Maupassant's Short Stories Vol. 13
Crazy people attract me. They live in a mysterious land of weird dreams, in that
impenetrable cloud of dementia where all that they have witnessed in their previous life,
all they have loved, is reproduced for them in an imaginary existence, outside of all laws
that govern the things of this life and control human thought.
For them there is no such thing as the impossible, nothing is improbable; fairyland is a
constant quantity and the supernatural quite familiar. The old rampart, logic; the old wall,
reason; the old main stay of thought, good sense, break down, fall and crumble before
their imagination, set free and escaped into the limitless realm of fancy, and advancing
with fabulous bounds, and nothing can check it. For them everything happens, and
anything may happen. They make no effort to conquer events, to overcome resistance, to
overturn obstacles. By a sudden caprice of their flighty imagination they become princes,
emperors, or gods, are possessed of all the wealth of the world, all the delightful things of
life, enjoy all pleasures, are always strong, always beautiful, always young, always
beloved! They, alone, can be happy in this world; for, as far as they are concerned, reality
does not exist. I love to look into their wandering intelligence as one leans over an abyss
at the bottom of which seethes a foaming torrent whose source and destination are both
But it is in vain that we lean over these abysses, for we shall never discover the source
nor the destination of this water. After all, it is only water, just like what is flowing in the
sunlight, and we shall learn nothing by looking at it.
It is likewise of no use to ponder over the intelligence of crazy people, for their most
weird notions are, in fact, only ideas that are already known, which appear strange simply
because they are no longer under the restraint of reason. Their whimsical source surprises
us because we do not see it bubbling up. Doubtless the dropping of a little stone into the
current was sufficient to cause these ebullitions. Nevertheless crazy people attract me and
I always return to them, drawn in spite of myself by this trivial mystery of dementia.
One day as I was visiting one of the asylums the physician who was my guide said:
"Come, I will show you an interesting case."
And he opened the door of a cell where a woman of about forty, still handsome, was
seated in a large armchair, looking persistently at her face in a little hand mirror.
As soon as she saw us she rose to her feet, ran to the other end of the room, picked up a
veil that lay on a chair, wrapped it carefully round her face, then came back, nodding her
head in reply to our greeting.
"Well," said the doctor, "how are you this morning?"