Complete Works of Kate Chopin

by Kate Chopin

  The lemonade was tempting: the pop-corn, the peanuts, the oranges were delights that she might only gaze upon and sigh for. Mons. Perrault took them straight to the big tent, bought the tickets and entered.

  Ninette’s pulses were thumping with excitement. She sniffed the air, heavy with the smell of saw-dust and animals, and it lingered in her nostrils like some delicious odor. Sure enough! There was the elephant which Black-Gal had described. A chain was about his ponderous leg and he kept reaching out his trunk for tempting morsels. The wild creatures were all there in cages, and the people walked solemnly around, looking at them; awed by the unfamiliarity of the scene.

  Ninette never forgot that she had the baby in her arms. She talked to it, and it listened and looked with round, staring eyes. Later on she felt as if she were a person of distinction assisting at some royal pageant when the be-spangled Knights and Ladies in plumes and flowing robes went prancing round on their beautiful horses.

  The people all sat on the circus benches and Ninette’s feet hung down, because an irritable old lady objected to having them thrust into the small of her back. Mme. Perrault offered to take the baby, but Ninette clung to it. It was something to which she might communicate her excitement. She squeezed it spasmodically when her emotions became uncontrollable.

  “Oh! bébé! I believe I’m goin’ to split my sides! Oh, la! la! if gran’ma could see that, I know she’d laugh herse’f sick.” It was none other than the clown who was producing this agreeable impression upon Ninette. She had only to look at his chalky face to go into contortions of mirth.

  No one had noticed a gathering obscurity, and the ominous growl of thunder made every one start with disappointment or apprehension. A flash and a second clap, that was like a crash, followed. It came just as the ring-master was cracking his whip with a “hip-la! hip-la!” at the bareback rider, and the clown was standing on his head. There was a sinister roar; a terrific stroke of the wind; the center pole swayed and snapped; the great canvas swelled and beat the air with bellowing resistance.

  Pandemonium reigned. In the confusion Ninette found herself down beneath piled up benches. Still clutching the baby, she proceeded to crawl out of an opening in the canvas. She stayed huddled up against the fallen tent, thinking her end had come, while the baby shrieked lustily.

  The rain poured in sheets. The cries and howls of the frightened animals were like unearthly sounds. Men called and shouted; children screamed; women went into hysterics and the negroes were having fits.

  Ninette got on her knees and prayed God to keep her and the baby and everyone from injury and to take them safely home. It was thus that Mons. Perrault discovered her and the baby, half covered by the fallen tent.

  She did not seem to recover from the shock. Days afterward, Ninette was going about in a most unhappy frame of mind, with a wretched look upon her face. She was often discovered in tears.

  When her condition began to grow monotonous and depressing, her grandmother insisted upon knowing the cause of it. Then it was that she confessed her wickedness and claimed the guilt of having caused the terrible catastrophe at the circus.

  It was her fault that a horse had been killed; it was her fault if an old gentleman had had a collar-bone broken and a lady an arm dislocated. She was the cause of several persons having been thrown into fits and hysterics. All her fault! She it was who had called the rain down upon their heads and thus had she been punished!

  It was a very delicate matter for grandmother Bézeau to pronounce upon — far too delicate. So the next day she went and explained it all to the priest and got him to come over and talk to Ninette.

  The girl was at the table under the mulberry tree peeling potatoes when the priest arrived. He was a jolly little man who did not like to take things too seriously. So he advanced over the short, tufted grass, bowing low to the ground and making deep salutations with his hat.

  “I am overwhelmed,” he said, “at finding myself in the presence of the wonderful Magician! who has but to call upon the rain and down it comes. She whistles for the wind and — there it is! Pray, what weather will you give us this afternoon, fair Sorceress?”

  Then he became serious and frowning, straightened himself and rapped his stick upon the table.

  “What foolishness is this I hear? look at me; look at me!” for she was covering her face, “and who are you, I should like to know, that you dare think you can control the elements!”

