Waiter, A "Bock"
Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular evening? I do not
know. It was cold; a fine rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps with
a transparent fog, made the side walks reflect the light that streamed
from the shop windows--lighting up the soft slush and the muddy feet of
the passers-by.
I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk after
dinner. I had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and several
other streets. I suddenly descried a large beer hall which was more than
half full. I walked inside, with no object in view. I was not the least
thirsty.
I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded, and went and
sat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who was
smoking a two-sous clay pipe, which was as black as coal. From six to
eight glasses piled up on the table in front of him indicated the number
of "bocks" he had already absorbed. At a glance I recognized a
"regular," one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in the
morning when the place opens, and do not leave till evening when it is
about to close. He was dirty, bald on top of his head, with a fringe of
iron-gray hair falling on the collar of his frock coat. His clothes,
much too large for him, appeared to have been made for him at a time when
he was corpulent. One could guess that he did not wear suspenders, for
he could not take ten steps without having to stop to pull up his
trousers. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots and of that
which they covered filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs were
perfectly black at the edges, as were his nails.
As soon as I had seated myself beside him, this individual said to me in
a quiet tone of voice:
"How goes it?"
I turned sharply round and closely scanned his features, whereupon he
continued:
"I see you do not recognize me."
"No, I do not."
"Des Barrets."
I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.
I seized him by the hand, and was so dumbfounded that I could find
nothing to say. At length I managed to stammer out:
"And you, how goes it with you?"
He responded placidly:
"I get along as I can."
"What are you doing now?" I asked.
"You see what I am doing," he answered quit resignedly.
I felt my face getting red. I insisted:
"But every day?"
"Every day it is the same thing," was his reply, accompanied with a thick
puff of tobacco smoke.
He then tapped with a sou on the top of the marble table, to attract the
attention of the waiter, and called out:
"Waiter, two 'bocks.'"
A voice in the distance repeated:
"Two bocks for the fourth table."
Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:
"Here they are!"
Immediately a man with a white apron appeared, carrying two "bocks,"
which he set down, foaming, on the table, spilling some of the yellow
liquid on the sandy floor in his haste.
Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the
table, while he sucked in the foam that had been left on his mustache.
He next asked:
"What is there new?"
I really had nothing new to tell him. I stammered:
"Nothing, old man. I am a business man."
In his monotonous tone of voice he said:
"Indeed, does it amuse you?"
"No, but what can I do? One must do something!"
"Why should one?"
"So as to have occupation."
"What's the use of an occupation? For my part, I do nothing at all, as
you see, never anything. When one has not a sou I can understand why one
should work. But when one has enough to live on, what's the use? What
is the good of working? Do you work for yourself, or for others? If you
work for yourself, you do it for your own amusement, which is all right;
if you work for others, you are a fool."
Then, laying his pipe on the marble table, he called out anew:
"Waiter, a 'bock.'" And continued: "It makes me thirsty to keep calling
so. I am not accustomed to that sort of thing. Yes, yes, I do nothing.
I let things slide, and I am growing old. In dying I shall have nothing
to regret. My only remembrance will be this beer hall. No wife, no
children, no cares, no sorrows, nothing. That is best."
He then emptied the glass which had been brought him, passed his tongue
over his lips, and resumed his pipe.
I looked at him in astonishment, and said:
"But you have not always been like that?"
"Pardon me; ever since I left college."
"That is not a proper life to lead, my dear fellow; it is simply
horrible. Come, you must have something to do, you must love something,
you must have friends."
"No, I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my beer,
I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink beer. Then about
half-past one in the morning, I go home to bed, because the place closes
up; that annoys me more than anything. In the last ten years I have
passed fully six years on this bench, in my corner; and the other four in
my bed, nowhere else. I sometimes chat with the regular customers."
"But when you came to Paris what did you do at first?"
"I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis."
"What next?"
"Next I crossed the water and came here."
"Why did you take that trouble?"
"What do you mean? One cannot remain all one's life in the Latin
Quarter. The students make too much noise. Now I shall not move again.
Waiter, a 'bock.'"
I began to think that he was making fun of me, and I continued:
"Come now, be frank. You have been the victim of some great sorrow; some
disappointment in love, no doubt! It is easy to see that you are a man
who has had some trouble. What age are you?"
"I am thirty, but I look forty-five, at least."
I looked him straight in the face. His wrinkled, ill-shaven face gave
one the impression that he was an old man. On the top of his head a few
long hairs waved over a skin of doubtful cleanliness. He had enormous
eyelashes, a heavy mustache, and a thick beard. Suddenly I had a kind of
vision, I know not why, of a basin filled with dirty water in which all
that hair had been washed. I said to him:
"You certainly look older than your age. You surely must have
experienced some great sorrow."
He replied:
"I tell you that I have not. I am old because I never go out into the
air. Nothing makes a man deteriorate more than the life of a cafe."
I still could not believe him.
"You must surely also have been married? One could not get as bald-
headed as you are without having been in love."
