by Kate Chopin
My friend, the Architect, who is something of a traveler, was showing us various curios which he had gathered during a visit to the Orient.
“Here is something for you,” he said, picking up a small box and turning it over in his hand. “You are a cigarette-smoker; take this home with you. It was given to me in Cairo by a species of fakir, who fancied I had done him a good turn.”
The box was covered with glazed, yellow paper, so skillfully gummed as to appear to be all one piece. It bore no label, no stamp — nothing to indicate its contents.
“How do you know they are cigarettes?” I asked, taking the box and turning it stupidly around as one turns a sealed letter and speculates before opening it.
“I only know what he told me,” replied the Architect, “but it is easy enough to determine the question of his integrity.” He handed me a sharp, pointed paper-cutter, and with it I opened the lid as carefully as possible.
The box contained six cigarettes, evidently hand-made. The wrappers were of pale-yellow paper, and the tobacco was almost the same color. It was of finer cut than the Turkish or ordinary Egyptian, and threads of it stuck out at either end.
“Will you try one now, Madam?” asked the Architect, offering to strike a match.
“Not now and not here,” I replied, “after the coffee, if you will permit me to slip into your smoking-den. Some of the women here detest the odor of cigarettes.”
The smoking-room lay at the end of a short, curved passage. Its appointments were exclusively Oriental. A broad, low window opened out upon a balcony that overhung the garden. From the divan upon which I reclined, only the swaying tree-tops could be seen. The maple leaves glistened in the afternoon sun. Beside the divan was a low stand which contained the complete paraphernalia of a smoker. I was feeling quite comfortable, and congratulated myself upon having escaped for a while the incessant chatter of the women that reached me faintly.
I took a cigarette and lit it, placing the box upon the stand just as the tiny clock, which was there, chimed in silvery strokes the hour of five.
I took one long inspiration of the Egyptian cigarette. The gray-green smoke arose in a small puffy column that spread and broadened, that seemed to fill the room. I could see the maple leaves dimly, as if they were veiled in a shimmer of moonlight. A subtle, disturbing current passed through my whole body and went to my head like the fumes of disturbing wine. I took another deep inhalation of the cigarette.
“Ah! the sand has blistered my cheek! I have lain here all day with my face in the sand. To-night, when the everlasting stars are burning, I shall drag myself to the river.”
He will never come back.
Thus far I followed him; with flying feet; with stumbling feet; with hands and knees, crawling; and outstretched arms, and here I have fallen in the sand.
The sand has blistered my cheek; it has blistered all my body, and the sun is crushing me with hot torture. There is shade beneath yonder cluster of palms.
I shall stay here in the sand till the hour and the night comes.
I laughed at the oracles and scoffed at the stars when they told that after the rapture of life I would open my arms inviting death, and the waters would envelop me.
Oh! how the sand blisters my cheek! and I have no tears to quench the fire. The river is cool and the night is not far distant.
I turned from the gods and said: “There is but one; Bardja is my god.” That was when I decked myself with lilies and wove flowers into a garland and held him close in the frail, sweet fetters.
He will never come back. He turned upon his camel as he rode away. He turned and looked at me crouching here and laughed, showing his gleaming white teeth.
Whenever he kissed me and went away he always came back again. Whenever he flamed with fierce anger and left me with stinging words, he always came back. But to-day he neither kissed me nor was he angry. He only said:
“Oh! I am tired of fetters, and kisses, and you. I am going away. You will never see me again. I am going to the great city where men swarm like bees. I am going beyond, where the monster stones are rising heavenward in a monument for the unborn ages. Oh! I am tired. You will see me no more.”
And he rode away on his camel. He smiled and showed his cruel white teeth as he turned to look at me crouching here.
How slow the hours drag! It seems to me that I have lain here for days in the sand, feeding upon despair. Despair is bitter and it nourishes resolve.
I hear the wings of a bird flapping above my head, flying low, in circles.
The sun is gone.
The sand has crept between my lips and teeth and under my parched tongue.
If I raise my head, perhaps I shall see the evening star.
