1897
AZELIE
by Kate Chopin
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
Azelie
Azelie crossed the yard with slow, hesitating steps. She wore a pink
sunbonnet and a faded calico dress that had been made the summer
before, and was now too small for her in every way. She carried a
large tin pail on her arm. When within a few yards of the house she
stopped under a chinaberry-tree, quite still, except for the
occasional slow turning of her head from side to side.
Mr. Mathurin, from his elevation upon the upper gallery, laughed
when he saw her; for he knew she would stay there, motionless, till
some one noticed and questioned her.
The planter was just home from the city, and was therefore in an
excellent humor, as he always was, on getting back to what he called
«le grand air,» the space and stillness of the country, and the
scent of the fields. He was in shirtsleeves, walking around the
gallery that encircled the big square white house. Beneath was a
brick-paved portico upon which the lower rooms opened. At wide
intervals were large whitewashed pillars that supported the upper
gallery.
In one corner of the lower house was the store, which was in no
sense a store for the general public, but maintained only to supply
the needs of Mr. Mathurin's "hands."
"Eh bien! what do you want, Azelie?" the planter finally called
out to the girl in French. She advanced a few paces, and, pushing back
her sunbonnet, looked up at him with a gentle, inoffensive face- "to
which you would give the good God without confession," he once
described it.
"Bon jou', M'si' Mathurin," she replied; and continued in English:
"I come git a li'le piece o' meat. We plumb out o' meat home."
"Well, well, the meat is n' going to walk to you, my chile: it has
n' got feet. Go fine Mr. 'Polyte. He's yonda mending his buggy unda
the shed." She turned away with an alert little step, and went in
search of Mr. 'Polyte.
"That's you again!" the young man exclaimed, with a pretended air of
annoyance, when he saw her. He straightened himself, and looked down
at her and her pail with a comprehending glance. The sweat was
standing in shining beads on his brown, good-looking face. He was in
his shirt-sleeves, and the legs of his trousers were thrust into the
tops of his fine, high-heeled boots. He wore his straw hat very much
on one side, and had an air that was altogether «fanfaron.» He reached
to a back pocket for the store key, which was as large as the pistol
that he sometimes carried in the same place. She followed him across
the thick, tufted grass of the yard with quick, short steps that
strove to keep pace with his longer, swinging ones.
When he had unlocked and opened the heavy door of the store, there
escaped from the close room the strong, pungent odor of the varied
wares and provisions massed within. Azelie seemed to like the odor,
and, lifting her head, snuffed the air as people sometimes do upon
entering a conservatory filled with fragrant flowers.
A broad ray of light streamed in through the open door, illumining
the dingy interior. The double wooden shutters of the windows were all
closed, and secured on the inside by iron hooks.
"Well, w'at you want, Azelie?" asked 'Polyte, going behind the
counter with an air of hurry and importance. "I ain't got time to
fool. Make has'e; say w'at you want."
Her reply was precisely the same that she had made to Mr. Mathurin.
"I come git a li'le piece o' meat. We plumb out o' meat home."
He seemed exasperated.
"Bonte! w'at you all do with meat yonda? You don't reflec' you about
to eat up yo' crop befo' it's good out o' the groun', you all. I
like to know w'y yo' pa don't go he'p with the killin' once aw'ile,
an' git some fresh meat fo' a change."
She answered in an unshaded, unmodulated voice that was penetrating,
like a child's: "Popa he do go he'p wid the killin'; but he say he
can't work 'less he got salt meat. He got plenty to feed- him. He's
got to hire he'p wid his crop, an' he's boun' to feed 'em; they
won't year no diffe'nt. An' he's got gra'ma to feed, an' Sauterelle,
an' me-"
"An' all the lazy-bone 'Cadians in the country that know w'ere
they goin' to fine the coffee-pot always in the corna of the fire,"
grumbled 'Polyte.
With an iron hook he lifted a small piece of salt meat from the pork
barrel, weighed it, and placed it in her pail. Then she wanted a
little coffee. He gave it to her reluctantly. He was still more
loath to let her have sugar; and when she asked for lard, he refused
flatly.
She had taken off her sunbonnet, and was fanning herself with it, as
she leaned with her elbows upon the counter, and let her eyes travel
lingeringly along the well-lined shelves. 'Polyte stood staring into
her face with a sense of aggravation that her presence, her manner,
always stirred up in him.
