by Kate Chopin
“I don’t know what the Beast’s thinking about,” she grumbled. “It’s time to be pulling out of this here.”
“I can’t go till I’m through paying for my clothes,” he told her determinedly.
“I got a few dollars that’ll pay for these things,” she told him. “They mighty poor stuff for the price, any way you look at it.”
Poor stuff or not they had to be paid for, and this boy stood firm in his resolution to work out the balance due.
He brought religious newspapers and sometimes a book, which the priest gave him.
“What you want with them?” questioned Suzima, mistrustfully.
“Why, to read when I get a chance. A feller’s got to read sometime, I guess.” He put them carefully away in his pack, as he cared not to read by the flickering light of a candle or the uncertain flare of the brushwood in the dilapidated chimney. Suzima looked suspiciously upon these signs of ambition for enlightenment, especially as the papers and books were not of a character to entertain her. She examined them during the boy’s absence.
One day she came to his encounter quite at the edge of the village, radiant, greeting him with a sounding slap on the shoulder. She was not so tall as the boy, but she felt he was an insignificant personage nevertheless, when not arrayed in canonicals, one whom she might patronize and with whom she might assume the liberty of equality and camaraderie, when so inclined.
“What you say? We going to pull out in the morning. He came back to-day with the mules. He made the devil of a noise when he didn’t find you here to pack up, but I pitched in myself, and we got everything ready for an early start.”
“Then I must go right back and tell them,” said the boy, halting in the road.
“Don’t need to tell nobody,” she assured him. “You don’t owe them nothing.” The suit of clothes was, in fact, paid for and, moreover, he carried a small surplus in his pocket.
“No, but I got to go back,” he insisted doggedly. He remembered quite distinctly — aside from Suzima reminding him of it — that he had not thought it essential “to go back” four months ago, when he decided to cast his lot with the wayfarers. But he was not now the child of four months ago. A sense of honor was overtaking him, with other manly qualities. He was quite determined to return to the village and bid goodbye to friends and acquaintances he had made there.
“Then I’ll wait here,” said Suzima, not too well pleased, seating herself on a low, grassy knoll at the edge of the road.
It was already getting dusk in the village. The store was closed, but the proprietor was still loitering near, and the boy went up and spoke to him and took his leave of him. He shook hands with an old gray-haired negro sitting on the porch, and bade goodbye to the children and boys of his own age who were standing about in groups.
The priest had just come in from his barnyard and smelled of the stable and cow. He met the boy on the gallery that was dim with the dying daylight filtering through the vines. Within, an old negress was lighting a lamp.
“I come to say goodbye,” said the boy, removing his hat and extending his hand. “We going to start again in the morning.” There was an excited ring in his voice that was noticeable.
“Going to start in the morning!” repeated the priest in his slow, careful, broken English. “Oh! no, you must not go.”
The boy gave a start and withdrew his hand from the man’s grasp, holding it thereafter to himself.
“I got to go,” he said, making a motion to retire, “and it’s getting kind of late now. I ought to be back.”
“But, my friend, wait a moment,” urged the priest, detaining him with a touch on the arm. “Sit down. Let us talk over it together.” The boy seated himself reluctantly on the upper step of the gallery. He had too great reverence for the old man in his sacred character to refuse outright. But his thoughts were not here, nor was his heart, with the breath of Spring abroad beating softly in his face, and the odors of Spring assailing his senses.
“I got to go,” he murmured, anticipating and forestalling his companion. Yet he could not but agree with him. Yes, he wanted to lead an upright, clean existence before God and man. To be sure he meant to settle down, some day, to a respectable employment that would offer him time and opportunity to gather instruction. He liked the village, the people, the life which he had led there. Above all he liked the man whose kindly spirit had been moved to speak and act in his behalf. But the stars were beginning to shine and he thought of the still nights in the forest. A savage instinct stirred within him and revolted against the will of this man who was seeking to detain him.
“I must go,” he said again rising resolutely. “I want to go.”
“Then, if you must, God bless you and be with you, my son. Forget not your Creator in the days of your youth.”
“ No — no — never!”
“And bear in mind and in heart always the holy teachings of the church, my child.”
“Oh, yes — always. Good-bye, sir; good-bye, and thank you, sir.”
He had seen indistinctly the shadowy form of Suzima lurking nearby, waiting for him.
VII
And now the wayfarers traveled northward following in the wake of Spring that turned to meet them radiant at every stage.
Many were the drugs and nostrums that Gutro sold as they went; for languor was on every side and people were running hither and thither with their complaints.
“It is the Spring,” said the old people and the wise ones, with shrugs, as if to say: “The Spring is no great matter to worry over; it will pass.” And then along came Gutro in the nick of time with powders that cleanse the blood and specifics that clear the brain, renew the “system” and reconstruct men and women, making them as it were perfect and whole.
