word—a foul word, which could be heard from one end of the restaurant to the other, and which startled every one there. All those whose backs were toward the two disputants turned round; all the others raised their heads; three waiters spun round on their heels like tops; the two lady cashiers jumped, as if shot, then turned their bodies simultaneously, like two automata worked by the same spring.

There was dead silence. Then suddenly a sharp, crisp sound. The vicomte had slapped his adversary's face. Every one rose to interfere. Cards were exchanged.

When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up and down his room for some minutes. He was in a state of too great agitation to think connectedly. One idea alone possessed him: a duel. But this idea aroused in him as yet no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was bound to do; he had proved himself to be what he ought to be. He would be talked about, approved, congratulated. He repeated aloud, speaking as one does when under the stress of great mental disturbance:

“What a brute of a man!” Then he sat down, and began to reflect. He would have to find seconds as soon as morning came. Whom should he choose? He bethought himself of the most influential and best-known men of his acquaintance. His choice fell at last on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin-a nobleman and a soldier. That would be just the thing. Their names would carry weight in the newspapers. He was thirsty, and drank three glasses of water, one after another; then he walked up and down again. If he showed himself brave, determined, prepared to face a duel in deadly earnest, his adversary would probably draw back and proffer excuses. He picked up the card he had taken from his pocket and thrown on a table. He read it again, as he had already read it, first at a glance in the restaurant, and afterward on the way home in the light of each gas lamp: “Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey.” That was all.

He examined closely this collection of letters, which seemed to him mysterious, fraught with many meanings. Georges Lamil! Who was the man? What was his profession? Why had he stared so at the woman? Was it not monstrous that a stranger, an unknown, should thus all at once upset one's whole life, simply because it had pleased him to stare rudely at a woman? And the vicomte once more repeated aloud:

“What a brute!”

Then he stood motionless, thinking, his eyes still fixed on the card. Anger rose in his heart against this scrap of paper—a resentful anger, mingled with a strange sense of uneasiness. It was a stupid business altogether! He took up a penknife which lay open within reach, and deliberately stuck it into the middle of the printed name, as if he were stabbing some one.

So he would have to fight! Should he choose swords or pistols?—for he considered himself as the insulted party. With the sword he would risk less, but with the pistol there was some chance of his adversary backing out. A duel with swords is rarely fatal, since mutual prudence prevents the combatants from fighting close enough to each other for a point to enter very deep. With pistols he would seriously risk his life; but, on the other hand, he might come out of the affair with flying colors, and without a duel, after all.

It's here that we see our protagonist seriously considering the matter, and as is normal he starts to feel some fear. Maupassant often wrote of women and their position. This story shows us how it's not easy to be a man either. To be a man, one must never show fear. What is more normal than fear in face of a duel? Our protagonist feels compelled by the standards put forward by the society. Possibly he even fears injuring the other man. Possibly he doesn't want to risk it by a duel with swords. It's clear he would rather this whole duel thing be forgotten. He chooses pistols, as he hopes his opponent will back down. 

“I must be firm,” he said. “The fellow will be afraid.”

The sound of his own voice startled him, and he looked nervously round the room. He felt unstrung. He drank another glass of water, and then began undressing, preparatory to going to bed.

As soon as he was in bed he blew out the light and shut his eyes.

“I have all day to-morrow,” he reflected, “for setting my affairs in order. I must sleep now, in order to be calm when the time comes.”

He was very warm in bed, but he could not succeed in losing consciousness. He tossed and turned, remained for five minutes lying on his back, then changed to his left side, then rolled over to his right. He was thirsty again, and rose to drink. Then a qualm seized him:

“Can it be possible that I am afraid?”

Why did his heart beat so uncontrollably at every well-known sound in his room? When the clock was about to strike, the prefatory grating of its spring made him start, and for several seconds he panted for breath, so unnerved was he.

He began to reason with himself on the possibility of such a thing: “Could I by any chance be afraid?”

No, indeed; he could not be afraid, since he was resolved to proceed to the last extremity, since he was irrevocably determined to fight without flinching. And yet he was so perturbed in mind and body that he asked himself:

“Is it possible to be afraid in spite of one's self?”

And this doubt, this fearful question, took possession of him. If an irresistible power, stronger than his own will, were to quell his courage, what would happen? He would certainly go to the place appointed; his will would force him that far. But supposing, when there, he were to tremble or faint? And he thought of his social standing, his reputation, his name.

And he suddenly determined to get up and look at himself in the glass. He lighted his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the mirror he scarcely recognized it. He seemed to see before him a man whom he did not know. His eyes looked disproportionately large, and he was very pale.

He remained standing before the mirror. He put out his tongue, as if to examine the state of his health, and all at once the thought flashed into his mind:

“At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead.”

