by Kate Chopin
“Yas, he come home boozy, Emile, he don’ care, him; dat’s nuttin to him w’at happen’.”
In his indifference to fate, the youth had lost an eye, a summer or two ago, and now he was saving no coal-oil for the lamps.
We were clamoring for coffee. Any one of us was willing to forego the fried chicken, that was huddled outside under a slanting, icy board; or the oysters, that had never got off the train; or the ham that was grunting beneath the house; or the eggs, which were possibly out where the chicken was; but we did want coffee.
Emile made us plenty of it, black as ink, since no one cared for the condensed milk which he offered with the sugar.
We could hear the chattering of a cherub in the next room where the bed and cook stove were. And when the piggish little mother went in to dress it, what delicious prattle of Cadian French! what gurgling and suppressed laughter! One of my companions — there were three of us, two Natchitoches men and myself — one of them related an extraordinary experience which the infant had endured a month or two before. He had fallen into an old unused cistern a great distance from the house. In falling through the tangled brush that covered it, he had been caught beneath the arms by some protecting limbs, and thus insecurely sustained he had called and wailed for two hours before help came.
“Yas,” said his mother who had come back into the room, “ ‘is face was black like de stove w’en we fine ‘im. An’ de cistern was all fill’ up wid lizard’ an’ snake’. It was one big snake all curl’ up on de udder en’ de branch, lookin’ at ‘im de whole time.” His little swarthy, rosy moon-face beamed cheerfully at us from over his mother’s shoulder, and his black eyes glittered like a squirrel’s. I wondered how he had lived through those two hours of suffering and terror. But the little children’s world is so unreal, that no doubt it is often difficult for them to distinguish between the life of the imagination and of reality.
The earth was covered with two inches of snow, as white, as dazzling, as soft as northern snow and a hundred times more beautiful. Snow upon and beneath the moss-draped branches of the forests; snow along the bayou’s edges, powdering the low, pointed, thick palmetto growths; white snow and the fields and fields of white cotton bursting from dry bolls. The Natchitoches train sped leisurely through the white, still country, and I longed for some companion to sit beside me who would feel the marvelous and strange beauty of the scene as I did. My neighbor was a gentleman of too practical a turn.
“Oh! the cotton and the snow!” I almost screamed as the first vision of a white cotton field appeared.
“Yes, the lazy rascals; won’t pick a lock of it; cotton at 4 cts, what’s the use they say.”
“What’s the use,” I agreed. How cold and inky black the negroes looked, standing in the white patches.
“Cotton’s in the fields all along here and down through the bayou Natchez country.”
“Oh! it isn’t earthly — its Fairyland!”
“Don’t know what the planters are going to do, unless they turn half the land into pasture and start raising cattle. What you going to do with that Cane river plantation of yours?”
“God knows. I wonder if it looks like this. Do you think they’ve picked the cotton — Do you think one could ever forget— “
Well, some kind soul should have warned us not to go into Natchitoches town. The people were all stark mad. The snow had gone to their heads.
“Keep them curtains shut tight,” said the driver of the rumbling old hack. “They don’t know what they about; they jus’ as lief pelt you to death as not.”
The horses plunged in their break neck speed; the driver swore deep under his breath; pim! pam! the missiles rained against the protecting curtains; the shrieks and yells outside were demoniac, blood curdling. — There was no court that day — the judges and lawyers were rolling in the snow with the boys and girls. There was no school that day; the professors at the Normal — those from the North-states, were showing off and getting the worst of it. The nuns up on the hill and their little charges were like march hares. Barred doors were no protection if an unguarded window had been forgotten. The sanctity of home and person was a myth to be demolished with pelting, melting, showering, suffocating snow.
But the next day the sun came out and the snow all went away, except where bits of it lay here and there in protected roof angles. The magnolia leaves gleamed and seemed to smile in the sunshine. Hardy rose-vines clinging to old stuccoed pillars plumed themselves and bristled their leaves with satisfaction. And the violets peeped out to see if it was all over.
