The Awakening and Selected Short Fiction

  I went to the door to see if there was any one left standing around: but the night was so raw and chill, every last one of the loungers had disappeared. Vance Wallace would of been willing enough to hang about to see me home; but that was a thing I’d broken him of long ago. I locked things up and went on home, just ashivering as I went, it was that black and penetrating—worse than a downright freeze, I thought.

  After I had had my supper and got comfortably fixed front of the fire, and glanced over the St. Louis paper and was just starting to read my seaside Library novel, I got thinking, somehow, about that postal card of Nath Brightman’s. To a person that knew B. from hill’s foot, it was just as plain as day that if that card laid on there in the office, Mr. Brightman would miss that important meeting in St. Louis in the morning. It wasn’t anything to me, of course, except it made me uncomfortable and I couldn’t rest or get my mind fixed on the story I was reading. Along about nine o’clock, I flung aside the book and says to myself:

  “Elizabeth Stock, you a fool, and you know it.” There ain’t much use telling how I put on my rubbers and waterproof, covered the fire with ashes, took my umbrella and left the house.

  I carried along the postoffice key and went on down and got out that postal card—in fact, all of the Brightmans’ mail—wasn’t any use leaving part of it, and started for “the house on the hill” as we mostly call it. I don’t believe anything could of induced me to go if I had known before hand what I was undertaking. It was drizzling and the rain kind of turned to ice when it struck the ground. If it hadn’t been for the rubbers, I’d of taken more than one fall. As it was, I took one good and hard one on the footbridge. The wind was sweeping down so swiftly from the Northwest, looked like it carried me clean off my feet before I could clutch the handrail. I found out about that time that the stitches had come out of my old rubbers that I’d sewed about a month before, and letting the water in soaking my feet through and through. But I’d got more than good and started and I wouldn’t think of turning around.

  Nathan Brightman has got kind of steps cut along the side of the hill, going zig-zag. What you would call a gradual ascent, and making it easy to climb. That is to say, in good weather. But Lands! There wasn’t anything easy that night, slipping back one step for every two; clutching at the frozen twigs along the path; and having to use my umbrella half the time for a walking stick; like a regular Alpine climber. And my heart would most stand still at the way the cedar trees moaned and whistled like doleful organ tones; and sometimes sighing deep and soft like dying souls in pain.

  Then I was a fool for not putting on something warm underneath that mackintosh. I could of put on my knitted wool jacket just as easy as not. But the day had been so mild, it bamboozled us into thinking spring was here for good; especially when we were all looking and longing for it; and the orchards ready to bud, too.

  But I forgot all the worry and unpleasantness of the walk when I saw how Nath Brightman took on over me bringing him that postal card. He made me sit down longside the fire and dry my feet, and kept saying:

  “Why, Miss Elizabeth, it was exceedingly obliging of you; on such a night, too. Margaret, my dear”—that was his wife—“mix a good stiff toddy for Miss Elizabeth, and see that she drinks it.”

  I never could stand the taste or smell of alcohol. Uncle William says if I’d of had any sense and swallowed down that toddy like medicine, it might of saved the day.

  Anyhow, Mr. Brightman had the girls scampering around getting his grip201 packed; one bringing his big top coat, another his muffler and umbrella; and at the same time here they were all three making up a list of a thousand and one things they wanted him to bring down from St. Louis.

  Seems like he was ready in a jiffy, and by that time I was feeling sort of thawed out and I went along with him. It was a mighty big comfort to have him, too. He was as polite as could be, and kept saying:

  “Mind out, Miss Elizabeth! Be careful here; slow now. My! but it’s cold! Goodness knows what damage this won’t do to the fruit trees.” He walked to my very door with me, helping me along. Then he went on to the station. When the midnight express came tearing around the bend, rumbling like thunder and shaking the very house, I’d got my clothes changed and was drinking a hot cup of tea side the fire I’d started up.

  There was a lot of comfort knowing that Mr. Brightman had got aboard that train. Well, we all more or less selfish creatures in this world! I don’t believe I’d of slept a wink that night if I’d of left that postal card lying in the office.

  Uncle William will have it that this heavy cold all came of that walk; though he got to admit with me that this family been noted for weak lungs as far back as I ever heard of.

