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Sometimes it doesn't pay to "find" something, even a piece of string. Enjoy this Guy de Maupassant short story brought to you by the "Subtly Southern Reader"
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Sometimes it doesn't pay to "find" something, even a piece of string. Enjoy this Guy de Maupassant short story brought to you by the "Subtly Southern Reader"
Comment
Sometimes it doesn't pay to "find" something, even a piece of string. Enjoy this Guy de Maupassant short story brought to you by the "Subtly Southern Reader"
Listen to A Piece of String by Lyndon Ashworth MP3 song. A Piece of String song from Lyndon Ashworth is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 17:25. This high-quality MP3 track has 1036.316 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 10 May 2024. Stream and download A Piece of String by Lyndon Ashworth for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
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Hi, Southerly Southern here. To tell you that just the other day I was listening to a radio show and the topic was the discovery of found wallet. They talked about what to do with the wallet and of course one of them came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to not do anything with the wallet because finding wallets come with a cost if you return them and all of that discussion reminded me of a short story by Guy de Monpassant so I'd like to share that with you. The Piece of String by Guy de Monpassant. All along the roads around Godderville the peasants and their wives were coming toward the burg because it was market day. The men were proceeding with slow steps, the whole body bent forward at each movement of their long twisted legs deformed by their hard work. By the weight on the plow which at the same time raised the left shoulder and swerved the figure by the reaping of the wheat which made the knees spread to make a firm purchase by all the slow and painful labors of the country. Their blouses blue, stiff starched, shining as if varnished ornamented with little designs in white at the neck and wrists puffed about their bony bodies seemed like balloons ready to carry them off. From each of them two feet protruded. Some led a cow or a calf by a cord and their wives walking behind the animal whipped its haunches with leafy branches to hasten its progress. They carried large baskets on their arms from which in some cases chickens and in others ducks thrust out their heads and they walked with a quicker, livelier step than their husbands. Their spare straight figures were wrapped in scanty little shawl pinned above their flat bosom and their heads were enveloped in a white cloth glued to the hair and surmounted by a cap. And then a wagon passed and the jerky trot of a nag shaking strangely two men seated side by side and a woman in the bottom of the vehicle, the latter holding on to the sides to lessen the hard jolts. In the public square of Godderville there was a crowd throng of human beings and animals mixed together. The horns of the cattle, the tall hats, the long nap, the rich peasant and the headgear of the peasant women rose above the surface of the assembly and the clamorous, shrill screaming voices made a continuous and savage din which sometimes was dominated by robust lungs of some countryman's laugh at the long lowing of a cow tied to the wall of a house. All that smacked of the staple, the dairy, the dirt heap, hay, sweat, giving forth that unpleasant odor, human and animal, peculiar to the people of the field. Mr. Harris of Brea Oot had just arrived in Godderville and he was directing his steps toward the public square when he perceived upon the ground a little piece of string. Now Mr. Harris, economical like a true Norman, thought that everything useful ought to be picked up and he bent painfully for he suffered from rheumatism and he took the bit of thin cord from the ground and began to roll it carefully when he noticed that Mr. Miller, the harness maker, was on the threshold of his door looking at him. They had here to forth had some business together on the subject of a halter and they were on bad terms, both being good haters. Mr. Harris was seized with a sort of shame to be seen thus by his enemy, picking a bit of string out of the dirt. He concealed his find quickly under his blouse and then in his trousers pocket and then he pretended to be still looking on the ground for something which he did not find and he went toward the market, his head forward bent double by his pains. He was soon lost in the noisy and slowly moving crowd which was busy with interminable bargainings. The peasants milked, went and came, perplexed, always in fear of being cheated, not daring to decide, watching the vendor's eye, ever trying to find the trick in the man and the flaw in the beast. The women having placed their great baskets at their feet had taken out the poultry which lay upon the ground, tied together by the feet, with terrified eyes and scarlet crests. They heard offers, stated their prices with a dry air and impassive face, or perhaps suddenly deciding on some proposed reduction, shouted to the customer who was slowly going away, All right, Mr. Arthur, I'll give it to you for that, and then little by little the square was deserted, and the angelus ringing at noon, those who had stayed too long, scattered to their shops. At Jordan's, the great room full of people eating, as the big court was full of vehicles of all kinds, carts, gigs, wagons, dump carts, yellow with dirt, mended in patch, raising their shafts to the sky like two arms, or perhaps with their shafts in the ground and their backs in the air. Just opposite the diners, seated at the table, the immense fireplace, filled with bright flames, cast a lively heat on the backs of the row on the right. Three spits were turning on which were chickens, pigeons, leg of mutton, and an appetizing odor of roast beef and gravy dripping over the nicely browned skin, rose from the hearth, increased the jovialness, and made everybody's mouth water. All the aristocracy of the plow ate there at Mr. Jordan's tavern-keeper and horse-dealer and rascal who had money. The dishes were passed and emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Everyone told his affairs, his purchases and sales. They discussed the crops. The weather was favorable for the green things, but not for the wheat. Suddenly the drum beat in the court before the house. Everybody rose, except a few indifferent persons, and ran to the door or to the window, their mouths still full and napkins in their hand. After the public crier had ceased his drum-beating, he called out in a jerky voice, speaking his phrases irregularly, It is hereby made known to the inhabitants of Godderville, and in general to all persons present at the market, that there was lost this morning on the road to Benzeville, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocket-book containing five hundred francs and some business papers. The finder is requested to return the same with all haste to the mayor's office or Mr. Holliday of Mandeville. There will be twenty francs rewarded. Then the man went away. The heavy roll of the drum and the crier's voice were again heard at a distance, and then they began to