Oh! the pain in my arms and legs! My body is sore and bruised as if broken. Why can I not rise and run as I did this morning? Why must I drag myself thus like a wounded serpent, twisting and writhing?
The river is near at hand. I hear it — I see it — Oh! the sand! Oh! the shine! How cool! how cold!
The water! the water! In my eyes, my ears, my throat! It strangles me! Help! will the gods not help me?
Oh! the sweet rapture of rest! There is music in the Temple. And here is fruit to taste. Bardja came with the music — The moon shines and the breeze is soft — A garland of flowers — let us go into the King’s garden and look at the blue lily, Bardja.
The maple leaves looked as if a silvery shimmer enveloped them. The gray-green smoke no longer filled the room. I could hardly lift the lids of my eyes. The weight of centuries seemed to suffocate my soul that struggled to escape, to free itself and breathe.
I had tasted the depths of human despair.
The little clock upon the stand pointed to a quarter past five. The cigarettes still reposed in the yellow box. Only the stub of the one I had smoked remained. I had laid it in the ash tray.
As I looked at the cigarettes in their pale wrappers, I wondered what other visions they might hold for me; what might I not find in their mystic fumes? Perhaps a vision of celestial peace; a dream of hopes fulfilled; a taste of rapture, such as had not entered into my mind to conceive.
I took the cigarettes and crumpled them between my hands. I walked to the window and spread my palms wide. The light breeze caught up the golden threads and bore them writhing and dancing far out among the maple leaves.
My friend, the Architect, lifted the curtain and entered, bringing me a second cup of coffee.
“How pale you are!” he exclaimed, solicitously. “Are you not feeling well?”
“A little the worse for a dream,” I told him.
A FAMILY AFFAIR
The moment that the wagon rattled out of the yard away to the station, Madame Solisainte settled herself into a state of nervous expectancy.
She was superabundantly fat; and her body accommodated itself to the huge chair in which she sat, filling up curves and crevices like water poured into a mould. She was clad in an ample muslin peignoir sprigged with brown. Her cheeks were flabby, her mouth thin-lipped and decisive. Her eyes were small, watchful, and at the same time timid. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was arranged in a bygone fashion, a narrow mesh being drawn back from the centre of the forehead to conceal a bald spot, and the sides plastered down smooth over her small, close ears.
The room in which she sat was large and uncarpeted. There were handsome and massive pieces of furniture decorating the apartment, and a magnificent brass clock stood on the mantelpiece.
Madame Solisainte sat at a back window which overlooked the yard, the brick kitchen — a little removed from the house — and the field road which led down to the negro quarters. She was unable to leave her chair. It was an affair of importance to get her out of bed in the morning, and an equally arduous task to put her back there at night.
It was a sore affliction to the old woman to be thus incapacitated during her latter years, and rendered unable to watch and control her household affairs. She was sure that she was being robbed continuousl
y and on all sides. This conviction was nourished and kept alive by her confidential servant, Dimple, a very black girl of sixteen, who trod softly about on her bare feet and had thereby made herself unpopular in the kitchen and down at the quarters.
The notion had entered Madame Solisainte’s head to have one of her nieces come up from New Orleans and stay with her. She thought it would be doing the niece and her family a great kindness, and would furthermore be an incalculable saving to herself in many ways, and far cheaper than hiring a housekeeper.
There were four nieces, not too well off, with whom she was indifferently acquainted. In selecting one of these to make her home on the plantation she exercised no choice, leaving that matter to her sister and the girls, to be settled among them.
It was Bosey who consented to go to her aunt. Her mother spelled her name Bosé. She herself spelled it Bosey. But as often as not she was called plain Bose. It was she who was sent, because, as her mother wrote to Madame Solisainte, Bosé was a splendid manager, a most excellent housekeeper, and moreover possessed a temperament of such rare amiability that none could help being cheered and enlivened by her presence.
What she did not write was that none of the other girls would entertain the notion for an instant of making even a temporary abiding place with their Tante Félicie. And Bosey’s consent was only wrung from her with the understanding that the undertaking was purely experimental, and that she bound herself by no cast-iron obligations.