And his heart throbbed painfully.

“At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead. This person in front of me, this 'I' whom I see in the glass, will perhaps be no more. What! Here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself to be alive—and yet in twenty-four hours I may be lying on that bed, with closed eyes, dead, cold, inanimate.”

He turned round, and could see himself distinctly lying on his back on the couch he had just quitted. He had the hollow face and the limp hands of death.

I really felt for our young protagonist here, tormented by fear and with nobody to console him. Often it is that the most popular people are the most lonely ones. He has no parents to advise him, and his friends cannot understand that he's afraid because it's something he needs to hide. A tragedy of being a man!

Then he became afraid of his bed, and to avoid seeing it went to his smoking-room. He mechanically took a cigar, lighted it, and began walking back and forth. He was cold; he took a step toward the bell, to wake his valet, but stopped with hand raised toward the bell rope.

“He would see that I am afraid!”

And, instead of ringing, he made a fire himself. His hands quivered nervously as they touched various objects. His head grew dizzy, his thoughts confused, disjointed, painful; a numbness seized his spirit, as if he had been drinking.

And all the time he kept on saying:

“What shall I do? What will become of me?”

His whole body trembled spasmodically; he rose, and, going to the window, drew back the curtains.

The day—a summer day-was breaking. The pink sky cast a glow on the city, its roofs, and its walls. A flush of light enveloped the awakened world, like a caress from the rising sun, and the glimmer of dawn kindled new hope in the breast of the vicomte. What a fool he was to let himself succumb to fear before anything was decided—before his seconds had interviewed those of Georges Lamil, before he even knew whether he would have to fight or not!

He bathed, dressed, and left the house with a firm step.

He repeated as he went:

“I must be firm—very firm. I must show that I am not afraid.”

His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, placed themselves at his disposal, and, having shaken him warmly by the hand, began to discuss details.

“You want a serious duel?” asked the colonel.

“Yes—quite serious,” replied the vicomte.

“You insist on pistols?” put in the marquis.

“Yes.”

“Do you leave all the other arrangements in our hands?”

With a dry, jerky voice the vicomte answered:

“Twenty paces—at a given signal—the arm to be raised, not lowered—shots to be exchanged until one or other is seriously wounded.”

“Excellent conditions,” declared the colonel in a satisfied tone. “You are a good shot; all the chances are in your favor.”

And they parted. The vicomte returned home to wait for them. His agitation, only temporarily allayed, now increased momentarily. He felt, in arms, legs and chest, a sort of trembling—a continuous vibration; he could not stay still, either sitting or standing. His mouth was parched, and he made every now and then a clicking movement of the tongue, as if to detach it from his palate.

The protagonist tries to find courage in drink, but soon he learns that this provides only  a temporary relief. 

He attempted, to take luncheon, but could not eat. Then it occurred to him to seek courage in drink, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed, one after another, six small glasses.

A burning warmth, followed by a deadening of the mental faculties, ensued. He said to himself:

“I know how to manage. Now it will be all right!”

But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his agitation was worse than ever. A mad longing possessed him to throw himself on the ground, to bite, to scream. Night fell.

A ring at the bell so unnerved him that he had not the strength to rise to receive his seconds.

He dared not even to speak to them, wish them good-day, utter a single word, lest his changed voice should betray him.

“All is arranged as you wished,” said the colonel. “Your adversary claimed at first the privilege of the offended part; but he yielded almost at once, and accepted your conditions. His seconds are two military men.”

“Thank you,” said the vicomte.

The marquis added:

“Please excuse us if we do not stay now, for we have a good deal to see to yet. We shall want a reliable doctor, since the duel is not to end until a serious wound has been inflicted; and you know that bullets are not to be trifled with. We must select a spot near some house to which the wounded party can be carried if necessary. In fact, the arrangements will take us another two or three hours at least.”

The vicomte articulated for the second time:

“Thank you.”

“You're all right?” asked the colonel. “Quite calm?”

“Perfectly calm, thank you.”

The two men withdrew.

When he was once more alone he felt as though he should go mad. His servant having lighted the lamps, he sat down at his table to write some letters. When he had traced at the top of a sheet of paper the words: “This is my last will and testament,” he started from his seat, feeling himself incapable of connected thought, of decision in regard to anything.

So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. What, then, possessed him? He wished to fight, he was fully determined to fight, and yet, in spite of all his mental effort, in spite of the exertion of all his will power, he felt that he could not even preserve the strength necessary to carry him through the ordeal. He tried to conjure up a picture of the duel, his own attitude, and that of his enemy.

Every now and then his teeth chattered audibly. He thought he would read, and took down Chateauvillard's Rules of Dueling. Then he said:

“Is the other man practiced in the use of the pistol? Is he well known? How can I find out?”

