Below is the story of a woman who breastfeeds a starving guy she's just met in a train, in order to feel relieved ... Though it differs significantly from them, this theme could be related to "Roman charity" and Asian filial piety topics. This text is a rough translation of "Idylle" (original text in French available here) from Guy de Maupassant. Should you want to improve part or all of it, please feel free to share thoughts via the comments section at the bottom of this post.
For a better translation, you can also refer to this Google book
To Maurice Leloir.
The train was leaving Genoa and going to Marseille following the long undulations of the rocky coastline, gliding like a snake between sea and mountain, crawling on the beaches of yellow sand and small waves lined with a net of silver, and falling abruptly into the black mouth of a tunnel like a summer in its hole.
In the last car of the train, a fat woman and a young man were sitting face to face, without speaking, and were looking at each other from time to time. She was maybe twenty-five years old and sat near the door, she was gazing at the landscape. She was a strong peasant from Piedmont, black eyes, large breast, fleshy cheeks. She had pushed several packages under the wooden bench, holding a basket on her lap.
From his side, the man was about twenty years old, he was thin, tanned, with the dark complexion of men who work in the land under the sun. Near him in a handkerchief, his whole fortune: a pair of shoes, a shirt, pants and a jacket. Under the bench something was also hidden : a shovel and a pickaxe attached together with a rope. He was going in France to find a job.
The sun, rising in the sky, was pouring a rain of fire on the coast. This was around the end of May, and delicious smells were fluttering, entering the car whose windows were opened. The orange and lemon trees in blossom, exhaling into the quiet sky their sweet perfumes , so sweet and strong, so disturbing, mingled with the breath of roses that had surged everywhere like weeds along the track, in the lush gardens in front of the doors of shacks and in the countryside too. They are at home on this coast, the roses! They fill their country with strong aroma and light, they make the air a treat, something tastier than wine and as heady. The train was going slowly, as if it wanted to linger in this garden, in this softness. It was stopping at any time, in small stations, in front of a few white houses, and was moving again at its calm pace, after long whistle. Nobody was riding into it. It seemed that the world was dozing, could not decide to move in this hot spring morning.
The fat woman, from time to time, was closing her eyes, then was opening them again suddenly, when her basket was slipping on her knees, about to fall. She was catching it with a quick movement, was looking at outside a few minutes, then was dozing again. Beads of sweat were shining on her forehead, and she was breathing with difficulty, as if she had suffered from a painful oppression.
The young man had bent his head and was sleeping the deep sleep of peasants. Suddenly, the train emerging from a small station, the farmer seemed to wake up, and opening her basket, she pulled out a piece of bread, boiled eggs, a bottle of wine and plums, nice red plums, and she began to eat. The man had also waken up abruptly and he was staring at her, he was looking every single bite from her knees to her mouth. He was staying like this,arms folded, staring eyes, hollow cheeks, lips closed.
She was eating like a big greedy woman, drinking at any moment a mouthful of wine to hurry eggs in her throat, and she was stopping in order to breathe a bit. She made everything disappear, bread, eggs, plums, wine. And when she finished her meal, the boy closed his eyes.
Then, feeling a little embarrassed, she loosened her blouse and the man suddenly looked again. IT did not disturb her and she continued to unbutton her dress, and the pressure of her breasts opened the cloth showing between the two parts of textile, by the slot growing larger, some white cloth and some skin.
The woman, when she felt more at ease, pronounced in Italian:
"It's so hot... It's impossible to breathe."
The young man replied in the same language and with the same pronunciation:
"It's a nice weather to travel."
She asked :
- Are you from Piedmont?
- I am from Asti.
- Me, Casale.
They were neighbors.
They began to talk.
They said the long mundane things that the common people constantly repeat and that are sufficient for their slow minds... without any horizon. They spoke of the country. They had mutual acquaintances. They quoted the names, becoming friends as they were discovering a new person they had both seen.
The words fast, hurry, were coming out of their mouths with their specific ending sounds and their Italian song. Then they talked about themselves.
She was married, she had three children left in the custody of her sister because she had found a place to nurse, a good place at a French lady, in Marseille.
He was seeking a job. He heard he would also find one there, because they were building a lot.
Then they kept silent.
The heat grew terrible, falling like a rain on the roof of cars. A cloud of dust was hovering behind the train, was entering into it and the scent of orange and roses was taking a more intense flavor, and seemed to thicken and grow.
The two travelers fell asleep again.