Madame Solisainte had sent the wagon to the station for her niece, and was impatiently awaiting its return.
“It’s no sign of the wagon yet, Dimple? You don’t see it? You don’t year it coming?”
“No’um; ‘tain’t no sign. De train des ‘bout lef de station. I yeard it w’istle.” Dimple stood on the back porch beside her mistress’ open window. She wore a calico dress so skimp and inadequate that her growing figure was bursting through the rents and apertures. She was constantly pinning it at the back of the waist with a bent safety-pin which was forever giving way. The task of pinning her dress and biting the old brass safety-pin into shape occupied a great deal of her time.
“It’s true,” Madame said. “I recommend to Daniel to drive those mule’ very slow in this hot weather. They are not strong, those mule’.”
“He drive ‘em slow ‘nough long ‘s he’s in the fiel’ road!” exclaimed Dimple. “Time he git roun’ in de big road whar you kain’t see ‘im — uh! uh! he make’ dem mule’ fa’r’ lope!”
Madame tightened her lips and blinked her eyes. She rarely replied otherwise to these disclosures of Dimple, but they sank into her soul and festered there.
The cook — in reality a big-boned field hand — came in with pans and pails to get out the things for supper. Madame kept her provisions right there under her nose in a large closet, or cupboard, which she had had built in the side of the room. A small supply of butter was in a jar that stood on the hearth, and the eggs were kept in a basket that hung on a peg near by.
Dimple came in and unlocked the cupboard, taking the keys from her mistress’ bag. She gave out a little flour, a little meal, a cupful of coffee, some sugar and a piece of bacon. Four eggs were wanted for a pudding, but Madame thought that two would be enough, finally compromising, however, upon three.
Miss Bosey Brantonniere arrived at her aunt’s house with three trunks, a large, circular, tin bathtub, a bundle of umbrellas and sunshades, and a small dog. She was a pretty, energetic-looking girl, with her chin in the air, tastefully dressed in the latest fashion, and dispersing an atmosphere of bustle and importance about her. Daniel had driven her up the field road, depositing her at the back entrance, where Madame, from her window, commanded a complete view of her arrival.
“I thought you would have sent the carriage for me, Tante Félicie, but Daniel tells me you have no carriage,” said the girl after the first greetings were over. She had had her trunks taken to her room, the tub slipped under the bed, and now she sat fondling the dog and talking to Tante Félicie.
The old lady shook her head dismally and her lips curled into a disparaging smile.
“Oh! no, no! The ol’ carriage ‘as been sol’ ages ago to Zéphire Lablatte. It was falling to piece’ in the shed. Me — I never stir f’um w’ere you see me; it is good two year’ since I ‘ave been inside the church, let alone to go en promenade.”
“Well, I’m going to take all care and bother off your shoulders, Tante Félicie,” uttered the girl cheerfully. “I’m going to brighten things up for you, and we’ll see how quickly you’ll improve. Why, in less than two months I’ll have you on your feet, going about as spry as anybody.”
Madame was far less hopeful. “My ol’ mother was the same,” she replied with dejected resignation. “Nothing could ‘elp her. She lived many year’ like you see me; your mamma mus’ ‘ave often tol’ you.”
Mrs. Brantonniere had never related to the girls anything disparaging concerning their Aunt Félicie, but other members of the family had been less considerate, and Bosey had often been told of her aunt’s avarice and grasping ways. How she had laid her clutch upon her mother’s belongings, taking undisputed possession by the force of audacity alone. The girl could not help thinking it must have been while her grandmother sat so helpless in her huge chair that Tante Félicie had made herself mistress of the situation. But she was not one to harbor malice. She felt very sorry for Tante Félicie, so afflicted in her childless old age.
Madame lay long awake that night troubled someway over the advent of this niece from New Orleans, who was not precisely what she had expected. She did not like the excess of trunks, the bathtub and the dog, all of which savored of extravagance. Nor did she like the chin in the air, which indicated determination and promised trouble.
