Do your own thing … or, I wish I knew as much as I did at age seven

I was about seven or eight when I read an English translation of French writer Guy de Maupassant’s famous short story, The Necklace.

At the time I was living overseas with my parents with little to do (no TV, no distractions that ?any self-respecting boy of that age might expect, back in Nineteen Canteen). We lived in an old apartment that was filled to the gunnels with old books written by long dead authors that the previous tenant had left, and so it was a case of 'make and mend' with what I had. In the end I suppose it made me a more serious-minded and adventurous reader at an earlier age than I might have been, and I also learnt a few useful life lessons along the way.

For those that don’t know this story, The Necklace is a tale that might equally apply to our own time. It’s about wanting things that you cannot afford, it’s about ambition and petty greed. Madame Mathilde Loisel yearns for a better life in fin de siècle Paris. A superior apartment, wealthier husband, expensive jewels and clothes – all these things are in Mathilde’s sights, but her husband, a low-paid clerk, cannot afford these things and so her dreams remain unfulfilled. Mathilde’s husband tries his best to make her happy, but has little to give, which, unfortunately for him, doesn’t stop him from trying. After much effort, he secures for them an invitation to his employer’s much sought-after ball. Mathilde has nothing to wear and tells her husband to give the tickets to someone else.

Mathilde’s husband’s no quitter and he suggests that she borrow some jewels from her wealthy friend, Madame Jeanne Forestier. He stumps up the money – all of his savings – so that Mathilde can purchase an evening gown suitable for the occasion, but the jewels that Mathilde says she absolutely must wear to a fancy event is out of his reach. Mathilde then borrows a diamond necklace from her friend and off to the ball they both go.

Pretty Mathilde is the belle of the ball, or so she believes, and the evening is a whirl of dancing, fine wine and food. Upon returning home to the apartment she shares with her husband Mathilde discovers to her horror that she has lost the necklace. Despite every effort Mathilde and her husband cannot find the necklace. Buying for time they make every effort to find a replacement, borrowing money at ruinous rates to purchase a facsimile of the original necklace, Mathilde eventually returns the necklace to her friend and this is where the story takes a turn for the utterly dreadful. A decade of scrimping and saving, of taking in washing, of living meanly, eventually helps the benighted couple to repay all of their loans. By now Mathilde has become a drab. With red, raw, coarse hands, a lined face and grey hair, she looks years older than her friend, Madame Forestier, whom she encounters on a walk one Sunday afternoon. Unsurprisingly, Madame Forestier fails to recognise Mathilde, but Mathilde soon reminds her of their friendship and then, unable to resist, blurts out her sorry story of woe and misfortunate. A horrified Jeanne Forestier reveals that the necklace she had lent to Mathilde was made of paste and worth no more than 500 francs.

I perfectly recall the great chill that ran through my body when I read that line. Of course the moral of the story is that a person will pay dearly for coveting false values and by being preoccupied with appearance and materialism. But for me, my own visceral response to the story went quite a bit deeper than that. I realised what a horror other people can be, and what they can make you believe, and how they can make you dance to their tune.

Now, if only I’d remembered to keep close to me the real, brutal lesson of The Necklace.