The Awakening, and Selected Short Stories
Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull
red brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging
vines. The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the
stone flagging of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately
along the whole stretch of Côte Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they
knew it had cost Philippe Valmêt sixty thousand dollars to build, away
back in 1840. No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as
his daughter Pélagie survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of
fifty. “Ma’ame Pélagie,” they called her, though she was unmarried, as
was her sister Pauline, a child in Ma’ame Pélagie’s eyes; a child of
thirty-five.
The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow
of the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma’ame Pélagie’s dream, which
was to rebuild the old home.
It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish
this end; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the
picayunes hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma’ame
Pélagie felt sure of twenty years of life before her, and counted upon
as many more for her sister. And what could not come to pass in
twenty—in forty—years?
Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee,
seated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of
Louisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other
and the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times
and planning for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered
vines high up among the columns, where owls nested.
“We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,” Ma’ame Pélagie
would say; “perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be
replaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should
you be willing, Pauline?”
“Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.” It was always, “Yes, Sesoeur,”
or “No, Sesoeur,” “Just as you please, Sesoeur,” with poor little
Mam’selle Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that
old spendor? Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness
of a young, uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant
the nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and
flame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pélagie,
and carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their brother,
Léandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as
Pélagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its
memories and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell
in cities. That was many years ago. Now, Léandre’s business called him
frequently and upon long journeys from home, and his motherless
daughter was coming to stay with her aunts at Côte Joyeuse.
They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico.
Mam’selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into
her pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in
and out incessantly.
“But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?
How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!”
“She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,” responded Ma’ame
Pélagie, “and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live;
her father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it
if we chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true
Valmêt.”
Then Ma’ame Pélagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle
her horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the
fields; and Mam’selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled
grasses toward the cabin.
The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent
atmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these
two, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt
Pélagie, with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the
light of stars; and her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crèpe
myrtle. Mam’selle Pauline kissed her and trembled. Ma’ame Pélagie
looked into her eyes with a searching gaze, which seemed to seek a
likeness of the past in the living present.
And they made room between them for this young life.
II
La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange,
narrow existence which she knew awaited her at Côte Joyeuse. It went
well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma’ame Pélagie into the
fields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count
the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her
aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief
past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing
moss of the giant oaks.
Mam’selle Pauline’s steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes
were sometimes as bright as a bird’s, unless La Petite were away from
her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy
expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her
endearingly Tan’tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very
quiet,—not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then
her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes
of the white crèpe myrtle that grew in the ruin.
One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a
hand of each, she said: “Tante Pélagie, I must tell you something, you
and Tan’tante.” She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. “I love you
both,—please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from
you. I can’t live any longer here at Côte Joyeuse.”
A spasm passed through Mam’selle Pauline’s delicate frame. La Petite
could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined
with her own. Ma’ame Pélagie remained unchanged and motionless. No
human eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her
soul felt. She said: “What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent
you to us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain.”
“My father loves me, tante Pélagie, and such will not be his wish when
he knows. Oh!” she continued with a restless movement, “it is as though
a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the
life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day
to day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my
books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of
privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life,
I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante
Pélagie, you do not need to. It seems to me,” she added in a whisper,
“that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan’tante!—what is the matter
with Tan’tante?”
It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon
pass. She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some
water and fanned her with a palmetto leaf.
But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam’selle Pauline sobbed
and would not be comforted. Ma’ame Pélagie took her in her arms.
“Pauline, my little sister Pauline,” she entreated, “I never have seen
you like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy
together, you and I?”
“Oh, yes, Sesoeur.”
“Is it because La Petite is going away?”
“Yes, Sesoeur.”
“Then she is dearer to you than I!” spoke Ma’ame Pélagie with sharp
resentment. “Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day you
were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could
cherish you. Pauline, don’t tell me that.”
Mam’selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.
“I can’t explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don’t understand it myself. I
love you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes
away I shall die. I can’t understand,—help me, Sesoeur. She seems—she
seems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand
and was leading me somewhere—somewhere I want to go.”
Ma’ame Pélagie had been sitting beside the bed in her _peignoir_ and
slippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed
down the woman’s soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence
was broken only by Mam’selle Pauline’s continued sobs. Once Ma’ame
Pélagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to
her sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child.
Almost an hour passed before Ma’ame Pélagie spoke again. Then she
said:—
“Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make
yourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you
understand? She will stay, I promise you.”
Mam’selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith
in the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of
Ma’ame Pélagie’s strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep.
III
Ma’ame Pélagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly
and stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not
linger there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she
crossed the distance that divided her cabin from the ruin.
The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon
resplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma’ame
Pélagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at
night-time, when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had
been there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the
last time to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had
crowded her days and nights, and to bid them farewell.
There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a
robust old white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late.
There are guests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from
the city and from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She
had been abroad with Félix, and they did not notice how the time was
speeding. Félix is there; he will explain it all. He is there beside
her, but she does not want to hear what he will tell her father.
Ma’ame Pélagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so
often came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of
the window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with
the moonlight, for that is faint beside the other one—the sparkle from
the crystal candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and
respectfully about, are lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of
them reflects and glances from the polished marble pillars!
The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien
Santien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something
which Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake.
His son Jules is with him—Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs.
She wonders if Félix has told her father yet. There is young Jérôme
Lafirme playing at checkers upon the sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline
stands annoying them and disturbing the game. Léandre reproves her. She
begins to cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off,
limps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive
the little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better
than she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor
and raised a great “bo-bo” on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and angry
enough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought
and laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one’s steps were surer.
“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” She was saying it aloud—“faire
mal a Pauline.”
But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where
the white crèpe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has