He remembered Baron de Vaux's book on marksmen, and searched it from end to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned. And yet, if he were not an adept, would he have accepted without demur such a dangerous weapon and such deadly conditions?

He opened a case of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a small table, and took from it a pistol. Next he stood in the correct attitude for firing, and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot, and the weapon shook in his grasp.

Then he said to himself:

“It is impossible. I cannot fight like this.”

He looked at the little black, death-spitting hole at the end of the pistol; he thought of dishonor, of the whispers at the clubs, the smiles in his friends' drawing-rooms, the contempt of women, the veiled sneers of the newspapers, the insults that would be hurled at him by cowards.

He still looked at the weapon, and raising the hammer, saw the glitter of the priming below it. The pistol had been left loaded by some chance, some oversight. And the discovery rejoiced him, he knew not why.

If he did not maintain, in presence of his opponent, the steadfast bearing which was so necessary to his honor, he would be ruined forever. He would be branded, stigmatized as a coward, hounded out of society! And he felt, he knew, that he could not maintain that calm, unmoved demeanor. And yet he was brave, since the thought that followed was not even rounded to a finish in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he suddenly plunged the barrel of the pistol as far back as his throat, and pressed the trigger.

When the valet, alarmed at the report, rushed into the room he found his master lying dead upon his back. A spurt of blood had splashed the white paper on the table, and had made a great crimson stain beneath the words:

“This is my last will and testament.”

The ending of the story is very tragic, and it made me think a great deal about what I read. Being a man isn't easy either. Most suicide victims are men. They have the weight of always having to be brave on them. Well, maybe not all men, but honorable ones seem to be the most prone to self-doubt. They live in fear of being called a coward. It's not an easy life I imagine!

HOW I WORE IT BEFORE? THE STORY OF MY OUTFITS!

This is the part where I show you how I wore these items before. Rewearing clothes and shoes is a great way to be more sustainable. 

THE PINK STILETTO HEELS- old. I got these heels in a collab with an online shop that doesn't exist anymore about a decade ago. Originally, they came with a box, but with time I started to wear them without a bow. To be completely honest, they aren't exactly comfortable, so I don't wear them for long periods of time. However, these pink heels are very photogenic and they photograph well. So, I take photos in them pretty often. 

In this post, you can see how I styled these pink heels in five different ways.  See how I styled these pink heels 1) with an animal print and striped dress, 2) cropped jeans and a pink blazer 3) green dress and a pink blazer 

4) See how I styled these pink heels with a leather jacket, seaweed green dress with textured flower print and a striped cardigan. 

 5) See how I styled these pink heels with a geometric print purple dress, a blue coat, a cord blazer and a purple scarf here. 

6) In this post I wore this pair of pink heels with a bright pink dress with balloon sleeves for a book review post.

7) In this post, I paired these pink heels with a Stanka Zovko Ozz brand lilac dress, a vintage pink skirt and a purple blazer. 

8) In this book review post, I paired these pink heels with an olive green blazer and skirt set. 

9) In this post, I wore these pink heels with an off shoulder white tunics dress. 

10) In this post, I wore these pink stiletto heels with A line red vintage dress and black leggings.

11) In this post, I wore these pink heels with a floral skirt, a transparent bag, white socks and leggings.

12) In this post, I wore these pink heels with a pair of white jeans, a white shirt and a blue graphic t-shirt from Redbubble. 

13)  In this post; I wore these pinks heels with a yellow printed jumpsuit and a pink cardigan.

14) In this post, I wore these pink heels with a black flared skirt, a hand made pink crochet top and a vintage neon green blazer.

THE LILAC SKIRT BY FASHION DESIGNER STANKA ZOVKO 

Moving onto other clothing items, it's time to talk about this lilac skirt that is a part of a a lilac set. I have even illustrated this lilac set  in the past!

HOW I WORE THIS LILAC OZZ SKIRT WITH WHITE POLKA DOT PRINT BEFORE? Check out the links below to find out: 

1) OZZ STUDENTS' FASHION SHOW, MENTOR FASHION DESIGNER STANKA ZOVKO

2) FASHION ILLUSTRATION FRIDAY: STANKA ZOVKO SET 

3)  AN ANNIVERSARY OUTFIT: STANKA ZOVKO LILAC DRESS AND SKIRT

4) WITH A BEIGE COAT, AND A RED BLAZER FOR AN AUTUMN LOOK AND A BOOK REVIEW - MIRKO KOVAČ, GRAD U ZRCALU: OBITELJSKI NOKTURNO 

5) 3 HOT SUMMER OUTFITS (WORN OVER A RED DRESS) 