“Ah! this is a southern day,” I uttered with deep gratification as I leisurely crossed the bridge afoot. A warm, gentle breeze was stirring. On the opposite side, a dear old lady was standing in her dear old doorway waiting for me.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM NEW ORLEANS
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Bénoîte, commonly known as Mr. and Mrs. Buddie Bénoîte, were so devoted a couple it seemed an unusual pity that anything so sombre as a cloud should ever shadow their domestic serenity. That is what Sophronie would have said if she had put her thoughts into words. It grieved her beyond measure whenever this amiable couple, for example, got upon the subject of Mrs. Buddie’s family, a family which, having strongly objected, with some reason, to the marriage in the first place, would in the second place have gladly forgiven and forgotten when things turned out so happily.
But Buddie Bénoîte was neither forgiving nor forgetting, and had a sinister way of oiling his shot gun after a too emphatic conversation regarding family ties and obligations. There were minor differences too, upon the training of the children and the treatment of domestic animals which were not serious and furnished zest to what might otherwise have been too colorless an existence.
There hung no cloud however over this engaging family the morning they started off to the barbecue in Mr. Buddie’s big spring wagon. He, his wife, three small children, a couple of neighbors and a huge hemper were as much of a load as the mules could be expected to draw. Mr. Buddie was good looking, energetic, a little too stout and blustering; characteristics which were overemphasized by contrast with his wife, too faded for her years and showing a certain lack of self assertion which her husband regarded as the perfection of womanliness. But one and all beamed happy anticipation as they drove away with noisy clatter.
The morning was still fresh; the sun had not yet dried the dew that shone like a silvery frost on the spears of grass and rested like a mantle of gems on the hardy rose bushes. Sophronie stood shading her eyes and watching them till they were out of sight. She bore not the slightest ill will at being left behind. She was good-natured, and reflected that some one had to stay and watch the premises. To be sure there was old Aunt Crissy, rather the worse for rheumatism. But with the best intentions in the world, what was to prevent Aunt Crissy, if left alone, from setting fire to the house with a coal from her pipe?
No, Sophronie did not complain, but cherished a sense of importance after they were gone. So many things to remember! and so inconsiderate of them to expect her to remember them all! She was not to forget the milk, the calves, the chickens, the dogs. She was to remember to lay the sheets to bleach; to remember if Mr. Sneckbauer from New Orleans stopped in passing, to be polite and to apologize for Mr. Buddie’s absence. Mr. Sneckbauer was a commercial representative making the parish rounds and he was due any moment of any day that week.
Sophronie rattled the keys and bustled around at a great rate. She made up the beds and threw things about on the sunny galleries to air. Aunt Crissy was quite impressed:— “ ‘Tain’t right,” she grumbled, “leave a nice, pert gal like you behine an’ take demse’fs off to de barb’cue des so.”
“Oh, well; every dog its day, Aunt Crissy,” said Sophronie pounding a pillow into shape; “my turn ‘ll come some these times. ‘Tain’t much fun anyhow to go to a barbecue in a wagon with a lot of chil’ren an’ ol’ people.”
“I know w’at you studyin’ ‘bout,” laughed Aunt Crissy; “you got yo�
�� mine sot on settin’ up ‘side a nice young man behine a fas’ trotter like in Kaintuck yonda.”
“You losin’ yo’ time, Aunt Crissy. Go sit down an’ shell those peas. I’ll have you here on my han’s cryin’ misery before you get through.”
Aunt Crissy reluctantly retired, deploring Sophronie’s unwillingness to profit by so excellent an opportunity for cheerful conversation.
Pitty-pot, pitty-pat went Sophronie’s little feet. Now she was flying down to the yard shooing the chickens; again she was dragging the pillows in out of the sun. Swish, swash! went the broom over the bare floors. Bing, bang! opening windows; closing shutters. Clitter, clatter! filling water jars and buckets at the cistern. It’s a pity there was no one more appreciative than Aunt Crissy and the ducks to witness such a display of comeliness and youthful energy.
