Un caz de divort. Povestiri fantastice

by Guy de Maupassant

Dans Un cas de divorce, le mari s’éloigne de sa femme pour s’adonner à un monstrueux amour des
fleurs de sa serre. Le journal du narrateur suit la montée de la passion du héros fou d’orchidées : la naissance, puis la progression de la manie sont le sujet de l’histoire.

Genres: Short Stories, France

320 pages, Paperback

First published November 15, 2010

About the author

Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant was a popular 19th-century French writer. He is one of the fathers of the modern short story. A protege of Flaubert, Maupassant's short stories are characterized by their economy of style and their efficient effortless dénouement. He also wrote six short novels. A number of his stories often denote the futility of war and the innocent civilians who get crushed in it - many are set during the Franco-Prussian War of the 1870s.

Reviews

[Classic reverie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Guy de Maupassant's "A Divorce Case" is a short story of a mentally ill man and his wife's need for divorce.

Story in short - A married man suddenly develops a strange love affair.

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M. Chassel advocate, rises to speak: Mr. President and gentlemen of the jury. The cause that I am charged to defend before you, requires medicine rather than justice; and is much more a case of pathology than a case of ordinary law. At first blush the facts seem very simple. A young man, very rich, with a noble and cultivated mind, and a generous heart, becomes enamored
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of a young lady, who is the perfection of beauty, more than beautiful, in fact; she is adorable, besides being as gracious, as she is charming, as good and true as she is tender and pretty, and he marries her. For some time, he comports himself towards her not only as a devoted husband, but as a man full of solicitude and tenderness. Then he neglects her, misuses her, seems to entertain for her an insurmountable aversion, an irresistible disgust. One day he even strikes her, not only without any cause, but also
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A man no longer wants his wife to touch him, he has a love affair with flowers. Very strange indeed.