  Well, they made a great deal of fuss of Ninette and she felt ashamed.

  But Mons. Perrault came over; he understood best of all. He took grandmother and grandfather aside and told them the girl was morbid from staying so much with old people, and never associating with those of her own age. He was very impressive and convincing. He frightened them, for he hinted vaguely at terrible consequences to the child’s intellect.

  He must have touched their hearts, for they both consented to let her go to a birthday party over at his house the following day. Grandfather Bézeau even declared that if it was necessary he would contribute towards providing her with a suitable toilet for the occasion.

  A REFLECTION

  Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only enables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish in their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace. They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the significance of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating the moving procession.

  Ah! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its fantastic colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the undulating waters. What matter if souls and bodies are falling beneath the feet of the ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic rhythm of the spheres. Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one harmonious tone that blends with the music of other worlds — to complete God’s orchestra.

  It is greater than the stars — that moving procession of human energy; greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! I could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the clouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of these symbols of life’s immutability. In the procession I should feel the crushing feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could not hear the rhythm of the march.

  Salve! ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside.

  TI DÉMON

  “It’s this way,” said Ti Démon to Aristides Bonneau— “If I go yonda with you to Symond’s sto’, it’ll be half pas’ eight befo’ I git out to Marianne an’ she’ll sho’ be gone to bed — an’ she won’ know how come I missed goin’.”

  Every Saturday afternoon Ti Démon, as did many others along the Cadian Bayou, laid aside hoe and plow — turned the mule loose and all primped up — endimanché as they say down there — betook himself to town on his ragged pony, his one luxury. After putting the pony in the lot adjoining Gamarché’s store — he would go about town making his necessary purchases, gazing in at the windows, finally picking up a ribbon or a cornet of candy for his Marianne. At half past six he invariably betook himself to Marianne’s who lived with her mother a little beyond the outskirts of town. She was his fiancée. He was going to marry her at the close of summer when the crops were gathered, and he was happy in a certain unemotional way that took things for granted.

  His name was Plaisance, but his mother called him Ti Démon when he was a baby and kept her awake bawling at night, and the name stuck to him. It had lost all significance, however, in his growing goodness, and in the bovine mildness that characterized his youth years the name identified itself with his personality and became almost a synonym for gentleness.

  At half past six, instead of being out at Marianne’s, he was lounging in the drug store where he had allowed himself to be persuaded into a rendez-vouz with Aristides. He was a square clumsy fellow with sunburnt hair and skin — fe
atures that were not bad and eyes that were decidedly good as they reflected a peaceful soul. Gazing down into the show case of the drug store, Ti Démon longed to be rich, more on Marianne’s account than his own for the things arrayed before him were such as appealed distinctly to the feminine taste — green and yellow perfumes in bottles — hand mirrors — toilet powders — savon fin — dainty writing paper — a hundred costly nothings which the Druggist had little hope or chance of selling before Christmas. Ti Démon felt that a bale of cotton would hardly more than cover the price of a full and free and reckless indulgence — of the longings which assailed him through Marianne as he gazed down into the drug store show case.

  Aristides soon joined him and together they left the store and walked down the main street of the town, across the foot-bridge that covered a deep ravine and down the hill toward a motley group of shanties — one of which was Symond’s store, not so much a store as a resort for young men whose erratic inclinations sometimes led them to seek more spirited diversion than the domestic and social circle offered them. Perhaps no other man in town could so have tempted and prevailed with Ti Démon. It flattered his self-complacency to be seen walking down the street with Aristides whose distinction of manner was unquestionable, whose grace and amiability made him an object of envy with the men and a creature to be worshiped by susceptible women. By contrast Ti Démon was all the more conscious of his own lurching plowman’s walk, his awkward stoop and broad heavy hands that looked as if they might do the office of sledge hammers if occasion required.

