He?

by Guy de Maupassant

« Lui ? » est une nouvelle fantastique de Guy de Maupassant parue en Juillet 1883 dans Gil Blas. Après Le Horla, Maupassant explore à nouveau le thème du double ou du Doppelganger.

Genres: Short Stories, France, Classics

Unknown Binding

First published January 1, 1883

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

[Marc D. ✨ · Rating 3 out of 5]

3/5 estrellas.

Vamos de a poquito con este autor, y sí, se va superando con cada relato que encuentro.

Éste, en particular, me encantó. Me dió algo de miedo, ansiedad, el pensar en la soledad y, luego, reflexionar si, más allá del hecho de que amo lo paranormal y dejándolo de un lado, ¿el protagonista no tendría esquizofrenia?

Es genial para analizar. Y es glorioso el cómo plasma en palabras la desesperación.

[Nicolás Ortenzi · Rating 4 out of 5]

Él aparece con la soledad...

[Classic reverie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Guy de Maupassant's "He?" is a different translation of "The Terror".

Guy de Maupassant's "The Terror" is a ghost story though that the the narrator, Raymon professes the vision he sees is not a ghost and he does not believe in ghost but it surely sounds like a ghost to me.

Story in short- A man marries just to have someone with him and not to be alone at night.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
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My dear friend, you cannot understand it by any possible means, you say, and I perfectly believe you. You think I am going mad? It may be so, but not for the reasons which you suppose. Yes, I am going to get married, and I will give you what has led me to take that step. My ideas and my convictions have not changed at all. I look upon all legalized cohabitation as utterly stupid, for I am certain that nine husbands out of ten are cuckolds; and they get no more than their deserts for having been idiotic enough to fetter their lives, and renounce their freedom in love, the only happy and good thing in the world, and for having clipped the wings of fancy, which continually drives us on towards all women, &c., &c., &c. You know what I mean. More than ever I feel that I am incapable of loving one woman alone, because I shall always adore all the others
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too much. I should like to have a thousand arms, a thousand mouths, and a thousand — temperaments, to be able to strain an army of these charming creatures in my embrace at the same moment. And yet I am going to get married! I may add that I know very little of the girl who is going to become my wife to-morrow; I have only seen her four or five times. I know that there is nothing unpleasing about her, and that is enough for my purpose. She is small, fair, and stout; so of course the day after to-morrow
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert


Raymon looks to be married and finds a woman that he does not love but satisfying the need of being a person to keep his terror of his so called hallucinations of a man that sits in his room when he is alone. He says he does not believe in ghost but it seems to me a ghost or his being so afraid of being alone that he feels he sees visions. Not sure which one.

