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"The Terror"
Guy de Maupassant
You say you cannot possibly understand it, and I believe you. You think I am losing my
mind? Perhaps I am, but for other reasons than those you imagine, my dear friend.
Yes, I am going to be married, and will tell you what has led me to take that step.
I may add that I know very little of the girl who is going to become my wife to-morrow; I
have only seen her four or five times. I know that there is nothing unpleasing about her, and
that is enough for my purpose. She is small, fair, and stout; so, of course, the day after to-
morrow I shall ardently wish for a tall, dark, thin woman.
She is not rich, and belongs to the middle classes. She is a girl such as you may find by the
gross, well adapted for matrimony, without any apparent faults, and with no particularly
striking qualities. People say of her:
"Mlle. Lajolle is a very nice girl," and tomorrow they will say: "What a very nice woman
Madame Raymon is." She belongs, in a word, to that immense number of girls whom one is
glad to have for one's wife, till the moment comes when one discovers that one happens to
prefer all other women to that particular woman whom one has married.
"Well," you will say to me, "what on earth did you get married for?"
I hardly like to tell you the strange and seemingly improbable reason that urged me on to
this senseless act; the fact, however, is that I am afraid of being alone.
I don't know how to tell you or to make you understand me, but my state of mind is so
wretched that you will pity me and despise me.
I do not want to be alone any longer at night. I want to feel that there is some one close to
me, touching me, a being who can speak and say something, no matter what it be.
I wish to be able to awaken somebody by my side, so that I may be able to ask some sudden
question, a stupid question even, if I feel inclined, so that I may hear a human voice, and
feel that there is some waking soul close to me, some one whose reason is at work; so that
when I hastily light the candle I may see some human face by my side--because--because --I
am ashamed to confess it--because I am afraid of being alone.
Oh, you don't understand me yet.
I am not afraid of any danger; if a man were to come into the room, I should kill him
without trembling. I am not afraid of ghosts, nor do I believe in the supernatural. I am not
afraid of dead people, for I believe in the total annihilation of every being that disappears
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from the face of this earth.
Well--yes, well, it must be told: I am afraid of myself, afraid of that horrible sensation of
incomprehensible fear.
You may laugh, if you like. It is terrible, and I cannot get over it. I am afraid of the walls, of
the furniture, of the familiar objects; which are animated, as far as I am concerned, by a
kind of animal life. Above all, I am afraid of my own dreadful thoughts, of my reason,
which seems as if it were about to leave me, driven away by a mysterious and invisible
agony.
At first I feel a vague uneasiness in my mind, which causes a cold shiver to run all over me.
I look round, and of course nothing is to be seen, and I wish that there were something
there, no matter what, as long as it were something tangible. I am frightened merely because
I cannot understand my own terror.
If I speak, I am afraid of my own voice. If I walk, I am afraid of I know not what, behind the
door, behind the curtains, in the cupboard, or under my bed, and yet all the time I know
there is nothing anywhere, and I turn round suddenly because I am afraid of what is behind
me, although there is nothing there, and I know it.
I become agitated. I feel that my fear increases, and so I shut myself up in my own room,
get into bed, and hide under the clothes; and there, cowering down, rolled into a ball, I close
my eyes in despair, and remain thus for an indefinite time, remembering that my candle is
alight on the table by my bedside, and that I ought to put it out, and yet--I dare not do it.
It is very terrible, is it not, to be like that?
Formerly I felt nothing of all that. I came home quite calm, and went up and down my
apartment without anything disturbing my peace of mind. Had any one told me that I should
be attacked by a malady--for I can call it nothing else--of most improbable fear, such a
stupid and terrible malady as it is, I should have laughed outright. I was certainly never
afraid of opening the door in the dark. I went to bed slowly, without locking it, and never
got up in the middle of the night to make sure that everything was firmly closed.
It began last year in a very strange manner on a damp autumn evening. When my servant
had left the room, after I had dined, I asked myself what I was going to do. I walked up and
down my room for some time, feeling tired without any reason for it, unable to work, and
even without energy to read. A fine rain was falling, and I felt unhappy, a prey to one of
those fits of despondency, without any apparent cause, which make us feel inclined to cry,
or to talk, no matter to whom, so as to shake off our depressing thoughts.
I felt that I was alone, and my rooms seemed to me to be more empty than they had ever
been before. I was in the midst of infinite and overwhelming solitude. What was I to do? I
sat down, but a kind of nervous impatience seemed to affect my legs, so I got up and began
to walk about again. I was, perhaps, rather feverish, for my hands, which I had clasped
behind me, as one often does when walking slowly, almost seemed to burn one another.
Then suddenly a cold shiver ran down my back, and I thought the damp air might have
penetrated into my rooms, so I lit the fire for the first time that year, and sat down again and
ads:
looked at the flames. But soon I felt that I could not possibly remain quiet, and so I got up
again and determined to go out, to pull myself together, and to find a friend to bear me
company.
I could not find anyone, so I walked to the boulevard ro try and meet some acquaintance or
other there.
It was wretched everywhere, and the wet pavement glistened in the gaslight, while the
oppressive warmth of the almost impalpable rain lay heavily over the streets and seemed to
obscure the light of the lamps.
I went on slowly, saying to myself: "I shall not find a soul to talk to."
I glanced into several cafes, from the Madeleine as far as the Faubourg Poissoniere, and
saw many unhappy-looking individuals sitting at the tables who did not seem even to have
enough energy left to finish the refreshments they had ordered.
For a long time I wandered aimlessly up and down, and about midnight I started for home. I
was very calm and very tired. My janitor opened the door at once, which was quite unusual
for him, and I thought that another lodger had probably just come in.