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without the faintest pretext. I am not going, gentlemen, to draw a picture of silly allurements, which no one would comprehend. I shall not paint to you the wretched life of those two beings, and the horrible grief of this young woman. It will be sufficient to convince you, if I read some fragments from a journal written up every day by that poor young man, by that poor fool! For it is in the presence of a fool, gentlemen, that we now find ourselves, and the case is all the more curious, all the more interesting, seeing
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that, in many points, it recalls the insanity of the unfortunate prince who recently died, of the witless king who reigned platonically over Bavaria. I shall hence designate this case — poetic folly. You will readily call to mind all that has been told of that most singular prince. He caused to be erected amid the most magnificent scenery his kingdom afforded, veritable fairy castles. The reality even of the beauty of the things themselves, as well as of the places, did not satisfy him. He invented,
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he created, in these improbable manors, factitious horizons, obtained by means of theatrical artifices, changes of view, painted forests, fabled empires, in which the leaves of the trees became precious stones. He had the Alps, and glaciers, steppes, deserts of sand made hot by a blazing sun; and at nights, under the rays of the real moon, lakes which sparkled from below by means of fantastic electric lights. Swans floated on the lakes which glistened with skiffs, while an orchestra, composed of the finest executants in the world, inebriated with poetry the soul of the royal fool. That man was chaste, that man was a virgin. He lived only to dream, his dream, his dream divine. One evening he took out with him in his boat, a lady, young and beautiful, a great artiste, and he begged her to sing. Intoxicated herself by the magnificent scenery, by the languid softness of the air, by the perfume of flowers, and by the ecstacy of that prince, both young and handsome, she sang, she sang as women sing who have been touched by love;
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then, overcome, trembling, she falls on the bosom of the king in order to seek out his lips. But he throws her into the lake, and seizing his oars, rows back to the shore, without concerning himself, whether anybody has saved her or not. Gentlemen of the jury, we find ourselves in presence of a case similar in every way to that. I shall say no more now, except to read some passages from the journal which we unexpectedly came upon in the drawer of an old secretary.
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How sad and weary is everything; always the same, always hateful. How I dream of a land more beautiful, more noble, more varied. What a poor conception they have of their God, if their God existed, or if he had not created other things, elsewhere. Always woods, little woods, waves which resemble waves, plains which resemble plains, everything is sameness and monotony. And Man? Man? What a horrible animal! wicked, haughty and repugnant!
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It is essential to love, to love perdition, without seeing that which one loves. For, to see is to comprehend, and to comprehend is to embrace. It is necessary to love, to become intoxicated by it, just as one gets drunk with wine, even to the extent that one knows no longer what one is drinking. And to drink, to drink, to drink, without drawing breath, day and night! I have found her, I believe. She has about her something ideal which does not belong to this world,
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and which furnishes wings to my dream. Ah! my dream! How it reveals to me beings different from what they really are! She is a blonde, a delicate blonde, with hair whose delicate shade is inexpressible. Her eyes are blue! Only blue eyes can penetrate my soul. All women, the woman who lives in my heart, reveal themselves to me in the eye, only in the eyes. Oh! what a mystery, what a mystery is the eye! The whole universe lives in it, inasmuch as it sees, inasmuch as it reflects. It contains the universe, both things and
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beings, forests and oceans, men and beasts, the settings of the sun, the stars, the arts — all, all, it sees; it collects and absorbs all; and there is still more in it; the eye of itself has a soul; it has in it the man who thinks, the man who loves, the man who laughs, the man who suffers! Oh! regard the blue eyes of women, those eyes that are as deep as the sea, as changeful as the sky, so sweet, so soft, soft as the breezes, sweet as music, luscious as kisses; and transparent, so clear that one sees behind them, discerns the soul, the blue
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soul which colors them, which animates them, which electrifies them. Yes, the soul has the color of the looks. The blue soul alone contains in itself that which dreams; it bears its azure to the floods and into space. The eye! Think of it, the eye! It imbibes the visible life, in order to nourish thought. It drinks in the world, color, movement, books, pictures, all that is beautiful, all that is ugly, and weaves ideas out of them. And when it regards us, it gives us the sensation of a happiness that is not of this earth. It informs us of
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that of which we have always been ignorant; it makes us comprehend that the realities of our dreams are but noisome ordures. I love her too for her walk. “Even when the bird walks one feels that it has wings,” as the poet has said. When she passes one feels that she is of another race from ordinary women, of a race more delicate, and more divine. I shall marry her to-morrow. But I am afraid, I am afraid of so many things!
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Two beasts, two dogs, two wolves, two foxes, cut their way through the plantation and encounter one another. One of each two is male, the other female. They couple. They couple in consequence of an animal instinct, which forces them to continue the race, their race, the one from which they have sprung, the hairy coat, the form, movements and habitudes. The whole of the animal creation do the same without knowing why. We human beings, also.
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It is for this I have married; I have obeyed that insane passion which throws us in the direction of the female. She is my wife. In accordance with my ideal desires, she comes very nearly to realize my unrealizable dream. But in separating from her, even for a second, after I have held her in my arms, she becomes no more than the being whom nature has made use of, to disappoint all my hopes.
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Has she disappointed them? No. And why have I grown weary of her, become loath even to touch her; she cannot graze even the palm of my hand, or the tip of my lips, but my heart throbs with unutterable disgust, not perhaps disgust of her, but a disgust more potent, more widespread, more loathsome; the disgust, in a word, of carnal love so vile in itself that it has become for all refined beings, a shameful thing, which is necessary to conceal, which one never speaks of save in a whisper, nor without blushing.