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morrow I shall ardently wish for a tall, dark, thin woman. She is not rich, and belongs to the middle-classes. She is a girl such as you may find by the gross, well adapted for matrimony, without any apparent faults, and with no particularly striking qualities. People say of her: “Mlle. Lajolle is a very nice girl,” and to-morrow they will say: “What a very nice woman Madame Raymon is.” She belongs, in a word, to that immense number of girls whom one is glad to have for one’s
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wife till the moment comes, when one discovers that one happens to prefer all the other women to that particular woman whom one has married. “Well,” you will say to me, “what on earth did you get married for?” I hardly like to tell you the strange and seemingly improbable reason that urged me on to this senseless act; the fact, however, is that I am frightened of being alone! I don’t know how to tell you or to make you understand me, but my
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state of mind is so wretched that you will pity me and despise me. I do not want to be alone any longer at night; I want to feel that there is someone close to me, touching me, a being who can speak and say something, no matter what it be. I wish to be able to awaken somebody by my side, so that I may be able to ask some sudden question, a stupid question even if I feel inclined, so that I may hear a human voice, and feel that there is some waking soul close to me, someone
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whose reason is at work; so that when I hastily light the candle I may see some human face by my side — because — because — I am ashamed to confess it — because I am afraid of being alone. Oh! you don’t understand me yet. I am not afraid of any danger; if a man were to come into the room I should kill him without trembling. I am not afraid of ghosts, nor do I believe in the supernatural. I am not afraid of dead people, for I believe in the total annihilation of every being
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that disappears from the face of this earth. Well, — yes, well, it must be told; I am afraid of myself, afraid of that horrible sensation of incomprehensible fear. You may laugh, if you like. It is terrible, and I cannot get over it. I am afraid of the walls, of the furniture, of the familiar objects, which are animated, as far as I am concerned, by a kind of animal life. Above all, I am afraid of my own dreadful thoughts, of my reason, which seems as if it were about to
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leave me, driven away by a mysterious and invisible agony. At first I feel a vague uneasiness in my mind which causes a cold shiver to run all over me. I look round, and of course nothing is to be seen, and I wish there were something there, no matter what, as long as it were something tangible: I am frightened, merely because I cannot understand my own terror. If I speak, I am afraid of my own voice. If I walk, I am afraid of I know not what, behind the door, behind the curtains, in the cupboard, or
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under my bed, and yet all the time I know there is nothing anywhere, and I turn round suddenly because I am afraid of what is behind me, although there is nothing there, and I know it. I get agitated; I feel that my fear increases, and so I shut myself up in my own room, get into bed, and hide under the clothes, and there, cowering down rolled into a ball, I close my eyes in despair, and remain thus for an indefinite time, remembering that my candle is alight on the table
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by my bedside, and that I ought to put it out, and yet — I dare not do it! It is very terrible, is it not, to be like that? Formerly I felt nothing of all that; I came home quite comfortably, and went up and down in my rooms without anything disturbing my calmness of mind. Had anyone told me that I should be attacked by a malady — for I can call it nothing else — of most improbable fear, such a stupid and terrible malady as it is, I should have laughed outright. I was certainly never afraid of opening the door in the dark; I went to bed slowly without locking it, and never got up in the middle of the night to make sure that everything was firmly closed. It began last year in a very strange manner, on a damp autumn evening. When my servant had left the room, after I had dined, I asked myself what I was going to do. I walked up and down my room for some time, feeling tired without any reason for it, unable to work, and even without energy to read. A fine rain was falling, and I felt
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unhappy, a prey to one of those fits of despondency, without any apparent cause which makes us feel inclined to cry, or to talk, no matter to whom, so as to shake off our depressing thoughts. I felt that I was alone, and my rooms seemed to me to be more empty than they had ever done before, while I was surrounded by a sensation of infinite and overwhelming solitude. What was I to do? I sat down, but then a kind of nervous impatience agitated my legs, so I got up and began to walk
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about again. I was rather feverish, for my hands, which I had clasped behind me, as one often does when walking slowly, almost seemed to burn one another. Then suddenly a cold shiver ran down my back, and I thought the damp air might have penetrated into my room, so I lit the fire for the first time that year, and sat down again and looked at the flames. But soon I felt that I could not possibly remain quiet, and so I got up again and determined to go out, to pull myself together, and to find a friend to bear me company.
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I could not find anyone, so I went on to the boulevards to try and meet some acquaintance or other there. It was wretched everywhere, and the wet pavement glistened in the gaslight, while the oppressive warmth of the almost impalpable rain lay heavily over the streets and seemed to obscure the light from the lamps. I went on slowly, saying to myself, “I shall not find a soul to talk to.” I glanced into several cafés, from the Madeleine as far as the Faubourg Poissonière, and saw many unhappy-looking individuals sitting at the tables, who did not seem even to have enough energy left to finish the refreshments they had ordered. For a long time I wandered aimlessly up and down, and about midnight I started off for home; I was very calm and very tired. My concierge opened the door at once, which was quite unusual for him, and I thought that another lodger had no doubt just come in. When I go out I always double-lock the door of my room, and I found it merely closed, which surprised me; but I supposed that some letters had been brought up for me in the course of the evening. I went in, and found my fire still burning, so that it lighted up the room a little, and, in the act of taking up a candle, I noticed somebody sitting in my armchair by the fire, warming his feet, with his back towards me. I was not in the slightest degree frightened. I thought very naturally that some friend or other had come to see me. No doubt the porter, whom I had told when I went out,
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had lent him his own key. In a moment I remembered all the circumstances of my return, how the street door had been opened immediately, and that my own door was only latched, and not locked. I could see nothing of my friend but his head, and he had evidently gone to sleep while waiting for me, so I went up to him to rouse him. I saw him quite clearly; his right arm was hanging down and his legs were crossed, while his head, which was somewhat inclined to the left of the armchair, seemed to indicate that he was asleep. “Who can it be?” I asked myself. I could not see clearly, as the room was rather dark, so I put out my hand to touch him on the shoulder, and it came in contact with the back of the chair. There was nobody there; the seat was empty. I fairly jumped with fright. For a moment I drew back as if some terrible danger had suddenly appeared in my way; then I turned round again, impelled by some imperious desire of looking at the armchair again, and I remained standing upright, panting with fear, so upset that I could not collect my thoughts, and ready to drop. But I am a cool man, and soon recovered myself. I thought: “It is a mere hallucination, that is all,” and I immediately began to reflect about this phenomenon. Thoughts fly very quickly at such moments. I had been suffering from a hallucination, that was an incontestable fact. My mind had been perfectly lucid and had acted regularly and logically, so there was nothing the matter with the brain. It was only
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my eyes that had been deceived; they had had a vision, one of those visions which lead simple folk to believe in miracles. It was a nervous accident to the optical apparatus, nothing more; the eyes were rather congested, perhaps. I lit my candle, and when I stooped down to the fire in so doing, I noticed that I was trembling, and I raised myself up with a jump, as if somebody had touched me from behind. I was certainly not by any means quiet.
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I walked up and down a little, and hummed a tune or two. Then I double-locked my door, and felt rather reassured; now, at any rate, nobody could come in. I sat down again, and thought over my adventure for a long time; then I went to bed, and blew out my light. For some minutes all went well; I lay quietly on my back, but then an irresistible desire seized me to look round the room, and I turned on to my side.