  The foul smelling coal oil lamps had been lighted in Symond’s back room when they reached there. Several men were already gathered playing cards around rude tables whose grimy tops bore the stale and fresh marks of liquor glasses. Aristides and Ti Démon had strolled down for a social game of seven-up and a convivial hour among friends and acquaintances. For the young farmer had expressed a determination to leave at 8 o’clock and rejoin Marianne who he knew would be wondering and perhaps grieving at his absence. But at 8 o’clock Ti Démon was more excited than he had ever been in his life. His big fist was coming down on the table with a reckless disregard for the fate of the jingling glasses and his big horse laugh, mellowed by numerous toddies, resounded and stirred a pleasing animation about him. The game of seven-up had been changed to poker. Ti Démon formed one of the seven men at his table, and though he was acquainted with the game, having played on rare occasions, never before had the fluctuations of the game so excited him. It was the hoarse tones of the clock in the store adjoining, striking 10 that brought him partially to his senses and reminded him of his disregarded intentions. “Leave me out this time, I got to go,” said Ti Démon rising, conscious of stiffened joints. “I ain’t winnin’ and I ain’t losin’ to talk about, so it don’t make no difference. Where’s my hat — w’at become o’ Mr. Aristides?”

  “W’ere yo’ sense, Ti Démon, Aristides lef a couple hours ago — he tole you he was goin’ and you didn’ pay any attention. Yo’ hat’s on yo’ head w’ere it ought to be. Deal them cards over again — you dealt a han’ to Ti Démon, it’s goin’ to spoil the draw. I’m glad he’s gone — he makes mo’ noise than Symond’s donkey— “

  Ti Démon managed to get out on the gallery with a great clatter of brogans and overturning of chairs. He was clumsy and noisy. Once out of doors, he drew a deep long breath of the fresh spring night. Looking across the hollow and far up the opposite slope he could see a light in the window of Marianne’s house. He vaguely wondered if she had gone to bed. He vaguely hoped she might be still sitting out on the gallery with her mother. The night was so beautiful that it might well tempt any one to steal a few hours from sleep, and linger out under the sky to taste the delight of it. He left the shanty and started off in the direction of Marianne’s cottage. He was conscious of some unsteadiness of gait. He knew he was not entirely sober but was confident of his ability to disguise that fact from Marianne, if he should be fortunate enough to find her still up. He was seized as he had never been in his life before, by a flood of tenderness, a conscious longing for the girl that he had been brought to fully realize perhaps by his moment of weakness and disloyalty, perhaps as much by the subtle spirit of the caressing night, the soft effulgence the moon was shedding over the country, the poignant odors of the spring. The good familiar scent of new plowed earth assailed him and made him think of his big field on the bayou — of his home — and Marianne, as she would be, at picking time, coming down between the tall rows of white bursting cotton to meet him. The thought was like a vivid picture flashed and imprinted upon his brain. It was so sweet a thought that he would not give it up, but kept it with him in his walk and treasured it and fondled it.

  Then up the slope stood the poor little cottage a good bit back from the road. It was an upward, grassy road with a few faint wagon tracks. There was a row of trees at irregular intervals along the fence, and they cast deep shadows across the white moonlight. Ascending the road, Ti Démon saw two people approaching — advancing toward him — walking slowly arm in arm. At first he did not recognize them, passing slowly in and out, in and out of the shadows. But when they stopped in the moonlight to pick some white blossoms hanging over the fence, he knew them. It was Aristides and Marianne. The young man fixed a white spray in the girl’s heavy black braids. He seemed to linger over the pleasing task, then arm in arm they resumed their walk — continued to approach Ti Démon. With the first flash of recognition came madness. As vividly as the powerful picture of love and domestic peace had imprinted upon his mind — just as sharply now came in a blinding flash the conviction of trickery and deceit. Marianne, not devoid of coquetry, could see no harm in accepting the attentions of Aristides or any other agreeable youth in the absence of her fiancé. It was with no feeling of guiltiness that she perceived him approaching. On the contrary, she framed a reproach in her mind and uttered it as he came near— “You takin’ yo’ time to night, I mus’ say, Ti Démon.” But with an utter disregard for her words — a terrible purpose in his newly aroused consciousness, in speechless wrath he tore her companion from her side and fell upon him with those big broad fists that could do the service of sledge hammers when occasion required.

