Letter Found on a Drowned Man

Letter Found on a Drowned Man

The story revolves around a young man who drowns himself after writing a letter to his former lover, confessing his love and regret for leaving her. The letter is found by the woman, who is now married with children, and it forces her to confront her past feelings and the choices she made. The narrative explores themes of love, loss, and regret, as well as the complexities of human relationships and the consequences of one's actions. Through the young man's tragic fate, the story highlights the devastating effects of unrequited love and the enduring power of emotions. The tone is melancholic and introspective, with a focus on the emotional turmoil experienced by the characters. The narrative is sparse and direct, mirroring the simplicity and sincerity of the letter itself.

By Guy De Maupassant · First published 1887 · Genre: Literary Fiction, Romantic Fiction, Psychological Fiction · 2,432 words

First lines

You ask me whether I am making fun of you, Madame? You cannot believe that a man has never been in love? All I can say is that I have never loved anyone! How did that happen? I really don't know. I have never known that intoxication which is called love. I have never known that particular dream, that state of exaltation, of folly, which the thought of some one woman can produce. I have never been pursued, haunted, thrown into a fever or entranced by the thought of meeting, or by the possession of, a being who suddenly seemed more desirable than all other happiness, more beautiful than any other creature, or more important than the whole world. Not one of you has ever made me shed tears or caused me a moment's pain. I have never spent long nights, wide-awake, thinking of her. Awakenings radiant with the thought, the memory of her, are unknown to me. I know nothing of the maddening folly of hope when waiting for her arrival, the divine melancholy of regret after she has vanished leaving behind a faint scent of violets mingled with the odour of her skin. I have never loved. I have also often asked myself why. I must confess I hardly know. It is true that I have found reasons but, as they touch on metaphysics, you would probably not appreciate them. I am afraid I am too critical of women to be entirely dominated by their charm. You must excuse this remark. I will explain what I mean. Every human being is composed of a moral and a physical nature; I would have to meet someone in whom the two natures were completely harmonious before I could fall in love. So far as I have seen, the one invariably outweighs the other, sometimes the moral predominates, sometimes the physical. The intelligence which we have a right to demand from a woman when we love her has nothing of man's intelligence. It is greater and it is less. A woman should have an open mind, she should be tactful, tenderhearted, refined, and sensitive. She need not be strong-minded or original, but she must be amiable, elegant, kind, coaxing, and possess that faculty of assimilation which will make her like her life's partner within a short time. Tact must be her greatest quality: that subtle sense which is to the mind what touch is to the body, which reveals a thousand and one little things to her: the contours, angles and shapes of the intellectual world. The intelligence of the greater number of pretty women does not correspond with their physical charms, and the slightest lack of harmony in this connection strikes me at once. In friendship this is of no importance, for friendship is a compact in which defects and merits are both recognised. Friends may be criticised, their good qualities taken into consideration, their faults passed over, they may be estimated at their real value and still be the objects of a deep and beautiful feeling, full of intimacy. In love one must be blind, give up one's self entirely; neither see, think, nor understand. You must worship the weakness as well as the beauty of the loved one, renounce all judgment, all reflection, all perspicacity. I am incapable of this blindness and rebel against such unreasoning bondage. That's not all. I have such a high and subtle idea of harmony that nothing can ever realise my ideal. You will call me mad! Listen. A woman, in my opinion, may have an exquisite soul and a delightful body, and still the body and soul may not be in perfect tune. What I mean is that people whose noses are a certain shape have no right to think in a certain way. The fat have no right to use the same words and phrases as the thin. You, Madame, with your blue eyes, cannot look at life, and judge of things and events as if they were black. The colour of your eyes must inevitably correspond with the colour of your thoughts. I have the scent of a hound for this sort of thing. You may laugh, but it's true. And yet, once, for an hour, for a day, I thought I was in love. Foolishly I had submitted to the influence of propinquity, I allowed myself to be beguiled by the hallucination of a dawn. Shall I tell you about it? One evening I met a pretty little woman, very emotional, who, driven by a caprice, wanted to spend a night with me in a boat on the river. I would have preferred a room and a bed; however, I consented to the river and the boat. It was in June. My friend chose a moonlight night so that she might work herself up thoroughly. We had dined at a riverside inn and started off at about ten o'clock. I thought it rather a stupid thing to do, but did not worry much, since my companion was very attractive. I sat down, seized the oars, and off we went. The scene was certainly picturesque. We glided past a wooded isle full of nightingales, the current carrying us swiftly over the water covered with rippling silver. The toads uttered thin clear and monotonous cries; the frogs croaked in the grass by the river's bank, and the lapping of the water made a confused, muffled murmur, very disquieting and producing a vague sensation of mysterious dread upon us. Our spirits were stirred by the sweet charm of the warm night and of the river glittering in the moonlight. It was good to be alive, to float idly on the water, to dream and to feel a young loving woman was by my side. I was slightly agitated, slightly troubled, slightly intoxicated, by the pale brightness of the night and the presence of my companion. "Come and sit beside me," she said. I obeyed and she continued: "Recite some poetry to me. " I did think that was too much of a joke: I refused: she insisted. She was determined to have a full dress performance, with the whole gamut of sentiment, ranging from the moon to the rhymed couplet. In the end I had to yield and mockingly recited a charming little poem by Louis Bouilhet of which the following are the last stanzas:

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Letter Found on a Drowned Man is listed on Textopian as a short story by Guy De Maupassant, dated 1887 CE.

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Psychological Fiction · Short Story · French Literature · Realism · Existentialism · Philosophical Themes · Mortality · Death · Isolation · Loneliness · Human Condition · Absurdity

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