The face was colorless but for the red, curved line of the lips. Her
eyes were dark, wide, innocent, questioning eyes, and her black hair
was plastered smooth back from the forehead and temples. There was
no trace of any intention of coquetry in her manner. He resented
this as a token of indifference toward his sex, and thought it
inexcusable.
"Well, Azelie if it's anything you don't see, ask fo' it," he
suggested, with what he flattered himself was humor. But there was
no responsive humor in Azelie's composition. She seriously drew a
small flask from her pocket.
"Popa say, if you want to let him have a li'le dram, 'count o' his
pains that's 'bout to cripple him."
"Yo' pa knows as well as I do we don't sell w'isky. Mr. Mathurin
don't carry no license."
"I know. He say if you want to give 'im a li'le dram, he's willin'
to do some work fo' you."
"No! Once fo' all, no!" And 'Polyte reached for the day-book, in
which to enter the articles he had given to her.
But Azelie's needs were not yet satisfied. She wanted tobacco; he
would not give it to her. A spool of thread; he rolled one up,
together with two sticks of peppermint candy, and placed it in her
pail. When she asked for a bottle of coal-oil, he grudgingly
consented, but assured her it would be useless to cudgel her brain
further, for he would positively let her have nothing more. He
disappeared toward the coal oil tank, which was hidden from view
behind the piled-up boxes on the counter. When she heard him searching
for an empty quart bottle, and making a clatter with the tin
funnels, she herself withdrew from the counter against which she had
been leaning.
After they quitted the store, 'Polyte, with a perplexed expression
upon his face, leaned for a moment against one of the whitewashed
pillars, watching the girl cross the yard. She had folded her
sunbonnet into a pad, which she placed beneath the heavy pail that she
balanced upon her head. She walked upright, with a slow, careful
tread. Two of the yard dogs that had stood a moment before upon the
threshold of the store door, quivering and wagging their tails, were
following her now, with a little businesslike trot. 'Polyte called
them back.
The cabin which the girl occupied with her father, her
grandmother, and her little brother Sauterelle, was removed some
distance from the plantation house, and only its pointed roof could be
discerned like a speck far away across the field of cotton, which
was all in bloom. Her figure soon disappeared from view, and 'Polyte
emerged from the shelter of the gallery, and started again toward
his interrupted task. He turned to say to the planter, who was keeping
up his measured tramp above:
"Mr. Mathurin, ain't it 'mos' time to stop givin' credit to Arsene
Pauche. Look like that crop o' his ain't goin' to start to pay his
account. I don't see, me, anyway, how you come to take that triflin'
Li'le river gang on the place."
"I know it was a mistake, 'Polyte, but que voulez-vous?" the planter
returned, with a good-natured shrug. "Now they are yere, we can't
let them starve, my frien'. Push them to work all you can. Hole back
all supplies that are not necessary, an' nex' year we will let some
one else enjoy the privilege of feeding them," he ended, with a laugh.
"I wish they was all back on Li'le river," 'Polyte muttered under
his breath as he turned and walked slowly away.
Directly back of the store was the young man's sleeping-room. He had
made himself quite comfortable there in his corner. He had screened
his windows and doors; planted Madeira vines, which now formed a thick
green curtain between the two pillars that faced his room; and had
swung a hammock out there, in which he liked well to repose himself
after the fatigues of the day.
He lay long in the hammock that evening, thinking over the day's
happenings and the morrow's work, half dozing, half dreaming, and
wholly possessed by the charm of the night, the warm, sweeping air
that blew through the long corridor, and the almost unbroken stillness
that enveloped him.
At times his random thoughts formed themselves into an almost
inaudible speech: "I wish she would go 'way f'om yere."
One of the dogs came and thrust his cool, moist muzzle against
'Polyte's cheek. He caressed the fellow's shaggy head. "I don't know
w'at's the matta with her," he sighed; "I don' be'lieve she's got good
sense."
It was a long time afterward that he murmured again: "I wish to
God she'd go 'way f'om yere!"
The edge of the moon crept up- a keen, curved blade of light above
the dark line of the cotton-field. 'Polyte roused himself when he
saw it. "I didn' know it was so late," he said to himself- or to his
dog. He entered his room at once, and was soon in bed, sleeping
soundly.
