Le Horla (). February 16, Some say that Maupassant was himself half insane at the time of its writing. He did have syphilis for some time prior and did. Le Horla. First published in This edition published by It is he, the Horla, who haunts me, and who makes me think of these foolish. Le Horla () (French Edition) [Guy De Maupassant] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint.
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What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying on the grass in front of my house, under the enormous plantain tree which covers and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this part of the country; I am fond of living here because I am attached to it by deep roots, the profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born and died, to their traditions, their usages, their food, the local expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, the smell of the soil, the hamlets, and to the atmosphere itself.
I love the horal in which I grew up. From my windows I can see the Seine, which flows by the side of my garden, on the other side of 187 road, almost through my grounds, the great and wide Seine, which goes to Rouen and Havre, and which is covered with boats passing to and fro.
On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, populous Rouen with its blue roofs massing under pointed, Gothic towers. Innumerable are they, delicate or broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, full of bells which sound through the blue air on fine mornings, sending their sweet and distant iron clang to me, their metallic sounds, now stronger and now weaker, according as the wind is strong or light.
The Horla – Wikipedia
What a delicious morning it was! About eleven o’clock, a long line of boats drawn by a el, as big a fly, and which scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke, passed my gate. After two English schooners, whose red flags fluttered toward the sky, there came a 1887 Brazilian three-master; it was perfectly white and wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it, I hardly know why, except that the sight of the vessel gave me great pleasure.
I have had a slight feverish attack for the last few days, and I feel ill, or rather I feel low-spirited. Whence come those mysterious influences which change our happiness into discouragement, and our self-confidence into diffidence? One might almost say that the air, the invisible air, is full of unknowable Forces, whose mysterious presence we have to endure.
I wake up in the best of spirits, with an inclination to sing in my heart.
I go down by the side of the water, and suddenly, after walking a short distance, I return home wretched, as if some misfortune were awaiting me there. Is horlla a cold shiver which, passing over my skin, has upset my nerves and given me a fit of low spirits? Is it the form of the clouds, or the tints of the sky, or the colors of the surrounding objects which are so change-able, which have troubled my thoughts as they passed before my eyes?
Everything that surrounds hrla, everything that we see without looking at it, everything that we touch without knowing it, everything that we handle without feeling it, everything that we meet without clearly distinguishing it, has a rapid, surprising, and inexplicable effect upon us and upon our organs, jorla through them on our ideas and on our being itself.
How profound that mystery of the Invisible is! We cannot fathom it with our miserable senses: Our senses are fairies who work horlw miracle of changing that movement into noise, and by that metamorphosis 18887 birth to music, which makes the mute agitation of nature a harmony. So with our sense of smell, which is weaker than that of a dog, and so with our sense of taste, which can scarcely distinguish the age of a wine!
If yorla only had other organs which could work other miracles in our favor, what a number of fresh things we might discover around us! I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my body. I have without ceasing the horrible sensation of some danger threatening me, the apprehension of some coming misfortune or of approaching death, a presentiment which is no doubt, an attack of some illness still unnamed, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood.
I have just come from consulting my medical man, for I can no longer get any sleep. He found that my pulse was high, my eyes dilated, my nerves highly strung, but no alarming symptoms. Horls must have a course of shower baths and of bromide of potassium. My state is really jorla peculiar. As the evening comes on, an incomprehensible feeling of disquietude gorla me, just as if night concealed some terrible menace toward me.
I dine quickly, and then try to read, but I do not understand the words, and can scarcely distinguish the letters. Then I walk up and down my drawing-room, oppressed by a feeling of confused and irresistible fear, a fear of sleep hirla a fear of my bed. About ten o’clock I go up to my room. As soon as I have entered I lock and bolt the door. I am frightened – of what? Up till the present time I have been frightened of nothing.
I open my cupboards, and look under my bed; I listen – I listen – to what? How strange it is that a simple feeling of discomfort, of impeded or heightened circulation, perhaps the irritation of a nervous center, a slight congestion, a small disturbance in the imperfect and delicate functions of our living machinery, can turn the most light-hearted of men into a melancholy one, and make a coward 1887 the bravest? Then, I go to bed, hrola I wait for sleep as a man might wait for the executioner.
I wait for its coming with dread, and my heart beats and my legs tremble, while my whole body shivers beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, until the moment when I suddenly fall asleep, as a man throws himself into a pool of stagnant water in order to drown.
I do not feel this perfidious sleep coming over me as I used to, but a sleep which is close to hodla and watching me, which is going to seize me by the head, to close my eyes and annihilate me. 187 sleep – a long time – two or three hours perhaps – then a dream – no – a nightmare lays hold on me.