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I can no longer bear the idea of my wife coming near me, calling me by name, with a smile; I cannot look at her, nor touch even her arm, I cannot do it any more. At one time I thought to be kissed by her, would be to transport me to St. Paul’s seventh heaven. One day, she was suffering from one of those transient fevers, and I smelled in her breath, a subtle, slight almost imperceptible puff of human putridity; I was completely overthrown. Oh! the flesh, with its seductive and eager smell, a putrefaction
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which walks, which thinks, which speaks, which looks, which laughs, in which nourishment ferments and rots, which, nevertheless, is rose-colored, pretty, tempting, deceitful as the soul itself. Why flowers alone, which smell so sweet, those large flowers, glittering or pale, whose tones and shades make my heart tremble and trouble my eyes. They are so beautiful, their structure is so finished, so varied and sensual, semi-opened like human organs, more tempting than
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mouths, and streaked with turned up lips, teeth, flesh, seed of life powders, which, in each, gives forth a distinct perfume. They reproduce themselves, they alone, in the world, without polluting their inviolable race, shedding around them the divine influence of their love, the odoriferous incense of their caresses, the essence of their incomparable body, of their body adorned with every grace, with every elegances of every shape and form; who have likewise the coquetry of every hue of color, and the
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inebriating seduction of every variety of perfume. FRAGMENTS WHICH WERE SELECTED SIX MONTHS LATER. I love flowers, not as flowers, but as material and delicious beings; I pass my days and my nights in beds of flowers, where they have been concealed from the public view like the women of a harem. Who knows, except myself, the sweetness, the infatuation, the quivering, carnal, ideal,
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superhuman ecstacy of these tendernesses; and those kisses upon the bare flesh of a rose, upon the blushing flesh, upon the white skin, so miraculously different, delicate, rare, subtle, unctuous, of these adorable flowers! I have flower-beds that no one has seen except myself, and which I tend myself. I enter there as one would glide into a place of secret pleasure. In the lofty glass gallery, I pass first through a collection of enclosed carollas, half open or in full bloom,
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which incline towards the ground, or towards the roof. This is the first kiss they have given me. The flowers just mentioned, these flowers which adorn the vestibule of my mysterious passions, are my servants and not my favorites. They salute me by the change of their color and by their first inhalations. They are darlings, coquettes,
arranged in eight rows to the right, eight rows, the left, and so laid out that they look like two gardens springing up from under my feet.
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My heart palpitates, my eyes flash at the sight of them; my blood rushes through my veins, my soul is elated, and my hands tremble from desire as soon as I touch them. I pass on. There are three closed doors at the bottom of that gallery. I can make my choice of them. I have three harems. But I enter most often the habitation of the orchids, my little wheedlers, by preference. Their chamber is low, suffocating. The humid and hot air make the skin moist, takes away the breath and causes the fingers
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to quiver. They come, these strange girls, from a country marshy, burning and unhealthy. They draw you towards them as do the sirens, are as deadly as poison, admirably fantastic, enervating, dreadful. The butterflies here would also seem to have enormous wings, tiny feet, and eyes! Yes! they have also eyes! They look at me, they see me, prodigious, incomparable beings, fairies, daughters of the sacred earth, of the impalpable air, and of hot sun rays, that mother bountiful of the universe. Yes, they have wings,
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they have eyes, and nuances that no painter could imitate, every charm, every grace, every form that one could dream of. These wombs are transverse, odoriferous and transparent, ever open for love and more tempting than all the flesh of women. The unimaginable designs of their little bodies inebriates the soul, and transports it to a paradise of images and of voluptuous ideals. They tremble upon their stems as though they would fly. When they do fly do they come to me? No, it is
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my heart that hovers o’er them, like a mystic male, tortured by love. No wing of any animal can keep pace with them. We are alone, they and I, in the lighted prison which I have constructed for them. I regard them, I contemplate them, I admire them, I adore them, the one after the other. How healthy, strong and rosy, a rosiness that moistens the lips of desire! How I love them! The border is frizzled, paler than their throat, where the carolla hides itself away; a mysterious mouth, seductive sugar under the tongue, exhibiting and unveiling the delicate, admirable and sacred organs of these divine little creatures which smell so exquisitely and do not speak. I sometimes have a passion for some of them that lasts as long as their existence, which only embraces a few days and nights. I then have them taken away from the common gallery and enclosed in a pretty glass cabin, in which there murmurs a jet of water over against a tropical gazon, which has been brought from one of the Pacific Islands. And I remain close to it, ardent, feverish and tormented, knowing that its death is near, and watch it fading away, while that in thought, I possess it, aspire to its love, drink it in, and then pluck its short life with an inexpressible caress. When he had finished the reading of these fragments, the advocate continued: “Decency, gentlemen of the jury, hinders me from communicating to you the extraordinary avowals of this shameless, idealistic fool. The

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fragments that I have just submitted to you will be sufficient, in my opinion, to enable you to appreciate this instance of mental malady, less rare in our epoch of hysterical insanity and of corrupt decadence than most of us believe. “I think, then, that my client is more entitled than any women whatever to claim a divorce, in the exceptional circumstances in which the disordered senses of her husband has placed her.”