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My fire was nearly out, and the few glowing embers threw a faint light on to the floor by the chair, where I fancied I saw the man sitting again. I quickly struck a match, but I had been mistaken, for there was nothing there; I got up, however, and hid the chair behind my bed, and tried to get to sleep as the room was now dark, but I had not forgotten myself for more than five minutes when in my dream I saw all the scene which I had witnessed as clearly as if it were reality. I woke up with a start, and
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having lit the candle, I sat up in bed, without venturing even to try and go to sleep again. Twice, however, sleep overcame me for a few moments in spite of myself, and twice I saw the same thing again, till I fancied I was going mad; when day broke, however, I thought that I was cured, and slept peacefully till noon. It was all past and over. I had been feverish, had had the nightmare; I don’t know what. I had been ill, in a word, but yet I thought that I was a great fool.
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I enjoyed myself thoroughly that evening; I went and dined at a restaurant; afterwards I went to the theater, and then started home. But as I got near the house I was seized by a strange feeling of uneasiness once more; I was afraid of seeing him again. I was not afraid of him, not afraid of his presence, in which I did not believe; but I was afraid of being deceived again; I was afraid of some fresh hallucination, afraid lest fear should take possession of me.
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Far more than an hour I wandered up and down the pavement; then I thought that I was really too foolish, and at last I returned home. I panted so that I could scarcely get upstairs, and I remained standing outside my door for more than ten minutes; then suddenly I took courage, and screwed myself together. I inserted my key into the lock, and went in with a candle in my hand. I kicked open my half-open bedroom door, and gave a frightened look towards the fireplace; there was nothing there. A — h!
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What a relief and what a delight! What a deliverance! I walked up and down briskly and boldly, but I was not altogether reassured, and kept turning round with a jump; the very shadows in the corner disquieted me. I slept badly, and was constantly disturbed by imaginary noises, but I did not see him; no, that was all over. Since that time I have been afraid of being alone at night. I feel that the specter is there, close to me, around me; but it has not appeared
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to me again. And supposing it did, what would it matter, since I do not believe in it, and know that it is nothing? It still worries me, however, because I am constantly thinking of it: his right arm hanging down and his head

inclined to the left like a man who was asleep.... Enough of that, in Heaven’s name! I don’t want to think about it! Why, however, am I so persistently possessed with this idea? His feet were close to the fire!
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He haunts me; it is very stupid, but so it is. Who and what is HE? I know that he does not exist except in my cowardly imagination, in my fears, and in my agony! There — enough of that!... Yes, it is all very well for me to reason with myself, to stiffen myself, so to say; but I cannot remain at home, because I know he is there. I know I shall not see him again; he will not show himself again; that is all over. But he is there all the same in my thoughts. He remains invisible, but that does not prevent his
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being there. He is behind the doors, in the closed cupboards, in the wardrobe, under the bed, in every dark corner. If I open the door or the cupboard, if I take the candle to look under the bed and throw a light on to the dark places, he is there no longer, but I feel that he is behind me. I turn round, certain that I shall not see him, that I shall never see him again; but he is, for all that, none the less behind me. It is very stupid, it is dreadful; but what am I to do? I cannot help it.
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But if there were two of us in the place, I feel certain that he would not be there any longer, for he is there just because I am alone; simply and solely because I am alone!