He shook his head, shaking dandruff down on his coat as he did so.
"No, I have always been virtuous."
And, raising his eyes toward the chandelier which heated our heads, he
said:
"If I am bald, it is the fault of the gas. It destroys the hair.
Waiter, a 'bock.' Are you not thirsty?"
"No, thank you. But you really interest me. Since when have you been so
morbid? Your life is not normal, it is not natural. There is something
beneath it all."
"Yes, and it dates from my infancy. I received a great shock when I was
very young, and that turned my life into darkness which will last to the
end."
"What was it?"
"You wish to know about it? Well, then, listen. You recall, of course,
the castle in which I was brought up, for you used to spend five or six
months there during vacation. You remember that large gray building, in
the middle of a great park, and the long avenues of oaks which opened to
the four points of the compass. You remember my father and mother, both
of whom were ceremonious, solemn, and severe.
"I worshipped my mother; I was afraid of my father; but I respected both,
accustomed always as I was to see every one bow before them. They were
Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse to all the country round, and
our neighbors, the Tannemares, the Ravelets, the Brennevilles, showed
them the utmost consideration.
"I was then thirteen years old. I was happy, pleased with everything, as
one is at that age, full of the joy of life.
"Well, toward the end of September, a few days before returning to
college, as I was playing about in the shrubbery of the park, among the
branches and leaves, as I was crossing a path, I saw my father and
mother, who were walking along.
"I recall it as though it were yesterday. It was a very windy day. The
whole line of trees swayed beneath the gusts of wind, groaning, and
seeming to utter cries-those dull, deep cries that forests give out
during a tempest.
"The falling leaves, turning yellow, flew away like birds, circling and
falling, and then running along the path like swift animals.
"Evening came on. It was dark in the thickets. The motion of the wind
and of the branches excited me, made me tear about as if I were crazy,
and howl in imitation of the wolves.
"As soon as I perceived my parents, I crept furtively toward them, under
the branches, in order to surprise them, as though I had been a veritable
prowler. But I stopped in fear a few paces from them. My father, who
was in a terrible passion, cried:
"'Your mother is a fool; moreover, it is not a question of your mother.
It is you. I tell you that I need this money, and I want you to sign
this.'
"My mother replied in a firm voice:
"'I will not sign it. It is Jean's fortune. I shall guard it for him
and I will not allow you to squander it with strange women, as you have
your own heritage.'
"Then my father, trembling with rage, wheeled round and, seizing his wife
by the throat, began to slap her with all his might full in the face with
his disengaged hand.
"My mother's hat fell off, her hair became loosened and fell over her
shoulders; she tried to parry the blows, but she could not do so. And my
father, like a madman, kept on striking her. My mother rolled over on
the ground, covering her face with her hands. Then he turned her over on
her back in order to slap her still more, pulling away her hands, which
were covering her face.
"As for me, my friend, it seemed as though the world was coming to an
end, that the eternal laws had changed. I experienced the overwhelming
dread that one has in presence of things supernatural, in presence of
irreparable disasters. My childish mind was bewildered, distracted.
I began to cry with all my might, without knowing why; a prey to a
fearful dread, sorrow, and astonishment. My father heard me, turned
round, and, on seeing me, started toward me. I believe that he wanted to
kill me, and I fled like a hunted animal, running straight ahead into the
thicket.
"I ran perhaps for an hour, perhaps for two. I know not. Darkness set
in. I sank on the grass, exhausted, and lay there dismayed, frantic with
fear, and devoured by a sorrow capable of breaking forever the heart of a
poor child. I was cold, hungry, perhaps. At length day broke. I was
afraid to get up, to walk, to return home, to run farther, fearing to
encounter my father, whom I did not wish to see again.
"I should probably have died of misery and of hunger at the foot of a
tree if the park guard had not discovered me and led me home by force.
"I found my parents looking as usual. My mother alone spoke to me
"'How you frightened me, you naughty boy. I lay awake the whole night.'
"I did not answer, but began to weep. My father did not utter a single
word.
"Eight days later I returned to school.
"Well, my friend, it was all over with me. I had witnessed the other
side of things, the bad side. I have not been able to perceive the good
side since that day. What has taken place in my mind, what strange
phenomenon has warped my ideas, I do not know. But I no longer had a
taste for anything, a wish for anything, a love for anybody, a desire for
anything whatever, any ambition, or any hope. And I always see my poor
mother on the ground, in the park, my father beating her. My mother died
some years later; my, father still lives. I have not seen him since.
Waiter, a 'bock.'"
A waiter brought him his "bock," which he swallowed at a gulp. But, in
taking up his pipe again, trembling as he was, he broke it. "Confound
it!" he said, with a gesture of annoyance. "That is a real sorrow. It
will take me a month to color another!"
And he called out across the vast hall, now reeking with smoke and full
of men drinking, his everlasting: "Garcon, un 'bock'--and a new pipe."
-THE END-
Guy De Maupassant's short story: Waiter, A "Bock"
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