Complete Works of Kate Chopin

by Kate Chopin

  My name is Elizabeth Stock. I’m thirty-eight years old and unmarried, and not afraid or ashamed to say it. Up to a few months ago I been postmistress of this village of Stonelift for six years, through one administration and a half — up to a few months ago.

  Often seems like the village was most too small; so small that people were bound to look into each other’s lives, just like you see folks in crowded tenements looking into each other’s windows. But I was born here in Stonelift and I got no serious complaints. I been pretty comfortable and contented most of my life. There ain’t more than a hundred houses all told, if that, counting stores, churches, postoffice, and even Nathan Brightman’s palatial mansion up on the hill. Looks like Stonelift wouldn’t be anything without that.

  He’s away a good part of the time, and his family; but he’s done a lot for this community, and they always appreciated it, too.

  But I leave it to any one — to any woman especially, if it ain’t human nature in a little place where everybody knows every one else, for the postmistress to glance at a postal card once in a while. She could hardly help it. And besides, seems like if a person had anything very particular and private to tell, they’d put it under a sealed envelope.

  Anyway, the train was late that day. It was the breaking up of winter, or the beginning of spring; kind of betwixt and between; along in March. It was most night when the mail came in that ought have been along at 5:15. The Brightman girls had been down with their pony-cart, but had got tired waiting and had been gone more than an hour.

  It was chill and dismal in the office. I had let the stove go out for fear of fire. I was cold and hungry and anxious to get home to my supper. I gave out everybody’s mail that was waiting; and for the thousandth time told Vance Wallace there was nothing for him. He’ll come and ask as regular as clockwork. I got that mail assorted and put aside in a hurry. There was no dilly dallying with postal cards, and how I ever come to give a second look at Nathan Brightman’s postal, Heaven only knows!

  It was from St. Louis, written with pencil in large characters and signed, “Collins,” nothing else; just “Collins.” It read:

  “Dear Brightman: Be on hand tomorrow, Tuesday at 10. A. M. promptly. Important meeting of the board. Your own interest demands your presence. Whatever you do, don’t fail. In haste, Collins.”

  I went to the door to see if there was anyone 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 Brightman’s 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 grip 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 what 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 GODMOTHER

  I

  Tante Elodie attracted youth in some incomprehensible way. It was seldom there was not a group of young people gathered about her fire in winter or sitting with her in summer, in the pleasant shade of the live-oaks that screened the gallery.

  There were several persons forming a half circle around her generous chimney early one evening in February. There were Madame Nicolas’ two tiny little girls who sat on the floor and played with a cat the whole time; Madame Nicolas herself, who only came for the little girls and insisted on hurrying away because it was time to put the children to bed, and who, moreover, was expecting a caller. There was a fair, blonde girl, one of the younger teachers at the Normal school. Gabriel Lucaze offered to escort her home when she got up to go, after Madame Nicolas’ departure. But she had already accepted the company of a silent, studious looking youth who had come there in the hope of meeting her. So they all went away but young Gabriel Lucaze, Tante Elodie’s godson, who stayed and played cribbage with her. They played at a small table on which were a shaded lamp, a few magazines and a dish of pralines which the lady took great pleasure in nibbling during the reflective pauses of the game. They had played one game and were nearing the end of the second. He laid a queen upon the table.

  “Fifteen-two” she said, playing a five.

  “Twenty, and a pair.”

  “Twenty-five. Six points for me.”

  “Its a ‘go.’”

  “Thirty-one and out. That is the second game I’ve won. Will you play another rubber, Gabriel?”

  “Not much, Tante Elodie, when you are playing in such luck. Besides, I’ve got to get out, it’s half-past-eight.” He had played recklessly, often glancing at the bronze clock which reposed majestically beneath its crystal globe on the mantle-piece. He prepared at once to leave, going before the gilt-framed, oval mirror to fold and arrange a silk muffler beneath his great coat.

  He was rather good looking. That is, he was healthy looking; his face a little florid, and hair almost black. It was short and curly and parted on one side. His eyes were fine when they were not bloodshot, as they sometimes were. His mouth might have been better. It was not disagreeable or unpleasant, but it was unsatisfactory and drooped a little at the corners. However, he was good to look at as he crossed the muffler over his chest. His face was unusually alert. Tante Elodie looked at him in the glass.

  “Will you be warm enough, my boy? It has turned very cold since six o’clock.”

