I was going to see my friend Simon Radevin once more, for I had not seen him for fifteen years.  Formerly he was my most intimate friend, and I used to spend long, quiet, and happy evenings with him.  He was one of those men to whom one tells the most intimate affairs of the heart, and in whom one finds, when quietly talking, rare, clever, ingenious, and refined thoughts ­thoughts which stimulate and capture the mind.

For years we had scarcely been separated:  we had lived, traveled, thought, and dreamed together; had liked the same things with the same liking, admired the same books, comprehended the same works, shivered with the same sensations, and very often laughed at the same individuals, whom we understood completely, by merely exchanging a glance.

Then he married ­quite unexpectedly married a little girl from the provinces, who had come to Paris in search of a husband.  How ever could that little, thin, insipidly fair girl, with her weak hands, her light, vacant eyes, and her clear, silly voice, who was exactly like a hundred thousand marriageable dolls, have picked up that intelligent, clever young fellow?  Can anyone understand these things?  No doubt he had hoped for happiness, simple, quiet, and long-enduring happiness, in the arms of a good, tender, and faithful woman; he had seen all that in the transparent looks of that schoolgirl with light hair.

He had not dreamed of the fact that an active, living, and vibrating man grows tired as soon as he has comprehended the stupid reality of a common-place life, unless indeed, he becomes so brutalized as to be callous to externals.

What would he be like when I met him again?  Still lively, witty, light-hearted, and enthusiastic, or in a state of mental torpor through provincial life?  A man can change a great deal in the course of fifteen years!

The train stopped at a small station, and as I got out of the carriage, a stout, a very stout man with red cheeks and a big stomach rushed up to me with open arms, exclaiming:  “George!”

I embraced him, but I had not recognized him, and then I said, in astonishment:  “By Jove!  You have not grown thin!”

And he replied with a laugh:  “What did you expect?  Good living, a good table, and good nights!  Eating and sleeping, that is my existence!”

I looked at him closely, trying to find the features I held so dear in that broad face.  His eyes alone had not altered, but I no longer saw the same looks in them, and I said to myself:  “If looks be the reflection of the mind, the thoughts in that head are not what they used to be ­those thoughts which I knew so well.”

Yet his eyes were bright, full of pleasure and friendship, but they had not that clear, intelligent expression which tells better than do words the value of the mind.  Suddenly he said to me: 

“Here are my two eldest children.”  A girl of fourteen, who was almost a woman, and a boy of thirteen, in the dress of a pupil from a lycee, came forward in a hesitating and awkward manner, and I said in a low voice:  “Are they yours?”

“Of course they are,” he replied laughing.

“How many have you?”

“Five!  There are three more indoors.”

He said that in a proud, self-satisfied, almost triumphant manner, and I felt profound pity, mingled with a feeling of vague contempt for this vainglorious and simple reproducer of his species, who spent his nights in his country house in uxorious pleasures.

I got into a carriage, which he drove himself, and we set off through the town, a dull, sleepy, gloomy town where nothing was moving in the streets save a few dogs and two or three maidservants.  Here and there a shopkeeper standing at his door took off his hat, and Simon returned the salute and told me the man’s name ­no doubt to show me that he knew all the inhabitants personally.  The thought struck me that he was thinking of becoming a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, that dream of all who have buried themselves in the provinces.

We were soon out of the town; the carriage turned into a garden which had some pretensions to a park, and stopped in front of a turreted house, which tried to pass for a chateau.

“That is my den,” Simon said, so that he might be complimented on it, and I replied that it was delightful.

A lady appeared on the steps, dressed up for a visitor, her hair done for a visitor, and with phrases ready prepared for a visitor.  She was no longer the light-haired, insipid girl I had seen in church fifteen years previously, but a stout lady in curls and flounces, one of those ladies of uncertain age, without intellect, without any of those things which constitute a woman.  In short she was a mother, a stout, commonplace mother, a human layer and brood mare, a machine of flesh which procreates, without mental care save for her children and her housekeeping book.

She welcomed me, and I went into the hall, where three children, ranged according to their height, were ranked for review, like firemen before a mayor.  “Ah! ah! so there are the others?” said I. And Simon, who was radiant with pleasure, named them:  “Jean, Sophie, and Gontran.”

The door of the drawing-room was open.  I went in, and in the depths of an easy-chair I saw something trembling, a man, an old, paralyzed man.  Madame Radevin came forward and said:  “This is my grandfather, Monsieur; he is eighty-seven.”  And then she shouted into the shaking old man’s ears:  “This is a friend of Simon’s, grandpapa.”