They reopened their eyes almost simultaneously. The sun was sinking into the sea, illuminating its blue cloth with a shower of light. The air, cooler, was seeming lighter.
The nurse gasped, her blouse open, soft cheeks, eyes dull, and she said, with an overwhelmed voice :
"I have not breastfed since yesterday; I am giddy as if I was going to faint."
He did not answer, not knowing what to say.
"When you have milk like me, you must nurse three times a day, without that, you are embarrassed. It's like a weight that I would have on the heart, a weight that keeps me breathing and that breaks my members. It is unfortunate to have milk that much. "
He said: "Yes. It's unfortunate. It must bother you."
She seemed very ill indeed, exhausted and weak. She murmured:
"Just press it and the milk will flow as a fountain. It's really curious to see. No one would believe. At Casale, all the neighbors were coming to see me."
He said: "Oh really.
- Yes, really. I would be happy show you, but it would be useless to me. It does not come out a lot that way. "
And she became silent. The convoy stopped at a stop. Standing near a gate, a woman was holding in her arms a young child who was crying. She was thin and ragged. The nurse looked at her.
She said in a compassionate tone:
"Another one that I could relieve. And the boy could also relieve me. Look, I'm not rich, because I leave my house and my people and dear last baby to get a job, but I would still give five francs for having that child ten minutes and give him the breast. It would calm him and me. It seems to me that I would be born again. "
She fell silent again.
Then she passed her hand several times on his burning forehead where the perspiration flowed. And she moaned:
"I can no longer hold. I think I'm dying."
And, with an unconscious gesture, she opened her dress completely.
The right breast appeared huge, tight, with its brown strawberry.
And the poor woman moaned: "Oh my God, Oh my God, what am I going to do?"
The train had restarted and continued its way through the flowers exhaling their warm breath in the evening. Sometimes, a fishing boat appeared, asleep on the blue sea, with its white sails still, which was reflected in the water as if another boat was there ... upside down.
The young man, confused, stammered: "But ... Madame ... ... I could relieve you."
She replied in a broken voice: "Yes, if you want. You will do me good service. I can not hold out, I cannot."
He knelt in front of her, and she leaned toward him, carrying to his mouth in the gesture of a nurse, the dark tip of her breast. In the movement she made by taking her two hands to bring it towards this man, a drop of milk appeared at the extremity.
He began to drink it eagerly, seizing that heavy breast in his mouth like a fruit. And he began to suckle in a greedy and regular way. He had passed both his arms around the waist of the woman that he was holding to approach her, and he drank with slow sips with a movement of the neck, similar as the children one.
Suddenly she said: "That's enough for this one, take the other now."
And he took the other with docility.
She had placed her hands on the back of the young man, and she was breathing forcefully now, happily, enjoying the breath of flowers mixed with blasts of air movement being thrown into the cars.
She said: "It smells really good here."
He did not answer, still drinking at this source of flesh, and closing his eyes as if he was tasting.
But she pushed him gently: "That's enough. I feel better. This put me back in my body."
He got up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
She said, putting back in her dress both living bottles that were filling her chest:
You have done me a great service. I thank you, sir."
And he replied in an acknowledging tone :
"I am the one who has to thank you, ma'am, that's two days that I had not eaten anything !"
February 12th, 1884
Extracted from the book Maupassant and the American Short Story, here is a short analysis of this piece :
"Above all other benefits, though, such a structure permitted Maupassant to attack whatever aspects of human behavior or of the human condition that his whimsy disliked—and to include his audience as the victim of his attack.
For instance, "Idylle" (1884, Idyll) investigates the complexities underlying a seemingly simple incident.
On a train, a bucolic peasant wet nurse, portrayed dispar-agingly and comically, begins to feel discomfort because she has no child with her to suckle.
To relieve her distress, she asks a young stranger, also traveling in the carriage, to suckle her milk.
The reader immediately recognizes the humor and the sexual aspects in the situation, but despite Maupassant's clues to the youth's poverty we do not see the irony and pathos of this chance encounter until the last sentence of the story.
When the woman thanks him for doing her "un fameux service" (a great favor), the man replies: "C'est moi qui vous remercie, madame, voilà deux jours que je n'avais rien mangé!" (M1, 1:1197; It is I who should thank you, madam; I have not eaten anything for two days!).
Tragedy coexists with superficial comedy and prurience. The shock of the unexpected last sentence again alerts us to our perceptual inadequacies. "