  “You crazy! Ti Démon! Help — Au secours — au secours — you crazy — Ti Démon,” shrieked Marianne hanging upon him in fear and desperation.

  There was hardly a shred of soul left in Aristides’ shapely body when help came — negroes running from near cabins at the sound of Marianne’s screams. The force of numbers against him alone prevailed with Ti Démon to desist in his deadly work. He left Marianne bruised and weeping, Aristides battered and bleeding, lying unconscious on the ground in the moonlight, and the negroes all standing there in helpless indecision — and he went limping away — down the slope across the hollow over the footbridge that crossed the ravine and back into town. He took his pony from the lot where he had left it, mounted and rode in a gentle canter back to his home on the Cadian Bayou.

  Of course Marianne never viewed him after that — she would not trust her life in the keeping of so murderous a madman. Nor did she marry Aristides, who in truth never had any intention of asking her. But a girl with so sweet a manner, with tender eyes and dark and glossy braids had but the trouble of choosing among the Cadian youths along the bayou. That was Ti Démon’s one and only demoniacal outburst during his life, but it affected the community in an inexplicable way. Some one said that Aristides said he was going to shoot Ti Démon at sight. So Ti Démon got permission to carry a pistol — a rusty old blunderbuss that was a sore trial and inconvenience for so peaceable a man to lug around with him. Aristides, whatever he might have said, had no intention of molesting him — he never prosecuted his assailant as he might have done, and even got into a way of turning up one street when he saw Ti Démon coming down the other. “He’s a dangerous man, that Cadian,” said Aristides; “mark my words, he’ll kill his man befo’ he’s through.” The negroes who had been witnesses to the encounter on the
moonlit slope described it in language that made children and timid women shriek and tremble and made men look to their firearms. As for Marianne she always begged to be spared describing the horror of it. People began to believe he had been well named after all— “il est bien nommé Ti Démon, va!” said women to each other.

  “You can’t fool with Ti Démon — he don’ say much, him, but w’en he gits mad, mine out!” It somehow got into the air and stayed there — other men fought and brawled and bled and quietly resumed their roles of law-abiding citizens — not so with Ti Démon. Little children got into the way of scrambling into the house when they saw him coming. Years later he was sometimes pointed out to strangers by those of a younger generation who had no distinctive idea of the nature of his crimes. “You see that ol’ fellow — he’s bad as they make ‘em — he’s dangerous him — they call ‘m Ti Démon.”

  A DECEMBER DAY IN DIXIE

  The train was an hour and a half late. I failed to hear any complaints on that score from the few passengers who disembarked with me at Cypress Junction at 6:30 A.M. and confronted an icy blast that would better have stayed where it came from. But there was Emile Sautier’s saloon just across the tracks, flaunting an alluring sign that offered to hungry wayfarers ham and eggs, fried chicken, oysters and delicious coffee at any hour.

  Emile’s young wife was as fat and dirty as a little pig that has slept over time in an untidy sty. Possibly she had slept under the stove; the night must have been cold. She told us Emile had come home “boozy” the night before from town. She told it before his very face and he never said a word — only went ahead pouring coal-oil on the fire that wouldn’t burn. She wore over her calico dress a heavy cloth jacket with huge pearl buttons and enormous puffed sleeves, and a tattered black-white “nubia” twined about her head and shoulders as if she were contemplating a morning walk. It is impossible for me to know what her intentions were. She stood in the doorway with her little dirty, fat, ring-bedecked hands against the frame, seeming to guard the approach to an adjacent apartment in which there was a cooking stove, a bed and other articles of domestic convenience.