Dimple was warned next morning to say nothing to her mistress concerning a surprise which Miss Bosey had in store for her. This surprise was that, instead of being deposited in her accustomed place at the back window, where she could keep an eye upon her people, Madame was installed at the front-room window that looked out toward the live oaks and along a leafy, sleepy road that was seldom used.
“Jamais! Jamais! it will never do! Pas possible!” cried out the old lady with helpless excitement when she perceived what was about to be done to her.
“You’ll do just as I say, Tante Félicie,” said Bosey, with sprightly determination. “I’m here to take care of you and make you comfortable, and I’m going to do it. Now, instead of looking out on that hideous back yard, full of dirty little darkies, and pigs and chickens wallowing round, here you have this sweet, peaceful view whenever you look out of the window. Now, here comes Dimple with the magazines and things. Bring them right here, Dimple, and lay them on the table beside Ma’me Félicie. I brought these up from the city expressly for you, Tante, and I have a whole trunkful more when you are through with them.”
Dimple was entering, staggering with arms full of books and periodicals of all sizes, shapes and colors. The strain of carrying the weight of literature had caused the safety-pin to give way, and Dimple greatly feared it might have fallen and been lost.
“So, Tante Félicie, you’ll have nothing to do but read and enjoy yourself. Here are some French books mamma sent you, something by Daudet, something by Maupassant and a lot more. Here, let me brighten up your spectacles.” She brightened the old lady’s glasses with a piece of thin tissue paper which fell from one of the books.
“And now, Madame Solisainte, you give me all the keys! Turn them right over, and I’ll go out and make myself thoroughly acquainted with everything.” Madame spasmodically clutched the bag that swung to the arm of her chair.
“Oh! a whole bagful!” exclaimed the girl, gently but firmly disengaging it from her aunt’s claw-like fingers. “My, what an undertaking I have before me! Dimple had better show me round this morning until I get thoroughly acquainted. You can knock on the floor with your stick when you want her. Come along, Dimple. Fasten your dress.” The girl was scanning th
e floor for the safety-pin, which she found out in the hall.
During all of Madame Solisainte’s days no one had ever spoken to her with the authority which this young woman assumed. She did not know what to make of it. She felt that she should have revolted at once against being thus banished to the front room. She should have spoken out and maintained possession of her keys when demanded, with the spirit of a highway robber, to give them up. She pounded her stick on the floor with loud and sudden energy. Dimple appeared with inquisitive eyes.
“Dimple,” said Madame, “tell Miss Bosé to please ‘ave the kin’ness an sen’ me back my bag of key’.”
Dimple vanished and returned almost on the instant.
“Miss Bosey ‘low don’t you bodda. Des you go on lookin’ at de picters. She ain’ gwine let nuttin’ happen to de keys.”
After an uneasy interval Madame recalled the girl.
“Dimple, if you could look in the bag an’ bring me my armoire key — you know it — the brass one. Do not let on as though I would want that key in partic’lar.”
“De bag hangin’ on her arm. She got de string twis’ roun’ her wris’,” reported Dimple presently. Madame Félicie inwardly fumed with impotent rage.
“W’at is she doing, Dimple?” she asked uneasily.
“She got de cubbud do’s fling wide open. She standin’ on a cha’r lookin’ in de corners an’ behin’ eve’ything.”
“Dimple!” called out Bosey from the far room. And away flew Dimple, who had not been so pleasingly agitated since the previous Christmas.
After a little while, of her own accord she stole noiselessly back into the room where Madame Félicie sat in speechless wrath beside the table of books. She closed the door behind her, rolled her eyes, and spoke in a hoarse whisper:
“She done fling ‘way de barrel o’ meal; ‘low it all fill up wid weevils.”
“Weevil’!” cried out her mistress.
“Yas’um, weevils; ‘low it plumb sp’ilt. ‘Low it on’y fitten fo’ de chickens an’ hogs; ‘tain’t fitten fo’ folks. She done make Dan’el roll it out on de gal’ry.”