Reflections from the Retirement Home: “The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant

A Novel Exchanges Session Recounting – from 5/11

I began with the question: Can money buy happiness?

“Well, I like candy, and money can buy that!” Anna replied, laughing. Point taken – money can buy items and experiences, and those items and experiences may create a (temporary) feeling of happiness. I narrowed the question: If you could give advice to folks in my generation or younger, would you advise them to pursue wealth in their career?

May jumped in – no, she replied, job satisfaction and passion are far more important than the amount of money you make. Anna contradicted her, pointing out that you can’t be happy if you’re struggling to pay for rent and food. 

I tried to meet them in the middle by citing a 2023 study, which suggested happiness peaked at $75,000 in annual income. (Although, while attempting to find that study for this essay, I discovered that a recent study suggests happiness does improve with higher incomes – above and beyond $500,000 per year.) My point: Financial stress can certainly prevent a person from being happy, and money can definitely help you live a lifestyle where happiness is easier, but there are plenty of people with plenty of money who still aren’t happy. Money alone can’t be the answer to happiness. 

Beth (who contributed throughout the session only in the form of song lyrics), jumped in, saying “Love is all you need, baby”, and Cathy riffed off her jingle, agreeing that relationships are far more important than money. 

It was an excellent start to our discussion of “The Necklace” by Maupassant. After all, Mathilde is a character who values wealth above all else. She is solidly middle-class in 1800s Paris; she has “no dowry”, but she’s married to a clerk, and they have a home, food, and even a “little Breton peasant who did her humble housework”. Despite their means, Mathilde “suffered ceaselessly”, “tortured” by the bareness of the walls, the shabbiness of the chairs, and her unfulfilled dreams of servants and silks and famous company. 

Elizabeth asked – “Where does she get these fantasies from? She’s dreaming of Oriental tapestries and fancy food, but how does she know about these things?”

It’s a great point – back in the 1800s, there was no social media to ensure we constantly compare ourselves with celebrities’ curated lifestyle content. She could be reading about it, of course, but I think the answer to Elizabeth’s question is that Mathilde “had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.” Mathilde has seen someone she grew up with living the lifestyle she wishes she could have, and she is filled with jealousy. I imagine Mathilde feels the way I sometimes feel when I watch a friend’s epic vacation via Instagram stories. 

John snorted and leaned over to the woman on his right, muttering, “Stupid.” I encouraged him to please jump in! Why? But he waved his arms and spluttered that he should shut his big mouth. Fortunately, the women of the retirement community made my case for me: “Don’t be a chicken!”, “Yah, we’re all friends here!”, “Speak up!” they pestered him, until, caving, he gave a rather excellent speech about how important it is to value friendships, and how stupid Mathilde is to let jealousy prevent her from enjoying the simple joys of asking a friend: How are you doing? How is your life? What’s going on with you?

And it’s true – it’s much healthier to feel happy for your friend’s good fortune than to be riddled with resentment. Despite the wisdom of John’s statement, I have some empathy for Mathilde. Wealth is exclusive – especially in the days of the aristocracy, but today as well. Being born into wealth is an undeniably enviable advantage. 

Still, Mathilde quickly became unredeemable in the eyes of the folks of the retirement community. Her husband secures them an invitation to an exclusive ball, but Mathilde cannot bear to go without a new dress. When her husband sacrifices a hunting trip with friends in order to pay for her gown, Elizabeth shouted “selfish”! and May declared that Mathilde was a “stupid bitch” (yes, I was shocked to hear this 76-year old woman in a wheelchair and a wrist cast drop the b-word). 

I asked what they would do in this situation – would the gentlemen of the room sacrifice their hunting weekend? Would the ladies of the room expect their husband to do so? (Or, vice versa – would the ladies of the room sacrifice a girls’ weekend for their husband to get a new ________?) Michael said that if his wife really wanted the dress, he would of course want her to have it; John, on the other hand, said absolutely not. The women of the room were in agreement: no, it would be wrong to expect your husband to sacrifice for you in that way, and they wouldn’t ask him to do so.

It struck me that when we love another person, we are happy to sacrifice for them (most of the time), and we are grateful when the other is willing to sacrifice for us. We doubt Mathilde’s love for her husband because she does not respect his sacrifice – her desires consume her thoughts completely. The dress is not enough; Mathilde insists she needs jewelry as well, claiming “there’s nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are rich.” The community was in agreement. For Matilda, nothing would ever be enough. She would always want more. 