  Anyway, I’d been sick on and off all spring; sometimes hardly able to stand on my feet when I’d drag myself down to that postoffice. When one morning, just like lightning out of a clear sky, here comes an official document from Washington, discharging me from my position as postmistress of Stonelift. I shook all over when I read it, just like I had a chill; and I felt sick at my stomach and my teeth chattered. No one was in the office when I opened that document except Vance Wallace, and I made him read it and I asked him what he made out it meant. Just like when you can’t understand a thing because you don’t want to. He says:

  “You’ve lost your position, Lizabeth. That what it means; they’ve passed you up.”

  I took it away from him kind of dazed, and says:

  “We got to see about it. We got to go see Uncle William; see what he says. Maybe it’s a mistake.”

  “Uncle Sam don’t make mistakes,” said Vance. “We got to get up a petition in this here community; that’s what I reckon we better do, and send it to the government.”

  Well, it don’t seem like any use to dwell on this subject. The whole community was indignant, and pronounced it an outrage. They decided, in justice to me, I had to find out what I got that dismissal for. I kind of thought it was for my poor health, for I would of had to send in my resignation sooner or later, with these fevers and cough. But we got information it was for incompetence and negligence in office, through certain accusations of me reading postal cards and permitting people to help themselves to their own mail. Though I don’t know as that ever happened except with Nathan Brightman always reaching over and saying:

  “Don’t disturb yourself, Miss Elizabeth,” when I’d be sorting out letters and he could reach his mail in the box just as well as not.

  But that’s all over and done for. I been out of office two months now, on the 26th. There’s a young man named Collins, got the position. He’s the son of some wealthy, influential St. Louis man; a kind of delicate, poetical-natured young fellow that can’t get along in business, and they used their influence to get him the position when it was vacant. They thinks it’s the very place for him. I reckon ’tis. I hope in my soul he’ll prosper. He’s a quiet, nice-mannered young man. Some of the community thought of boycotting him. It was Vance Wallace started the notion. I told them they must be demented, and I up and told Vance Wallace he was a fool.

  “I know I’m a fool, Lizabeth Stock,” he said, “I always been a fool for hanging round you for the past twenty years.”

  The trouble with Vance is, he’s got no intellect. I believe in my soul Uncle William’s got more. Uncle William advised me to go up to St. Louis and get treated. I been up there. The doctor said, with this cough and short breath, if I know what’s good for me I’ll spend the winter in the South. But the truth is, I got no more money, or so little it don’t count. Putting Danny to school and other things here lately, hasn’t left me much to brag of. But I oughtn’t be blamed about Danny; he’s the only one of sister Martha’s boys that seemed to me capable. And full of ambition to study as he was! It would have felt sinful of me, not to. Of course, I’ve taken him out, now I’ve lost my position. But I got him in with Filmore Green to learn the grocery trade, and maybe it’s all for the best; who knows!

  But indeed, indeed, I don’t know w
hat to do. Seems like I’ve come to the end of the rope. O! it’s mighty pleasant here at this south window. The breeze is just as soft and warm as May, and the leaves look like birds flying. I’d like to sit right on here and forget every thing and go to sleep and never wake up. Maybe it’s sinful to make that wish. After all, what I got to do is leave everything in the hands of Providence, and trust to luck.

  The Storm

  A Sequel to “At the ‘Cadian Ball”

  One

  THE LEAVES WERE SO STILL that even Bibi thought it was going to rain. Bobinôt, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child’s attention to certain sombre clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Friedheimer’s store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise.

  “Mama’ll be ’fraid, yes,” he suggested with blinking eyes.

  “She’ll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helpin’ her this evenin’,” Bobinôt responded reassuringly.

  “No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin’ her yistiday,” piped Bibi.

  Bobinôt arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of which Calixta was very fond. Then he returned to his perch on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst. It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field. Bibi laid his little hand on his father’s knee and was not afraid.

  Two

  CALIXTA, AT HOME, felt no uneasiness for their safety. She sat at a side window sewing furiously on a sewing-machine. She was greatly occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She unfastened her white sacque202 at the throat. It began to grow dark, and suddenly realizing the situation she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and doors.

  Out on the small front gallery she had hung Bobinôt’s Sunday clothes to air and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell. As she stepped outside, Alcée Laballière rode in at the gate. She had not seen him very often since her marriage, and never alone. She stood there with Bobinôt’s coat in her hands, and the big rain drops began to fall. Alcée rode his horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and there were plows and a harrow203 piled up in the corner.