  “Plenty warm. Too warm.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Now, Tante Elodie,” he said, turning, and laying a hand on her shoulder; he was holding his soft felt hat in the other. “It is always ‘where are you going?’ ‘Where have you been?’ I have spoiled you. I have told you too much. You expect me to tell you everything; consequently, I must sometimes tell you fibs. I am going to confession. There! are you satisfied?” and he bent down and gave her a hearty kiss.

  “I am satisfied, provided you go to the right priestess to confession; not up the hill, mind you!”

  “Up the hill” meant up at the Normal School with Tante Elodie. She was a very conservative person. “The Normal” seemed to her an unpardonable innovation, with its teachers from Minnesota, from Iowa, from God-knows-where, bringing strange ways and manners to the old town. She was one, also, who considered the emancipation of slaves a great mistake. She had many reasons for thinking so and was often called upon to enumerate this in her wordy arguments with her many opponents.

  II

  Tante Elodie distinctly heard the Doctor leave the Widow Nicolas’ at a quarter past ten. He visited the handsome and attractive young woman two evenings in the week and always left at the same hour. Tante Elodie’s double glass doors opened upon the wide upper gallery. Around the angle of the gallery were the apartments of Madame Nicolas. Any one visiting the widow was obliged to pass Tante Elodie’s door. Beneath was a store occasionally occupied by some merchant or other, but oftener vacant. A stairway led down from the porch to the yard where two enormous live-oaks grew and cast a dense shade upon the gallery above, making it an agreeable retreat and resting place on hot summer afternoons. The high, wooden yard-gate opened directly upon the street.

  A half hour went by after the Doctor passed her door. Tante Elodie played “solitaire.” Another half hour followed and still Tante Elodie was not sleepy nor did she think of going to bed. It was very near midnight when she began to prepare her night toilet and to cover the fire.

  The room was very large with heavy rafters across the ceiling. There was an enormous bed over in the corner; a four-posted mahogany covered with a lace spread which was religiously folded every night and laid on a chair. There were some old ambrotypes and photographs about the room; a few comfortable but simple rocking chairs and a broad fire place in which a big log sizzled. It was an attractive room for anyone, not because of anything that was in it except Tante Elodie herself. She was far past fifty. Her hair was still soft and brown and her eyes bright and vivacious. Her figure was slender and nervous. There were many lines in her face, but it did not look care-worn. Had she her youthful flesh, she would have looked very young.

  Tante Elodie had spent the evening in munching pralines and reading by lamp-light some old magazines that Gabriel Lucaze had b
rought her from the club.

  There was a romance connected with her early days. Romances serve but to feed the imagination of the young; they add nothing to the sum of truth. No one realized this fact more strongly than Tante Elodie herself. While she tacitly condoned the romance, perhaps for the sake of the sympathy it bred, she never thought of Justin Lucaze but with a feeling of gratitude towards the memory of her parents who had prevented her marrying him thirty-five years before. She could have no connection between her deep and powerful affection for young Gabriel Lucaze and her old-time, brief passion for his father. She loved the boy above everything on earth. There was none so attractive to her as he; none so thoughtful of her pleasures and pains. In his devotion there was no trace of a duty-sense; it was the spontaneous expression of affection and seeming dependence.

  After Tante Elodie had turned down her bed and undressed, she drew a grey flannel peignoir over her nightgown and knelt down to say her prayers; kneeling before a rocker with her bare feet turned to the fire. Prayers were no trifling matter with her. Besides those which she knew by heart, she read litanies and invocations from a book and also a chapter of “The Following of Christ.” She had said her Notre Père, her Salve Marie and Je crois en Dieu and was deep in the litany of the Blessed Virgin when she fancied she heard footsteps on the stairs. The night was breathlessly still; it was very late.

  “Vierge des Vierges: Priez pour nous. Mère de Dieu: Priez— “

  Surely there was a stealthy step upon the gallery, and now a hand at her door, striving to lift the latch. Tante Elodie was not afraid. She felt the utmost security in her home and had no dread of mischievous intruders in the peaceful old town. She simply realized that there was some one at her door and that she must find out who it was and what they wanted. She got up from her knees, thrust her feet into her slippers that were near the fire and, lowering the lamp by which she had been reading her litanies, approached the door. There was the very softest rap upon the pane. Tante Elodie unbolted and opened the door the least bit.