[Tom · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.25⭐

AKA: The Terror, Lui?
He? Published 1883.
It first appeared in Gil Blas magazine on July 3, 1883, under the signature of Maufrigneuse. In 1904, it was published in the compendium Les soeurs Rondoli (The Rondoli Sisters), edited by Paul Ollendorff.

The narrator tells a friend explaining the amazing news that he’s getting married, even though he feels “incapable of loving one woman because he will always love all the others” and his wife-to-be is small, blond and chubby and he knows that a couple of days after the wedding he will inevitably be ardently desiring one tall, dark, thin woman. But he has had a hallucination and can no longer bear the thought of being alone, especially at night. He suffers from severe anxiety due to autophobia.

[Viviane M · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hangin round downtown by myself
And I had so much time
To sit and think
About myself
And then there she was
Like double cherry pie
Yeah there she was
Like disco superfly

I smell sex and
Candy here
Whos that lounging
In my chair
Whos that casting
Devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely
Is a dream

Hangin round downtown by myself
And I had too
Much caffeine
And I was thinkin
bout myself
And then there she was
In platform double suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade

I smell sex and
Candy here
Whos that lounging
In my chair
Whos that casting
Devious stares
In my direction
Mama this surely
Is a dream
Mama this surely
Is a dream
Yeah mama this must
Be my dream

[Luh✧⁠*⁠。 · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dios qué pedazo de cuento, te deja perseguido por días, estuve aproximadamente dos días sin dormir y tuve que sacar todas las sillas de mi habitación.

Sin dudas un cuento que te enfría hasta los huesos.

[A.D · Rating 3 out of 5]

Pretty good
A history about lonelyness write by a frenchy author

[Claire · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not one of my favourite Maupassant stories. Given the narrator’s attitude to women, he probably deserved to be lonely and haunted.

[ali · Rating 3 out of 5]

Pretty good. A history about loneliness news write by a frenchy author

[Kath · Rating 4 out of 5]

My first read for December was this short story by French author Guy de Maupassant which I read for a thing called the Ghost Story Advent. For those not in the know, Ghost Story Advent was dreamt up by the leader of a writing group I am in, who used to have a tradition of reading a short ghost story every day on the run up to Christmas. Last year he gave volunteers in our group a story each and we had to either write a review of said story or post a video where we talked about the story we were given.

This year he decided to let us do a review or a video about our favourite ghost stories. But the fun of it is that if the story chosen is in the public domain then you can usually find it online and so you can read along with the advent as it goes through the month of December. Some of the stories I had read before, and some - sadly - were not in the public domain, but even so I added 10 new reads to my "read" list and it also helped to push me over the target of 100 books read on my Goodreads reading challenge for last year.

In the story, the narrator Raymon, is telling his friend Pierre about his impending nuptials - and paints a rather unfavourable portrait of his poor bride-to-be. It turns out that the reason for this is that he's very plainly not in love with his intended, and is only marrying her because he has a fear of being alone. His explanation for this is expanded upon in the story but as I don't want to spoil it I won't go into detail about his reasons why.

However, one thing I will say, which came about from the person who picked this story, was some information about the author's own mental state at the time of writing Lui? (Which by the way translates as Him?) And this definitely adds an extra element of sympathy from the reader, not only for the author, but also for the character too, because let's face it, the character is the author for all intents and purposes.

You see Monsieur de Maupassant suffered from syphilis, which later in life affected his mental state - ending with him dying in a mental institution aged just 42. The story is an interesting one on it's own merits, but knowing this detail about the author can't help but change the way you view the story, and adds an aspect of sadness that such a talented man should die in such a horrible way.

I highly recommend you have a read of Lui? It's a very short story and is available in the public domain as a text file through project Gutenberg, and on You Tube as an audio version. It's well worth your time.

[Mateo R. · Rating 2 out of 5]

* Figuras fantásticas: Aparición.
* Figuras recurrentes: Mujeriego.

[Forked Radish]

Aka "The Terror"