It was some hours later that 'Polyte was roused from his sleep by-
he did not know what; his senses were too scattered and confused to
determine at once. There was at first no sound; then so faint a one
that he wondered how he could have heard it. A door of his room
communicated with the store, but this door was never used, and was
almost completely blocked by wares piled up on the other side. The
faint noise that 'Polyte heard, and which came from within the
store, was followed by a flare of light that he could discern
through the chinks, and that lasted as long as a match might burn.
He was now fully aware that some one was in the store. How the
intruder had entered he could not guess, for the key was under his
pillow with his watch and his pistol.
As cautiously as he could he donned an extra garment, thrust his
bare feet into slippers, and crept out into the portico, pistol in
hand.
The shutters of one of the store windows were open. He stood close
to it, and waited, which he considered surer and safer than to enter
the dark and crowded confines of the store to engage in what might
prove a bootless struggle with the intruder.
He had not long to wait. In a few moments some one darted through
the open window as nimbly as a cat. 'Polyte staggered back as if a
heavy blow had stunned him. His first thought and his first
exclamation were: "My God! how close I come to killin' you!"
It was Azelie. She uttered no cry, but made one quick effort to
run when she saw him. He seized her arm and held her with a brutal
grip. He put the pistol back into his pocket. He was shaking like a
man with the palsy. One by one he took from her the parcels she was
carrying, and flung them back into the store. There were not many:
some packages of tobacco, a cheap pipe, some fishing-tackle, and the
flask which she had brought with her in the afternoon. This he threw
into the yard. It was still empty, for she had not been able to find
the "key" to the whisky-barrel.
"So- so, you a thief!" he muttered savagely under his breath.
"You hurtin' me, Mr. 'Polyte," she complained, squirming. He
somewhat relaxed, but did not relinquish, his hold upon her.
"I ain't no thief," she blurted.
"You was stealin'," he contradicted her sharply.
"I wasn' stealin'. I was jus' takin' a few li'le things you all
too mean to gi' me. You all treat my popa like he was a dog. It's on'y
las' week Mr. Mathurin sen' 'way to the city to fetch a fine buckboa'd
fo' Son Ambroise, an' he's on'y a nigga, apres tout. An' my popa he
want a picayune tobacca? It's 'No'-" She spoke loud in her monotonous,
shrill voice. 'Polyte kept saying: "Hush, I tell you! Hush!
Somebody'll year you. Hush! It's enough you broke in the sto'- how you
got in the sto'?" he added, looking from her to the open window.
"It was w'en you was behine the boxes to the coal-oil tank- I
unhook' it," she explained sullenly.
"An' you don' know I could sen' you to Baton Rouge fo' that?" He
shook her as though trying to rouse her to a comprehension of her
grievous fault.
"Jus' fo' a li'le picayune o' tobacca!" she whimpered.
He suddenly abandoned his hold upon her, and left her free. She
mechanically rubbed the arm that he had grasped so violently.
Between the long row of pillars the moon was sending pale beams of
light. In one of these they were standing.
"Azelie," he said, "go 'way f'om yere quick; some one might fine you
yere. W'en you want something in the sto', fo' yo'se'f or fo' yo'
pa- I don' care- ask me fo' it. But you- but you can't neva set yo'
foot inside that sto' again. Go 'way f'om yere quick as you can, I
tell you!"
She tried in no way to conciliate him. She turned and walked away
over the same ground she had crossed before. One of the big dogs
started to follow her. 'Polyte did not call him back this time. He
knew no harm could come to her, going through those lonely fields,
while the animal was at her side.
He went at once to his room for the store key that was beneath his
pillow. He entered the store, and refastened the window. When he had
made everything once more secure, he sat dejectedly down upon a
bench that was in the portico. He sat for a long time motionless.
Then, overcome by some powerful feeling that was at work within him,
he buried his face in his hands and wept, his whole body shaken by the
violence of his sobs.
After that night 'Polyte loved Azelie desperately. The very action
which should have revolted him had seemed, on the contrary, to inflame
him with love. He felt that love to be a degradation- something that
he was almost ashamed to acknowledge to himself; and he knew that he
was hopelessly unable to stifle it.
He watched now in a tremor for her coming. She came very often,
for she remembered every word he had said; and she did not hesitate to
ask him for those luxuries which she considered necessities to her
"popa's" existence. She never attempted to enter the store, but always
waited outside, of her own accord, laughing, and playing with the
dogs. She seemed to have no shame or regret for what she had done, and
plainly did not realize that it was a disgraceful act. 'Polyte often
shuddered with disgust to discern in her a being so wholly devoid of
moral sense.