  “May I come and wait on your gallery till the storm is over, Calixta?” he asked.

  “Come ‘long in, M’sieur Alcée.”

  His voice and her own startled her as if from a trance, and she seized Bobinôt’s vest. Alcée, mounting to the porch, grabbed the trousers and snatched Bibi’s braided jacket that was about to be carried away by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside, but it was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open: the water beat in upon the boards in driving sheets, and he went inside, closing the door after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the water out.

  “My! what a rain! It’s good two years sence it rain’ like that,” exclaimed Calixta as she rolled up a piece of bagging and Alcée helped her to thrust it beneath the crack.

  She was a little fuller of figure than five years before when she married ; but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue eyes still retained their melting quality; and her yellow hair, disheveled by the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples.

  The rain beat upon the low, shingled roof with a force and clatter that threatened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They were in the dining-room-the sitting-room-the general utility room. Adjoining was her bed-room, with Bibi’s couch along side her own. The door stood open, and the room with its white, monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious.

  Alcée flung himself into a rocker and Calixta nervously began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had been sewing.

  “If this keeps up, Dieu sait204 if the levees205 goin’ to stan’ it!” she exclaimed.

  “What have you got to do with the levees?”

  “I got enough to do! An’ there’s Bobinôt with Bibi out in that storm—if he only didn’ left Friedheimer’s!”

  “Let us hope, Calixta, that Bobinôt’s got sense enough to come in out of a cyclone.”

  She went and stood at the window with a greatly disturbed look on her face. She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture. It was stiflingly hot. Alcée got up and joined her at the window, looking over her shoulder. The rain was coming down in sheets obscuring the view of far-off cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon.

  Calixta put her hands to her eyes, and with a cry, staggered backward. Alcée’s arm encircled her, and for an instant he drew her close and spasmodically to him.

  “Bonté!”206 she cried, releasing herself from his encircling arm and retreating from the window, “the house’ll go next! If I only knew were Bibi was!” She would not compose herself; she would not be seated. Alcée clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her warm, palpitating body when he had unthinkingly drawn her into his arms, had aroused all the old-time infatuation and desire for her flesh.

  “Calixta,” he said, “don’t be frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck, with so many tall trees standing about. There! aren’t you going to be quiet? say, aren’t you?” He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming. Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a glimpse of her full, firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded him of Assumption.

  “Do you remember—in Assumption, Calixta?” he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now—well, now—her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts.

  They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the un-dying life of the world.

  The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached.

  When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life’s mystery.

  He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders.

  The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield.

  The rain was over; and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a palace of gems. Calixta, on the gallery, watched Alcée ride
away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face; and she lifted her pretty chin in the air and laughed aloud.

  Three

  BOBINÔT AND BIBI, trudging home, stopped without at the cistern to make themselves presentable.

  “My! Bibi, w‘at will yo’ mama say! You ought to be ashame’. You oughtn’ put on those good pants. Look at ’em! An’ that mud on yo’ collar ! How you got that mud on yo’ collar, Bibi? I never saw such a boy!” Bibi was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobinôt was the embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to remove from his own person and his son’s the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He scraped the mud off Bibi’s bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully removed all traces from his heavy brogans. Then, prepared for the worst—the meeting with an over-scrupulous housewife, they entered cautiously at the back door.

  Calixta was preparing supper. She had set the table and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in.

  “Oh, Bobinôt! You back! My! but I was uneasy. Were you been during the rain? An’ Bibi? he ain’t wet? he ain’t hurt?” She had clasped Bibi and was kissing him effusively. Bobinôt’s explanations and apologies which he had been composing all along the way, died on his lips as Calixta felt him to see if he were dry, and seemed to express nothing but satisfaction at their safe return.

  “I brought you some shrimps, Calixta,” offered Bobinôt, hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the table.

  “Shrimps! Oh, Bobinôt! you too good fo’ anything!” and she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek that resounded. “J‘vous réponds,207 we’ll have a feas’ to night! umph-umph!”

  Bobinôt and Bibi began to relax and enjoy themselves, and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud that anyone might have heard them as far away as Laballière’s.