6) AS A PART OF A SET WITH HEELS FOR A SUMMER LOOK AND A BOOK REVIEW: THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

7) WITH  A WHITE TUNICS FOR  A FAREWELL TO SUMMER FROM MOSTAR

8) WITH AN OLIVE BLAZER AND BROWN BOOTS

9) WITH A WHITE BLAZER  AND PINK HEELS

10) WITH A PURPLE BLAZER AND A BLACK LACE DRESS

11) WITH NUDE HEELS AND A BEIGE BAG

12) LILAC SKIRT WORN WITH A FLORAL RUFFLED MIDI SKIRT, A LB BAG, A NEON BLAZER AND WHITE SNEAKERS (TRANSITIONAL AUTUMN STYLING)

13) LILAC SKIRT WITH A WHITE LACE ROMPER, WHITE BAG AND LEOPARD HEELS

14) LILAC SKIRT WORN WITH A CAMEL COAT, A GOLDEN SCARF AND BROWN BOOTS 

Underneath the lilac skirt, I wore a Ozz lilac dress that's lightly transparent and that you can see in this 2021 post I just linked up. I often wear this lilac dress as an underskirt. I often pair it with this skirt! You'll see that if you click the links above. 

THE SILVER CROPPED TOP WITH METALLIC DETAILS- I bought in a New Yorker store recently, and worn two times before. 

1) I wore this silver cropped top over a neutral dress and under a vintage midi skirt for a Christmas lunch. 

2) I wore this long sleeved cropped top with a black vintage midi skirt, high heels and an olive blazer for a book review post.

AND THEN I SWITCHED MY PINK HEELS WITH MY BLACK KITTEN HEELS

In the evening, I did make a slight change to my outfit. I added a puffer coat and a tartan scarf, and opted for more sensible shoes! Instead of pink stilettoes, I wore black kitten heels.

How this I wear the black kitten heels before? 

1) Black kitten heels styled with an olive green skirt, a sweater and a burgundy red tartan puffer jacket.

2) Black kitten heels styled with black cord flare leggings, a black flared skirt, a white cat print shirt and an olive green blazer.

3) Black kitten heels worn with a black skirt with a slit, a white folklore printed shirt and an olive blazer.

4) Black kitten heels worn with a midi ruffled skirt, an olive green blazer and a golden Maltese cross print.

5) Black kitten heels with a blue vintage dress and an olive green blazer.

6) Black kitten heels with a grey vintage skirt, a cropped silver jacket, and a black blazer. 

7) Black kitten heels worn with flared leggings, a white polka dot tunics, a black blazer and an umbrella.

8) Black kitten heels worn with a vintage maxi black dress, white cropped top and a white vintage blazer.

9) Black kitten heels worn with a blue peplum dress, a burgundy bag and a grey blazer.

10) Black kitten heels worn with a black cord flared leggings, a black sweater dress and a black and white ( that appears gray) houndstooth printed coat...11) with a vintage black dress with silver details, grey tights and a 'gray' coat.

11) Black heels worn with a floral skirt, a ruffled sleeved navy blue jacket and a mustard turtleneck.

12) Black kitten heels worn with wide black pants, a navy blue double breasted shirt and a red blazer & 13) worn with the same wide pants but with a mustard turtleneck, a red blazer and a 'grey' coat.

 

14) In this post, I wore these black kitten heels with a red long sleeved top, a black belt bag, black cord flared leggings, a black and hold vintage blazer. 

 

I SAID GOODBYE TO ONE OF MY RECENT PAINTINGS AS I DECIDED TO GIFT IT!

If you recall, I posted about this painting in 'travel with my art post'. I framed this painting of a marine in Split sometime during the holidays. I managed to find a nice white frame for it. I actually framed before I decided that I wanted to gift it. 

I gifted it as a part of a while basket filled with gifts (and money) to celebrate a new baby in the family.

THE ALL BLACK STLYING- The story of my outfit. How did I wear these items before. 

THE BLACK MINI POLYESTER DRESS- OLD, 1) first worn here with sneakers in this 2018 post, when I also wore it with heels and a pink chrochet top.

This dress is quite short, so I usually pair it with black leggings or I wore it under skirt. Wearing mini dresses under skirts is basically my signature look. It smooths the outfit in the same way that wearing an underdress smooths the outfit. It saves you from loosing time on tucking in your top or shirt into a skirt. It's the best thing really. Do you want to see how I do it? Check out the post below.

3) the black mini dress worn tucked into a denim skirt.

THE BLACK VEST WITH GOLDEN PEARLS, vintage see how I wore it with a floral dress here

THE BLACK STILETTOES, old, see how I wore them with different outfits here

THE BLACK LEGGINGS, old , see how I wore them with different outfits here 

Thank you for visiting and reading!