When people are languid and tired they dream — what else can they do? Those day dreams that weave fantastic tricks with that time to come which belongs to them, which they can do with as they choose — in dreams! The young man rested at the plow and lost himself in thoughts of the superlatively fair one whom he had met the winter past in a distant county and whose image arose before him now to trouble him and to move him to devise ways to draw near to her. The maiden dropped the sewing from her hands to dream of she knew not what, and not knowing, it troubled her the more.
Then along came Suzima, the interpreter of dreams, with her mystic cards and Egyptian wisdom that penetrated and revealed.
The boy, on his side, was not idle. He knew the catch-penny trade; a job here and a helpful turn there that brought him small pieces of silver, which he always turned over to Suzima. But he, too, had his dreaming time. His imagination was much stirred by the tales which Gutro told at night beside the camp fire. There was matter for speculation upon the amount of invention which entered into the telling of those personal experiences.
But what of that? It was the time when the realities of life clothe themselves in the garb of romance, when Nature’s decoys are abroad; when the tempting bait is set and the golden-meshed net is cast for the unwary. What mattered if Gutro’s tales were true or not? They were true enough for the season. Some of them left the boy not so tranquil. He began to remember and see, in a new, dawning light, things and people past.
He sometimes brought forth the books and papers which the priest had given him, and tried to read, lying flat on the grass, resting upon his elbows. But he could not find what he sought in the printed page, and he drowsed over it. The woods were full of lights and shades and alive with the flutter and songs of birds. The boy wandered about, for the most part alone, always moving on, restless, expectant, looking for that which lured and eluded him, which he could not overtake.
He would rather have dreamed or done anything that noonday than taken the mules to water. But here was Gutro, who was part human, after all, not wholly a beast, writhing in the clutch of twinges that have attacked more decent men than he. The fellow sat upon a stretched blanket beneath a tree, a huge leg extended, rendered helpless by a sharp and sudden pain
which was well nigh unbearable. He could only sit and glare at the afflicted member and curse it.
“Try some of your own magic ointment,” suggested the boy; then he turned and swore at the boy. And where was Suzima? Down at the pool, at the foot of the hill, washing the clothes. Oh! the wretch! Oh! the vile woman, to be washing clothes and he here with a hideous fate overtaking him, and the mules there, with lolling tongues, panting for water!
If the boy were not an idiot and a villain (and Gutro strongly suspected him of being both), he might be trusted to lead the valued animals to water. But he must have a care, a hundred cares, for that matter. One of the mules, he must remember, stumbled in going down hill; the other picked up loose stones in his hoof as he went. Then this one should not drink so much as he wanted, while the other should be urged to drink more than he seemed to want. The boy whistled a soft accompaniment to the litany of Gutro’s instructions. He had no respect for the man and meant to tell him so some day. He walked away, leading the mules, meaning to deal with them as he saw fit, paying no attention whatever to the stumbling propensity or the instinct for picking up stones.
The air was heavy and hot as a day in summer. Not a leaf stirred on the branches above his head, and not a sound could be heard save the soft splash of the water down at the pool. He felt oppressed and unhappy; he did not know why, and his legs ached as he took long, slow strides down the grassy incline that led through a scattered wood to the water. He wondered what Suzima would say when she saw him for the first time intrusted to care for the mules.
She had finished her washing of the clothes. They were lying, wrung tight, in a small pile, on the pebbly bank. She was seated, naked, upon a broad, flat stone, washing herself, her feet in the water that reached almost up to her round, glistening knees.
He saw her as one sees an object in a flash from a dark sky — sharply, vividly. Her image, against the background of tender green, ate into his brain and into his flesh with the fixedness and intensity of white-hot iron.
“Oh! the devil!” she exclaimed, reaching back hurriedly for the first garment that her hands fell upon, and drawing it across her shoulders. But she need not have troubled to cover herself. After that first flash, he did not look again. He kept his face turned from her, leading the mules to the water’s edge, and staring down into the pool as they drank. There was no use to look at her; he held her as real and alive in his imagination as she was in the flesh, seated upon the stone.
She said not a word after the first impetuous exclamation. She did not go on with her ablutions, but sat drawn together, clutching the garment over her bosom and staring at him.
When the mules were satisfied he turned and led them up the hill again; but his every action was mechanical. There was a cold moisture on his forehead, and, involuntarily, he took off his hat and wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. His face, all his skin, to the very soles of his feet, was burning and pricking, and every pulse in his body was beating, clamoring, sounding in his ears like confused, distant drum-taps. He shook all over as he dragged his unwilling limbs up the ascent.
The sight of Gutro, bestial, seated helpless there upon the grass, seemed to turn the current of his passion in a new direction. He let the mules go and stood a moment, silent and quivering, before the man. It was only a moment’s hesitation in which he seemed to be gathering all his forces to loosen in a torrent of invective and abuse. Where did the rage come from that maddened him? For the first time in his life he uttered oaths and curses that would have made Suzima herself quail. Gutro was suffocating; casting about for any object that his hands fell upon to hurl at the boy.
When the youth’s senseless passion had spent itself, he stayed a moment, panting like a wounded animal, then, turning, fled into the woods. When he had gone far and deep into the forest, he threw himself down upon the ground and sobbed.