The old gentleman tried to say “Good day” to me, and he muttered:  “Oua, oua, oua,” and waved his hand.

I took a seat saying:  “You are very kind, Monsieur.”

Simon had just come in, and he said with a laugh:  “So!  You have made grandpapa’s acquaintance.  He is priceless, is that old man.  He is the delight of the children, and he is so greedy that he almost kills himself at every meal.  You have no idea what he would eat if he were allowed to do as he pleased.  But you will see, you will see.  He looks all the sweets over as if they were so many girls.  You have never seen anything funnier; you will see it presently.”

I was then shown to my room to change my dress for dinner, and hearing a great clatter behind me on the stairs, I turned round and saw that all the children were following me behind their father ­to do me honor, no doubt.

My windows looked out on to a plain, a bare, interminable plain, an ocean of grass, of wheat, and of oats, without a clump of trees or any rising ground, a striking and melancholy picture of the life which they must be leading in that house.

A bell rang; it was for dinner, and so I went downstairs.  Madame Radevin took my arm in a ceremonious manner, and we went into the dining-room.  A footman wheeled in the old man’s arm-chair, who gave a greedy and curious look at the dessert, as with difficulty he turned his shaking head from one dish to the other.

Simon rubbed his hands, saying:  “You will be amused.”  All the children understood that I was going to be indulged with the sight of their greedy grandfather and they began to laugh accordingly, while their mother merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders.  Simon, making a speaking trumpet of his hands, shouted at the old man:  “This evening there is sweet rice-cream,” and the wrinkled face of the grandfather brightened, he trembled violently all over, showing that he had understood and was very pleased.  The dinner began.

“Just look!” Simon whispered.  The grandfather did not like the soup, and refused to eat it; but he was made to, on account of his health.  The footman forced the spoon into his mouth, while the old man blew energetically, so as not to swallow the soup, which was thus scattered like a stream of water on to the table and over his neighbors.  The children shook with delight at the spectacle, while their father, who was also amused, said:  “Isn’t the old man funny?”

During the whole meal they were all taken up solely with him.  With his eyes he devoured the dishes which were put on the table, and with trembling hands tried to seize them and pull them to him.  They put them almost within his reach to see his useless efforts, his trembling clutches at them, the piteous appeal of his whole nature, of his eyes, of his mouth, and of his nose as he smelled them.  He slobbered on to his table napkin with eagerness, while uttering inarticulate grunts, and the whole family was highly amused at this horrible and grotesque scene.

Then they put a tiny morsel on to his plate, which he ate with feverish gluttony, in order to get something more as soon as possible.  When the rice-cream was brought in, he nearly had a fit, and groaned with greediness.  Gontran called out to him:  “You have eaten too much already; you will have no more.”  And they pretended not to give him any.  Then he began to cry ­cry and tremble more violently than ever, while all the children laughed.  At last, however, they gave him his helping, a very small piece.  As he ate the first mouthful of the pudding, he made a comical and greedy noise in his throat, and a movement with his neck like ducks do, when they swallow too large a morsel, and then, when he had done, he began to stamp his feet, so as to get more.

I was seized with pity for this pitiable and ridiculous Tantalus, and interposed on his behalf:  “Please, will you not give him a little more rice?”

But Simon replied:  “Oh! no my dear fellow, if he were to eat too much, it might harm him at his age.”

I held my tongue, and thought over these words.  Oh! ethics!  Oh! logic!  Oh! wisdom!  At his age!  So they deprived him of his only remaining pleasure out of regard for his health!  His health!  What would he do with it, inert and trembling wreck that he was?  They were taking care of his life, so they said.  His life?  How many days?  Ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred?  Why?  For his own sake?  Or to preserve for some time longer, the spectacle of his impotent greediness in the family.

There was nothing left for him to do in this life, nothing whatever.  He had one single wish left, one sole pleasure; why not grant him that last solace constantly, until he died?

After playing cards for a long time, I went up to my room and to bed:  I was low-spirited and sad, sad, sad!  I sat at my window, but I heard nothing but the beautiful warbling of a bird in a tree, somewhere in the distance.  No doubt the bird was singing thus in a low voice during the night, to lull his mate, who was sleeping on her eggs.

And I thought of my poor friend’s five children, and to myself pictured him snoring by the side of his ugly wife.