talk of this event, discussing the chances that Mr. Holliday had of finding or not finding his pocket-book, and the meal concluded. They were finishing their coffee when the chief of the gendarme appeared upon the threshold. He inquired, Is Mr. Harris of Brea Oud here? Of course Mr. Harris, seated at the other end of the table, replied, Here I am, and the officer resumed, Mr. Harris, will you have the goodness to accompany me to the mayor's office? The mayor would like to talk with you. Peasant, surprised and disturbed, swallowed at a draft his tiny glass of brandy, rose and even more bent than in the morning, for the first steps after each rest were especially difficult. He set out, repeating, Here I am. Here I am. The mayor was awaiting him, seated on an armchair. He was the notary of the vicinity, a stout, serious man with pompous phrases. Mr. Harris, said he, You were seen this morning to pick up, on the road to Benzeville, the pocket-book lost by Mr. Holliday of Mandeville. The countryman, astounded, looked at the mayor, already terrified by the suspicion resting on him without his knowing why, Me? Me? I picked up a pocket-book? Yes, you yourself. Word of honor, sir. I never heard of it. But you were seen. I was seen? Me? Who says he saw me? Well, of course, Mr. Miller, the harness-maker. The old man remembered. He understood, and flushed with anger. Ah, he saw me, the clod-hopper. He saw me pick up this string here, Mr. Mayor. And rummaging in his pocket, he drew out the little piece of string. But the mayor, incredulous, shook his head. You will not make me believe, Mr. Harris, that Mr. Miller, who is a man worthy of credence, mistook this cord for a pocket-book. The peasant, furious, lifted his hand, spat in one side, to attest his honor, repeating, It is nevertheless the truth of the good God, the sacred truth, Mr. Mayor. I repeat it on my soul and my salvation. The mayor resumed. After picking up the object, you stood like a stilt, looking a long while in the mud, to see if any piece of money had fallen out. The good old man choked with indignation and fear. How anyone can tell such lies to take away an honest man's reputation? How can anyone? There was no use in his protesting. Nobody believed him. He was a con. He was confronted with Mr. Miller, who repeated and maintained his affirmation. They abused each other for an hour. At his own request, Mr. Harris was searched. Nothing was found on him. Eventually the mayor, very much perplexed, discharged him with the warning that he would consult the public prosecutor and ask for further orders. The news had spread. As he left the mayor's office, the old man was sun-rounded and questioned with a serious or bantering curiosity in which there was no indignation. He began to tell the story of the string. No one believed him. They laughed at him. He went along, stopping his friends, beginning endlessly his statement and his protestation, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he had nothing. They said, old rascal, get out of here, and he grew angry, becoming exasperated, hot, and distressed at not being believed, not knowing what to do, and always repeating himself. Night came. He must depart. He started on his way with three neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up that little bit of string, and all along the road he spoke of his adventure. In the evening, he took a turn in the village of Brea Oot in order to tell everybody he only was met with incredulity. It made him ill at night. The next day, about one o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Palmer, a hired man, in the employ of Mr. Breton, husbandman of Yamanville, returned the pocketbook and its contents to Mr. Holliday of Manville. This man claimed to have found the object in the road, but not knowing how to read, he had carried it into the house and given it to his employer. The news spread throughout the neighborhood, and Mr. Harris was informed of it. He immediately went the circuit and began to recount his story, completed by the happy climax. He was in triumph. What grieved me so much, he said, was not the thing itself as the lying. There is nothing so shameful as to be placed under a cloud on account of a lie. He talked of his adventure all day long. He told it on the highway to people who were passing by, in the wine shop to people who were drinking there, and to persons coming out of the church the following Sunday. He stopped strangers to tell them. He was calm now, and yet something disturbed him without his knowing exactly what it was. People had the air of joking while they listened. They didn't seem convinced. It seemed to feel that the remarks were being made behind his back. On Tuesday of the next week, he went to the market again at Godderville, urged solely by the necessity, he felt, of discussing his case. Miller standing at his door began to laugh on seeing him pass. Why? He approached the farmer from Craquito, who did not let him finish, and giving him a thump in the stomach, said to his face, Oh, you big rascal, and then he turned his back on him. Mr. Harris was confused. Why was he called a big rascal? When he was seated at the table at Jordan's Tavern, he commenced to explain again the affair. A horse dealer from Montvieille called to him. Come, come, old Sharper. That's an old trick. I know all about your piece of string. Mr. Harris stammered, But since the pocketbook was found. But the other man replied, Shut up, papa. There is one that finds, and there is one that reports. At any rate, you are mixed with it. The peasants stood choking. He understood. They accused him of having had the pocketbook returned by a confederate, by an accomplice. He tried to protest, but all the table began to laugh. He couldn't finish his dinner, and he went away in the midst of jeers. He went home ashamed and indignant, choking with anger and confusion, the more dejected that he was capable with his Norman cunning of doing what they had accused him of and ever boasting of it as a good turn. His innocence to him, in a confused way, was impossible to prove as his sharpness was known, and he was stricken to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion. Then he began to recount the adventures again, prolonging his history every day, adding each time new reasons, more energetic protestations, more solemn oaths which he imagined and prepared in his hours of solitude, his whole mind given up to the story of the string. He was believed so much the less, as his defense was more complicated and his arguing more subtle. Those are lying excuses, they said behind his back. He felt it, consumed his heart over it, and wore himself out with useless efforts. He wasted away before their very eyes. The wags now made him tell about the string to amuse him, and as they made a soldier who has been on a campaign tell about his battles, his mind, touched to the depth, began to weaken. Toward the end of December, he took to his bed. He died in the first days of January, and in the delirium of his death struggles, he kept claiming his innocence, reiterating, a piece of string, just a piece of string, here, look, Mr. Mayor, look, here it is, just a piece of string. Here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it is, here it
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