He had always been an industrious, bustling fellow, never idle.
Now there were hours and hours in which he did nothing but long for
the sight of Azelie. Even when at work there was that gnawing want
at his heart to see her, often so urgent that he would leave
everything to wander down by her cabin with the hope of seeing her. It
was even something if he could catch a glimpse of Sauterelle playing
in the weeds, or of Arsene lazily dragging himself about, and
smoking the pipe which rarely left his lips now that he was kept so
well supplied with tobacco.
Once, down the bank of the bayou, when 'Polyte came upon Azelie
unexpectedly, and was therefore unprepared to resist the shock of
her sudden appearance, he seized her in his arms, and covered her face
with kisses. She was not indignant; she was not flustered or agitated,
as might have been a susceptible, coquettish girl; she was only
astonished, and annoyed.
"W'at you doin', Mr. 'Polyte?" she cried, struggling. "Leave me
'lone, I say! Leave me go!"
"I love you, I love you, I love you!" he stammered helplessly over
and over in her face.
"You mus' los' yo' head," she told him, red from the effort of the
struggle, when he released her.
"You right, Azelie; I b'lieve I los' my head," and he climbed up the
bank of the bayou as fast as he could.
After that his behavior was shameful, and he knew it, and he did not
care. He invented pretexts that would enable him to touch her hand
with his. He wanted to kiss her again, and told her she might come
into the store as she used to do. There was no need for her to
unhook a window now; he gave her whatever she asked for, charging it
always to his own account on the books. She permitted his caresses
without returning them, and yet that was all he seemed to live for
now. He gave her a little gold ring.
He was looking eagerly forward to the close of the season, when
Arsene would go back to Little River. He had arranged to ask Azelie to
marry him. He would keep her with him when the others went away. He
longed to rescue her from what he felt to be the demoralizing
influences of her family and her surroundings. 'Polyte believed he
would be able to awaken Azelie to finer, better impulses when he
should have her apart to himself.
But when the time came to propose it, Azelie looked at him in
amazement. "Ah, b'en, no. I ain't goin' to stay yere wid you, Mr.
'Polyte; I'm goin' yonda on Li'le river wid my popa."
This resolve frightened him, but he pretended not to believe it.
"You jokin', Azelie; you mus' care a li'le about me. It looked to me
all along like you cared some about me."
"An' my popa, donc? Ah, b'en, no."
"You don' rememba how lonesome it is on Li'le river, Azelie," he
pleaded. "W'enever I think 'bout Li'le river it always make me
sad-like I think about a graveyard. To me it's like a person mus' die,
one way or otha, w'en they go on Li'le river. Oh, I hate it! Stay with
me, Azelie; don' go 'way f'om me."
She said little, one way or the other, after that, when she had
fully understood his wishes, and her reserve led him to believe, since
he hoped it, that he had prevailed with her and that she had
determined to stay with him and be his wife.
It was a cool, crisp morning in December that they went away. In a
ramshackle wagon, drawn by an ill-mated team, Arsene Pauche and his
family left Mr. Mathurin's plantation for their old familiar haunts on
Little River. The grandmother, looking like a witch, with a black
shawl tied over her head, sat upon a roll of bedding in the bottom
of the wagon. Sauterelle's bead-like eyes glittered with mischief as
he peeped over the side. Azelie, with the pink sunbonnet completely
hiding her round young face, sat beside her father, who drove. 'Polyte
caught one glimpse of the group as they passed in the road. Turning,
he hurried into his room, and locked himself in.
It soon became evident that 'Polyte's services were going to count
for little. He himself was the first to realize this. One day he
approached the planter, and said: "Mr. Mathurin, befo' we start anotha
year togetha, I betta tell you I'm goin' to quit." 'Polyte stood
upon the steps, and leaned back against the railing. The planter was a
little above on the gallery.
"W'at in the name o' sense are you talking about, 'Polyte!" he
exclaimed in astonishment.
"It's jus' that; I'm boun' to quit."
"You had a better offer?"
"No; I ain't had no offa."
"Then explain yo'se'f, my frien'- explain yo'se'f," requested Mr.
Mathurin, with something of offended dignity. "If you leave me,
w'ere are you going?"
'Polyte was beating his leg with his limp felt hat. "I reckon I jus'
as well go yonda on Li'le river- w'ere Azelie," he said.
THE END
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