[Cristi Ivan · Rating 4 out of 5]

Well, I was quite surprised to learn that Guy de Maupassant wrote short horror stories.

Reminiscent of E. A. Poe’s writings, the stories have interesting themes of loneliness, madness, terror and all the monsters that dwell inside the human mind, and even legal euthanasia. I liked a lot how the technological changes from the end of the 19th century found their way inside these stories – things like mesmerism, magnetism or even electricity.

Some stories share a “lovecraftian” feeling to them – stories about the unknown and the incomprehensibility of the surrounding world, captured only through our human senses. But what other things we miss, only because we haven’t developed a receptor for those impulses? Of course, Lovecraft wasn’t even born when some of these stories were written, but certainly they were a later inspiration for him.

From all the short stories, included in this collection, The Dead Girl was my favorite. The story is very simple – the narrator falls madly in love with a girl, they get married and after a year of happy marriage, his wife catches pneumonia, after a terrible rainstorm, and dies. One night, the narrator decides to pay a visit to his beloved wife’s tomb, but he keeps wandering around the cemetery, getting lost. And then, the tombs open up and all the dead people emerge from the ground, with the purpose to erase the beautiful epitaphs written on their tombstones, only to chisel with their dead fingers the truth about themselves. Almost fainting from terror, the narrator tries to run, but he eventually finds his wife’s tomb. There, his dead wife wrote the truth - In the night when she was caught by the terrible storm, that led to her demise, she visited her lover, cheating on her husband.
**** stars

[Tighy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Dincolo de fantastic, povestirile lui Maupassant descriu dezintegrarea conștiinței. Sub lumina tremurătoare a conștiinței, omul lui Maupassant simte cum lumea se destramă, aerul devine dens de prezențe invizibile iar oglinda nu-i mai arată chipul, ci absența. În spatele lucrurilor, sub pielea realului, pulsează un gol ...un neant care respiră. Cioran spune că omul e o rană care gândește, o ființă ce s-a trezit din greșeală. Maupassant, teribil metafizician al spaimei, o trăiește ca delir; Cioran, ca luciditate. Amândoi privesc în același abis... unul urlă, celălalt tace. Nu e o fantomă, ci revelația nimicului; nu vine din afară, ci din adâncul ființei, acolo unde gândul se sfârșește și tăcerea începe. Acolo, în tăcerea aceea densă, omul înțelege că tot ce există e doar o iluzie care tremură deasupra neantului.

[Tom · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.5⭐

AKA: Un cas de divorce

A lawyer pleads the divorce case of a woman who has been beaten and totally rejected by her young husband who has apparently lost his senses, as shown by extracts from the man’s notebook, detailing his sudden distaste for the physical aspect of a marriage relationship and his growing fondness or rather extreme passion for flowers, which among all their other wonderful qualities reproduce themselves so much more elegantly than humans.

[E Andreea · Rating 5 out of 5]

The fear expressed in these narrative is so well described that you shall feel it on yourself. You feel how your soul shivers and how your heart , at the very end of the each story, trembles. I have felt like a handslap on my face every time I finished one tale, my heart simply stopped! Totally loved it!

[Niamat-Allah · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un cas de divorce: cas spécial pourrait être un sujet de débat et d'analyse psychologique.

Les nouvelles de Guy de Maupassant ne cessent de me surprendre avec leurs chutes, entre autre les champs d'olivier qui suit un cas de divorce

[Leo · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5 stars. Well written but I feelt it was to short for it to be a solid story and more could have been said.

[Andrei State · Rating 5 out of 5]

Spooky

[Lazar Cristina · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Dar stim oare care sunt inteleptii si care sunt nebunii in aceasta viata in care deseori ratiunea ar trebui sa se numeasca prostie si nebunia-geniu?"

[Razvan Zamfirescu · Rating 4 out of 5]

Povestirile lui Maupassant sunt superbe, ce sa mai. O surpriza foarte placuta pe care devoritorii de literatura fantastica si horror nu vor sa o rateze.
Cateva povestiri sunt pur si simplu extraordinare.
Am sa revin cu o recenzie mai pe larg cat de curand.
Intre timp, credeti-ma pe cuvant, merita cumparata si citita. Mai ales ca este la un pret foarte bun. :)