“She mus’ a’ walked ten miles sence dey gone,” grumbled the old woman shelling the peas with her knotty fingers. “W’at you gwine have fo’ dinner, Miss Phrony?” she called out.
“I’ll jus’ take some milk an’ something cold, Aunt Crissy. You got yo’ bacon an’ greens. I don’t want to bother with dinner.”
It was nearly noon when Sophronie, freshened up, neat as a pin in her blue calico, seated herself to her sewing within the shade of the gallery. But the tribulations of this young housewife were seemingly endless. From afar she had seen a buggy coming down the long, country road. She gazed at it with the natural speculation of the country girl, never dreaming that it would stop there at the gate.
But stop it did. The buggy was old and weather worn. The horse, while an honest enough looking animal, would never have carried off the blue ribbon at a horse show. A thin, blond man in a long linen duster and a soft gray hat got down and divided his attention between his horse and a brace of dogs that viciously challenged his presence.
“Oh, my!” wailed Sophronie; “the gentleman from New Orleans! An’ I can’t even remember his name to save me. W’y couldn’t he waited till tomorrow! You! Jet! Passez! Maje! Go back there! Come in, suh; they won’t touch you; don’t be afraid.”
He opened the gate and came forward with a long, slow stride; pulling at his straggling, straw-colored beard.
“Please come in, suh; come right in. Brother Buddie was expecting you all week. It’s too bad; they gone since mornin’ to the barbecue.”
“Family all gone?” he asked with a slow, bashful drawl, seating himself with an uneasy look.
“Yes, the chil’ren an’ all. But you make yo’se’f at home.”
He pushed back his broad hat, tilted his chair and crossed his legs; nevertheless he did not appear at ease. Sophronie, after the formalities of his reception were over, felt it would be a relief to him if she excused herself and went away to see about preparing some dinner for him.
“He’s come, Aunt Crissy; the gentleman from New Orleans. Here, take a glass of fresh water to him an’ come back quick as yo’ ol’ legs’ll bring you.”
Nothing could have been more welcome to Aunt Crissy than this pleasing distraction. She pinned a clean kerchief about her neck, gave an extra twist to her bandana and started out to the guest with a cool glass of sparkling water on a tray. She was almost bent double, exaggerating her infirmities as was her custom on special occasions. The gentleman from New Orleans thanked her, wiped his beard on a red cotton handkerchief that he abstracted from the depths of the linen duster, and relapsed into silence.
She eyed him closely while he drank. On her way back to the kitchen she passed through the rooms turning the keys on the closet doors and putting small articles of value out of sight.
Sophronie was already busy with the chicken which had been prepared for the evening meal when Aunt Crissy returned to the kitchen.
“W’at he said ‘is name was?” she asked bluntly.
“Oh! I didn’t ask him, Aunt Crissy. Here, pour some water on the peas. He knows we know his name; I wasn’t goin’ to let on I’d forgotten it. Watch the chicken w’ile I go set the table. An’ I think I better get out a bottle of wine. Brother Buddie wouldn’t be pleased if we didn’t treat ‘im right.”
“W’at he said ‘is name was?”
“You enough to try the patience of a saint, Aunt Crissy!”
“Don’ look to me like a gemman f’om Noo O’leans.”
“Oh! you know so many gentlemen from New Orleans an’ from Shreveport an’ Baton Rouge an’ New York! You can tell one from the other if any body can!”
Aunt Crissy at this pointed rebuke considered all responsibility removed and set stolidly about watching the bubbling pots, while Sophronie busied herself in the dining room, spreading out the very best of everything.
The gentleman from New Orleans laid his felt hat down on the floor beside him when he seated himself at table. He still wore the linen duster because he had no coat beneath it, and he still seemed shy and reluctant to talk.
“You reckon they’ll be home before night?” he asked. It was the third time he had put the same question to Sophronie.
“Yes indeed. They wouldn’t think of stayin’ out with the chil’ren after dark. He’p yo’se’f to mo’ wine, suh; it’s good wine; it was made in the parish on Mr. Billy Botton’s place. Not good as you get in New Orleans, of course, but it’s good wine.”