VIII
Suzima treated the boy as she had never done before. She was less kind to him. She was cross and sulked for a time. It grieved him. He wanted to explain, to tell her that it was not his fault, but he did not dare to approach the subject, while she ignored it. Yet he felt that her ill-humor towards him was unreasonable. There was no renewal of his rage against Gutro, but he did not feel bound to apologize to that individual. Gutro doubted not that the boy was going mad and communicated his misgiving to Suzima. He related to her the scene which had transpired the day she was washing the clothes down at the pool, and intimated that it would be safe to get rid of so dangerous a character.
She had listened, scowling, but interested. Then she told Gutro a few uncomplimentary things on her own account.
The Beast was on his legs again. The pangs and twinges had gone as suddenly and mysteriously as they had come. But he was fearful of a second visitation, and determined to push on towards some point where he might procure professional and skillful treatment. Gutro was in no sense brave, nor was he foolhardy.
There came along some moonlight about that time and the vagabonds took advantage of it to travel by night.
It was the first night out; so beautiful, so still! The wagon moved along the white stony road, its white canopy gleaming in the white moonlight as it crept in and out of the shadows. The iron pots and pans hooked beneath the wagon swung to and fro with a monotonous, scraping sound.
Gutro sat huddled in a heap on the outside seat, half asleep as was his custom when he drove the mules at night. Suzima lay in the wagon and the youth walked on behind it. She, too, had walked some distance — not beside him as she used to, but more abreast of the wagon. She had been singing as she walked along and the echo of her song came back from a distant hillside. But getting tired at last she had sprung into the wagon and now she lay there. She had taken off her shoes and stockings and her bare feet peeped out, gleaming in the moonlight. The youth saw them and looked at them as he walked behind.
He wondered how long he could walk thus — if he could walk the night through. He would not go and sit beside Gutro; the physical repulsion which he felt for the man was too real to admit of such close contact. And there is a question whether Gutro would have permitted it, suspecting the boy, as he did, of being a dangerous and malicious character.
The boy walked on, stumbling. He was troubled, he was distracted and his breath failed him. He wanted sometimes to rush forward and take Suzima’s feet between his hands, and then, on the other hand he wanted to turn and flee.
It was in response to neither of these impulses, but in submission to a sudden determination moving him, seemingly, without his volition, that he sprang into the wagon. He sat down at the back with his feet dangling.
The night was cool and pleasant. They were crawling along the edge of a hill, and the whole valley beneath spread out before them more soft, more radiant, more beautiful than brush could ever picture or voice ever tell. The boy did not know that it was pleasant and cool or that the valley was gleaming all for him in a magic splendor. He only knew that Suzima’s bare feet were near him, touching him.
He supposed she was asleep. He drew himself up in the wagon and laid there beside her, rigid, faint, and quivering by turns. Suzima was not asleep. Turning, she folded her arms about him and drew him close to her. She held him fast with her arms and with her lips.
IX
A few days had wrought great changes with the boy. That which he had known before he now comprehended, and with comprehension sympathy awoke. He seemed to have been brought in touch with the universe of men and all things that live. He cared more than ever for the creeping and crawling things, for the beautiful voiceless life that met him at every turn; in sky, in rock, in stream, in the trees and grass and flowers that silently unfolded the mysterious, inevitable existence.
But most of all he cared for Suzima. He talked and laughed and played with her. He watched her as she walked and turned about, and as she worked, helping her where he could. And when she sang her voice penetrated his whole being and seemed to complete the new and bewildering existence that had overtaken him.
There were a thousand new lights in Suzima’s eyes that he watched for. She made pretty speeches that sounded in his ears as soft as the slow beating of the south wind. She had become something precious and apart from all things in the world and not to be confounded with them. She was the embodiment of desire and the fulfillment of life.
Suzima was defiant one day because Gutro was drunk. She was always defiant then — when he was brutal and nagging. The boy was near at hand, restless, quivering with apprehension of he knew not what. They had stopped to take their rude meal beneath the shade of a tree. Suzima and the boy were gathering up the utensils they had used. Gutro was hooking the mules to the wagon. He talked and nagged and Suzima talked and defied.
“Hush, Suzima,” the boy kept whispering. “Oh, hush!”
Suddenly, the man, in a rage, turned to strike her with a halter that he held uplifted, but, quicker than he, the boy was ready with a pointed hunting knife that he seized from the ground.
It was only a scratch that he gave after all, for the woman had thrown herself against him with a force that diverted his deadly aim.
Gutro quaked and reeled with fright; he staggered and stood swaying, livid, with hanging jaw. Then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling that came with the dawn of illumination, he began to laugh. Oh, how he laughed! his oily, choking laugh! till the very woods resounded with the vile clamor of it. He leaned up against the wagon holding the fat cushion of his side and pointing a stub of finger. Suzima was red with consciousness, and scowling.
The boy said nothing, but sat down upon the grass. He was not red, like Suzima, but pale and bewildered. He lent no further hand in assisting their departure.