Still, I wondered: is it true? Does Mathilde need a gown and necklace to feel like she belongs among the aristocracy of the ball? 

Anna quipped: “Well, I don’t know about Mathilde, but I like my shoes.” And she pointed to a pair of faded blue slip-ons. Again, point taken! Humiliation is internal – nobody can make you feel ashamed if you accept and love yourself. Of course, I believe that a great outfit can boost your confidence – my fiancé has taught me that much. Mathilde’s problem is not the outfit. After all, she has a theater dress that “looks very well” to her husband. Her humiliation comes from her inability to accept her position in society. 

As May pointed out, Mathilde doesn’t just want to enjoy herself at the ball. She wants to be accepted by the aristocracy. And even though she is celebrated and admired by the men of the ball, she is a married woman with no dowry. Regardless of her outfit, the aristocracy will never accept her, because they know she is not one of them. All she has is the illusion of belonging. After this night of dancing, she will return home, still married to a Ministry clerk. That’s why she “sadly” walks up the stairs to their flat, feeling that “All was ended for her”, while her husband “reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o’clock that morning.” 

And so we reach the point of calamity (Elizabeth’s word, not mine). The necklace is lost. Her husband leaps into action, while Mathilde sits frozen. Unable to find the necklace, he takes on massive debts to pay for a 36,000 franc diamond necklace replacement. The illusion of the night is fully broken: wealth affords people the ability to avoid these consequences, and Mathilde and her husband are not wealthy.

Elizabeth snorted. “In trying to be a good guy, he’s being a dumb guy,” she said. Then she added on, “he should leave her! It’s a loveless marriage.” Marie, the staff attendant, disagreed: “He just isn’t thinking. He loves her, and he knows that because he’s her husband, it’s the right thing to do to pay for the necklace.”

Michael jumped in: “He’s the one who encouraged her to borrow the necklace from her friend in the first place. This is as much his fault as hers – he shouldn’t have spent so long indulging her delusions!”

I asked: what would you do in this situation? The answer was unanimous: tell the friend, ask if there was insurance on the necklace…anything but take on this much debt and work for 10 long years without a single conversation!

But Mathilde has spent the entire story valuing wealth over relationships. Confessing to her friend would mean putting the person before the necklace, and that is not something Mathilde knows how to do.

Nevertheless, she accepts her consequence and spends 10 years living a working woman’s life. I asked: has Mathilde learned her lesson? Elizabeth insisted: “No. a woman like that will always want more.” Kathryn replied with more complexity: “A person can accept the consequences of their actions, but that doesn’t mean that they change entirely. She may always have some fantasies of wealth, but she still gets to work. She doesn’t leave her husband alone to handle her mistake.”

At the end of the story (spoiler alert!), Mathilde runs into her friend and tells her the story of the lost necklace and her 10 years of impoverished living. Aghast, the friend replies that the necklace was made of paste, and worth no more than 500 francs. Ben, who was nearly asleep at the back, said: “It’s like a reverse Cinderella”. I pressed Bob to finish his thought, but Marie announced that it was 12:15 and lunch had started, and Bob replied that it was time for food. Perhaps Ben knew that his words were too wise for a quick quip before lunch time. So, instead of quoting Ben, I will have to share my own thoughts.

Cinderella loses her shoe and gains a prince. Mathilde loses a friend’s necklace and descends into poverty. Even though Cinderella lived a life of ease she lived when her father was alive, she has no delusions of grandeur. She accepts her humble station and treats those around her with loving kindness. When her fairy godmother magics her an evening at the ball, Cinderella knows that the illusion must end.

By contrast, Mathilde is continually self-absorbed, lost in a resentful fantasy of the life she wishes she could live. She suffers because she only thinks about what she does not have. The necklace symbolizes the wealth Mathilde longs for. She sacrifices her life to this symbol, only to discover it was only an illusion. 

In real life, there are no fairy godmothers. We have to make our own happy endings. Like Mathilde’s husband, we can eat “the good soup”, or, like Mathilde, we can eat the soup sadly, dreaming of pheasant. Still, it’s worth remembering: the soup is real, and it is good.