“Let’s see; there’s two children, ain’t there?”
“Three. The las’ little boy is jus’ a year ol’. They beautiful chil’ren, an’jus’ as good! The ol’es’ boy’s got a will of his own, though; he takes after brother Buddie.” Later she suggested, with the purpose of discovering whether he intended to stay or not: “If you decide to wait you can put yo’ buggy in the shed.” The respectable horse had already been provided for.
“Well, I reckon I’ll wait s’long as I came this far.”
“You can take a walk over the place,” prompted Sophronie. “Brother Buddie’s put in a new press; an’ he’s got some o’ the fines’ cotton fo’ miles aroun’, down the far end o’ the field.”
She was delighted to find that her suggestion met with approval. Though a healthy and energetic girl, the strain of entertaining this difficult visitor was beginning to tell on her nerves. She had offered him papers to read which he never looked at. She gave him books with the same result. Conversation was too one-sided to please even a talkative young person.
It was with intense relief that she saw him take his way down the field path, followed by the dogs that had made friends. The linen duster flapped like a skirt about his ankles, and he looked with some show of interest from side to side. Aunt Crissy’s gaze followed him with smouldering disapproval. But she washed the dishes in silence and when through, sat in grim silence smoking her pipe on the bench outside the kitchen door.
Sophronie retreated to her room, drew the shutters and lay down to take a nap. She certainly needed the rest.
“Now, if he comes back too soon,” she thought with a certain reckless desperation, “he’ll have to entertain himself the best he can.”
It was not yet dark when the barbecue party came back, thoroughly tired and disheartened, except Mr. Buddie whose spirits seemed to be not in the least impaired. His wife’s face was white and drawn, with the premature lines brought strongly out by fatigue. Her pale hair fell on either side in wisps, and she offered altogether a pathetic picture, struggling with the fretful children. The wagon went on, to convey the two neighbors to their homeland the Bénoîte family struggled to the house, Sophronie who had been on the watch, carrying the baby.
“The gentleman from New Orleans is here,” she announced to her brother.
“Mr. Sneckbauer! w’en did he come?”
“This mornin’. I gave him dinner. He went out to take a walk an’ he hasn’t come back yet.”
“My, my! did you receive him well?” questioned Mr. Buddie with evident anxiety; “did you give him a good dinner and did Sam put up his buggy? Mr. Sneckbauer’s here, Millie,” to his wife, “go primp up a little an’ fix up the chil’ren. You showed him
to his room, Phronie? Did Crissy see that he had everything he needed?”
“Yes, I invited him to make himse’f comfortable, but he didn’t seem to want anything in particular. He’s been gone a long time; I’ll reckon he’ll soon be back.”
Mr. Buddie performed quite a bit of toilet on his own account, anxious that the family should make a good impression upon Mr. Sneckbauer. His little daughter who was the idol of his heart, toddled after his every step as he came and went about the room, clinging to his legs, hanging to his loosened suspenders. The two were inseparable friends; and when Mr. Buddie had put the last touch by getting into a spic and span blue linen coat, he gathered the importunate little one up in his arms and tenderly brushed the curls away from her dimpled face.
“He’s coming, brother Buddie,” said Sophronie thrusting her head in at the door. “Sister Millie’s out on the back gallery; hurry up!”
When Mr. Buddy reached the gallery he saw the tall, lean figure approaching, already close at hand. Mrs. Buddie stood pale and apparently stricken with some powerful emotion. Then she uttered a cry, and as if possessed of wings, she was down the steps, had crossed the short bit of sward and the next instant she was lost in the arms of the stranger and was sobbing with the utter abandon of a child. He lifted her small person bodily from the ground and for a moment she was quite enfolded in the flapping duster.
“Bud Bénoîte,” began the visitor without preliminary, “I know it’s common talk you got your shotgun fixed for the first Parkins that steps foot on your land. I respected your wishes; I never feared your gun; now blaze away. I was bound to see my daughter if I had to die for it.” Mrs. Buddie had never relinquished her clutch about his neck with her face buried upon his shoulder.