When I go out I always double-lock the door of my room, and I found it merely closed,
which surprised me; but I supposed that some letters had been brought up for me in the
course of the evening.
I went in, and found my fire still burning so that it lighted up the room a little, and, while in
the act of taking up a candle, I noticed somebody sitting in my armchair by the fire,
warming his feet, with his back toward me.
I was not in the slightest degree frightened. I thought, very naturally, that some friend or
other had come to see me. No doubt the porter, to whom I had said I was going out, had lent
him his own key. In a moment I remembered all the circumstances of my return, how the
street door had been opened immediately, and that my own door was only latched and not
locked.
I could see nothing of my friend but his head, and he had evidently gone to sleep while
waiting for me, so I went up to him to rouse him. I saw him quite distinctly; his right arm
was hanging down and his legs were crossed; the position of his head, which was somewhat
inclined to the left of the armchair, seemed to indicate that he was asleep. "Who can it be?"
I asked myself. I could not see clearly, as the room was rather dark, so I put out my hand to
touch him on the shoulder, and it came in contact with the back of the chair. There was
nobody there; the seat was empty.
I fairly jumped with fright. For a moment I drew back as if confronted by some terrible
danger; then I turned round again, impelled by an imperious standing upright, panting with
fear, so upset that I could not collect my thoughts, and ready to faint.
But I am a cool man, and soon recovered myself. I thought: "It is a mere hallucination, that
is all," and I immediately began to reflect on this phenomenon. Thoughts fly quickly at such
moments.
I had been suffering from an hallucination, that was an incontestable fact. My mind had
been perfectly lucid and had acted regularly and logically, so there was nothing the matter
with the brain. It was only my eyes that had been deceived; they had had a vision, one of
those visions which lead simple folk to believe in miracles. It was a nervous seizure of the
optical apparatus, nothing more; the eyes were rather congested, perhaps.
I lit my candle, and when I stooped down to the fire in doing so I noticed that I was
trembling, and I raised myself up with a jump, as if somebody had touched me from behind.
I was certainly not by any means calm.
I walked up and down a little, and hummed a tune or two. Then I double- locked the door
and felt rather reassured; now, at any rate, nobody could come in.
I sat down again and thought over my adventure for a long time; then I went to bed and
blew out my light.
For some minutes all went well; I lay quietly on my back, but presently an irresistible desire
seized me to look round the room, and I turned over on my side.
My fire was nearly out, and the few glowing embers threw a faint light on the floor by the
chair, where I fancied I saw the man sitting again.
I quickly struck a match, but I had been mistaken; there was nothing there. I got up,
however, and hid the chair behind my bed, and tried to get to sleep, as the room was now
dark; but I had not forgotten myself for more than five minutes, when in my dream I saw all
the scene which I had previously witnessed as clearly as if it were reality. I woke up with a
start, and having lit the candle, sat up in bed, without venturing even to try to go to sleep
again.
Twice, however, sleep overcame me for a few moments in spite of myself, and twice I saw
the same thing again, till I fancied I was going mad. When day broke, however, I thought
that I was cured, and slept peacefully till noon.
It was all past and over. I had been feverish, had had the nightmare. I know not what. I had
been ill, in fact, but yet thought I was a great fool.
I enjoyed myself thoroughly that evening. I dined at a restaurant and afterward went to the
theatre, and then started for home. But as I got near the house I was once more seized by a
strange feeling of uneasiness. I was afraid of seeing him again. I was not afraid of him, not
afraid of his presence, in which I did not believe; but I was afraid of being deceived again. I
was afraid of some fresh hallucination, afraid lest fear should take possession of me.
For more than an hour I wandered up and down the pavement; then, feeling that I was really
too foolish, I returned home. I breathed so hard that I could hardly get upstairs, and
remained standing outside my door for more than ten minutes; then suddenly I had a
courageous impulse and my will asserted itself. I inserted my key into the lock, and went
into the apartment with a candle in my hand. I kicked open my bedroom door, which was
partly open, and cast a frightened glance toward the fireplace. There was nothing there. A-
h! What a relief and what a delight! What a deliverance! I walked up and down briskly and
boldly, but I was not altogether reassured, and kept turning round with a jump; the very
shadows in the corners disquieted me.
I slept badly, and was constantly disturbed by imaginary noises, but did not see him; no,
that was all over.
Since that time I have been afraid of being alone at night. I feel that the spectre is there,
close to me, around me; but it has not appeared to me again.
And supposing it did, what would it matter, since I do not believe in it, and know that it is
nothing?
However, it still worries me, because I am constantly thinking of it. His right arm hanging
down and his head inclined to the left like a man who was asleep--I don't want to think
about it!
Why, however, am I so persistently possessed with this idea? His feet were close to the fire!
He haunts me; it is very stupid, but who and what is he? I know that he does not exist
except in my cowardly imagination, in my fears, and in my agony. There--enough of that!
Yes, it is all very well for me to reason with myself, to stiffen my backbone, so to say; but I
cannot remain at home because I know he is there. I know I shall not see him again; he will
not show himself again; that is all over. But he is there, all the same, in my thoughts. He
remains invisible, but that does not prevent his being there. He is behind the doors, in the
closed cupboard, in the wardrobe, under the bed, in every dark corner. If I open the door or
the cupboard, if I take the candle to look under the bed and throw a light on the dark places
he is there no longer, but I feel that he is behind me. I turn round, certain that I shall not see
him, that I shall never see him again; but for all that, he is behind me.
It is very stupid, it is dreadful; but what am I to do? I cannot help it.
But if there were two of us in the place I feel certain that he would not be there any longer,
for he is there just because I am alone, simply and solely because I am alone!
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