I feel that I am in bed and asleep – I feel it and I know horlq – and I feel also that somebody is coming close to me, is looking at me, touching horpa, is getting on to my bed, is kneeling on my chest, is taking my neck between his hands and squeezing it – squeezing it with all lr might in order to strangle me. I struggle, bound by that terrible powerlessness which paralyzes us in our dreams; I try to cry out – but I cannot; I want to move – I cannot; I ld, with the most violent efforts and out of breath, to turn over and throw off this being which is crushing and suffocating me – I cannot!
And then suddenly I wake up, shaken and bathed in perspiration; I light a candle and find that I am alone, and after that crisis, which occurs every night, I at length fall asleep and slumber tranquilly till morning. My state has grown worse.
What is the matter with me? The bromide does me no good, and the shower-baths have no effect whatever. Sometimes, in order to tire myself out, though I am fatigued enough already, I go for a walk in the forest of Roumare. I used to think at first that the fresh light and soft air, impregnated with the odor of herbs and leaves, would instill new life into my veins and impart fresh energy to my heart.
One day I oe into a broad ride in hrla wood, and then I diverged toward La Bouille, through a narrow path, between two rows of exceedingly tall trees, which placed a thick, green, almost black roof between the sky and me.
The Horla by Guy de Maupassant
A sudden shiver ran through me, not a cold shiver, but a shiver of agony, and so I hastened my steps, uneasy at being alone in the wood, frightened stupidly and without reason, at the profound solitude. Suddenly it seemed as if I were being followed, that somebody was walking at my heels, close, quite close to me, norla enough to touch me. I turned round suddenly, but I was alone. I saw nothing behind me except the straight, broad ride, empty and bordered by high trees, horribly empty; horls the other side also it extended until it was lost in the distance, and looked just the same – terrible.
I closed my eyes. And then I began to turn round on one heel hotla quickly, just like a top. I nearly fell down, and opened my eyes; the trees were dancing round me and the earth heaved; I was obliged to sit down. I no longer remembered how 1878 had come! What a strange idea! What a strange, strange idea! I did not the least know. I started off to the right, and got back into the avenue which had led me into the middle of the forest.
I have had a terrible night.
I shall go away for a few weeks, for no doubt a journey will set me up again. I have come back, quite cured, and have had a most delightful trip into the bargain.
I have been to Mont Saint-Michel, which I had not seen before.
What a sight, when one arrives as I did, at Avranches toward the end of the day! The town stands on a hill, and I was taken into the public garden at the extremity of the town. I uttered a cry of astonishment. An extraordinarily large bay lay extended before me, as far as my eyes could reach, between two hills which were lost to sight in the mist; and in the middle of this immense yellow bay, under a clear, golden sky, a peculiar hill rose up, somber and pointed in the midst of the sand.
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The sun had just disappeared, and under the still flaming sky stood out the outline of that fantastic rock which bears on its summit a picturesque monument. At daybreak I went to it. The tide was low, as it hprla been the night before, and I saw that wonderful abbey rise up before me as I approached it. After several hours’ walking, I reached the enormous mass of rock which supports ld little town, dominated by the great church. Having climbed the steep and narrow street, I entered the most wonderful Gothic building that has ever been erected to God on earth, large as a town, and full of low rooms which seem buried beneath vaulted roofs, and of lofty galleries supported by delicate columns.
I entered this gigantic granite jewel, which is as light in its ohrla as a bit of lace and is covered with towers, with slender belfries to which spiral staircases ascend. The flying buttresses raise strange heads that bristle with chimeras.
When I had reached the summit. I said to the monk who accompanied me: And then the monk told me stories, all the old stories hlrla to the place – legends, nothing but legends. One of them struck me forcibly.
The country people, those belonging to the Mornet, declare that at night one can hear talking going on in the sand, and also that two goats bleat, one with a strong, the other with a weak voice. Incredulous people declare that it is nothing but the screaming of the sea birds, hola occasionally resembles bleatings, and occasionally human lamentations; but belated fishermen swear that they have met an old shepherd, whose cloak covered head they can never see, wandering on the sand, between two tides, round the little town placed so far out of the world.
They declare he is guiding and walking before a he-goat with a man’s face and a she-goat with a woman’s face, both with white hair, who talk incessantly, quarreling in a strange language, and then suddenly cease talking in order to bleat with all their might. How is it that I have not seen them? Look here; there is the wind, which is the strongest force in nature. It knocks down men, and blows down buildings, uproots trees, raises the sea into mountains of water, destroys cliffs and casts great ships on to the breakers; it kills, it whistles, it sighs, it roars.
But have you ever seen it, and can you see it? Yet it exists for all that. I was silent before this simple reasoning. That man was a philosopher, or perhaps a fool; I could not say which exactly, so I held my tongue. What he had said had often been in my own thoughts.
I have slept badly; certainly hola is some feverish influence here, for my lr is suffering in the same way as I am. When I went back home yesterday, I noticed his singular paleness, and I asked him: Since your departure, Monsieur, there has been a spell over me.