1894
LA BELLE ZORAIDE
by Kate Chopin
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
La Belle Zoraide
The summer night was hot and still; not a ripple of air swept over
the marais. Yonder, across Bayou St. John, lights twinkled here and
there in the darkness, and in the dark sky above a few stars were
blinking. A lugger that had come out of the lake was moving with slow,
lazy motion down the bayou. A man in the boat was singing a song.
The notes of the song came faintly to the ears of old Manna
Loulou, herself as black as the night, who had gone out upon the
gallery to open the shutters wide.
Something in the refrain reminded the woman of an old,
half-forgotten Creole romance, and she began to sing it low to herself
while she threw the shutters open:
"Lisett' to kite la plaine,
Mo perdi bonhair a moue;
Zies a moue semble fontaine,
Depi mo pa mire toue."
And then this old song, a lover's lament for the loss of his
mistress, floating into her memory, brought with it the story she
would tell to Madame, who lay in her sumptuous mahogany bed, waiting
to be fanned and put to sleep to the sound of one of Manna Loulou's
stories. The old negress had already bathed her mistress's pretty
white feet and kissed them lovingly, one, then the other. She had
brushed her mistress's beautiful hair, that was as soft and shining as
satin, and was the color of Madame's wedding-ring. Now, when she
reentered the room, she moved softly toward the bed, and seating
herself there began gently to fan Madame Delisle.
Manna Loulou was not always ready with her story, for Madame would
hear none but those which were true. But tonight the story was all
there in Manna Loulou's head- the story of la belle Zoraide- and she
told it to her mistress in the soft Creole patois, whose music and
charm no English words can convey.
"La belle Zoraide had eyes that were so dusky, so beautiful, that
any man who gazed too long into their depths was sure to lose his
head, and even his heart sometimes. Her soft, smooth skin was the
color of «cafe-au-lait.» As for her elegant manners, her svelte and
graceful figure, they were the envy of half the ladies who visited her
mistress, Madame Delariviere.
"No wonder Zoraide was as charming and as dainty as the finest
lady of la rue Royale: from a toddling thing she had been brought up
at her mistress's side; her fingers had never done rougher work than
sewing a fine muslin seam; and she even had her own little black
servant to wait upon her. Madame, who was her godmother as well as her
mistress, would often say to her:-
"'Remember, Zoraide, when you are ready to marry, it must be in a
way to do honor to your bringing up. It will be at the Cathedral. Your
wedding gown, your corbeille, all will be of the best; I shall see
to that myself. You know, M'sieur Ambroise is ready whenever you say
the word, and his master is willing to do as much for him as I shall
do for you. It is a union that will please me in every way.'
M'sieur Ambroise was then the body servant of Doctor Langle. La
belle Zoraide detested the little mulatto, with his shining whiskers
like a white man's, and his small eyes, that were cruel and false as a
snake's. She would cast down her own mischievous eyes, and say:
"'Ah, nenaine, I am so happy, so contented here at your side just as
I am. I don't want to marry now; next year, perhaps, or the next.' And
Madame would smile indulgently and remind Zoraide that a woman's
charms are not everlasting.
"But the truth of the matter was, Zoraide had seen le beau Mezor
dance the Bamboula in Congo Square. That was a sight to hold one
rooted to the ground. Mezor was as straight as a cypress tree and as
proud looking as a king. His body, bare to the waist, was like a
column of ebony and it glistened like oil.
"Poor Zoraide's heart grew sick in her bosom with love for le beau
Mezor from the moment she saw the fierce gleam of his eye, lighted
by the inspiring strains of the Bamboula, and beheld the stately
movements of his splendid body swaying and quivering through the
figures of the dance.
"But when she knew him later, and he came near her to speak with
her, all the fierceness was gone out of his eyes, and she saw only
kindness in them and heard only gentleness in his voice, for love
had taken possession of him also, and Zoraide was more distracted than
ever. When Mezor was not dancing Bamboula in Congo Square, he was
hoeing sugarcane, barefooted and half naked, in his master's field
outside of the city. Doctor Langle was his master as well as M'sieur
Ambroise's.
"One day, when Zoraide kneeled before her mistress, drawing on
Madame's silken stockings, that were of the finest, she said:
"'Nenaine, you have spoken to me often of marrying. Now, at last,
I have chosen a husband, but it is not M'sieur Ambroise; it is le beau
Mezor that I want and no other.' And Zoraide hid her face in her hands
when she had said that, for she guessed, rightly enough, that her
mistress would be very angry. And, indeed, Madame Delariviere was at
first speechless with rage. When she finally spoke it was only to gasp
out, exasperated:
"'That Negro! the Negro! Bon Dieu Seigneur, but this is too much!'
"'Am I white, nenaine? pleaded Zoraide.
"'You white! «Malheureuse!» You deserve to have the lash laid upon
you like any other slave; you have proven yourself no better than
the worst.'
"'I am not white,' persisted Zoraide, respectfully and gently.
'Doctor Langle gives me his slave to marry, but he would not give me
his son. Then, since I am not white, let me have from out of my own
race the one whom my heart has chosen.'
"However, you may well believe that Madame would not hear to that.
Zoraide was forbidden to speak to Mezor, and Mezor was cautioned
against seeing Zoraide again. But you know how the Negroes are,
Ma'zelle Titite," added Manna Loulou, smiling a little sadly. "There
is no mistress, no master, no king nor priest who can hinder them from
loving when they will. And these two found ways and means.
"When months had passed by, Zoraide, who had grown unlike herself-
sober and preoccupied- said again to her mistress:-
"'Nenaine, you would not let me have Mezor for my husband; but I
have disobeyed you, I have sinned. Kill me if you wish, nenaine;
forgive me if you will; but when I heard le beau Mezor say to me,
"Zoraide, mo l'aime toi," I could have died, but I could not have
helped loving him.'
"This time Madame Delariviere was so actually pained, so wounded
at hearing Zoraide's confession, that there was no place left in her
heart for anger. She could utter only confused reproaches. But she was
a woman of action rather than of words, and she acted promptly. Her
first step was to induce Doctor Langle to sell Mezor. Doctor Langle,
who was a widower, had long wanted to marry Madame Delariviere, and he
would willingly have walked on all fours at noon through the Place
d'Armes if she wanted him to. Naturally he lost no time in disposing
of le beau Mezor, who was sold away into Georgia, or the Carolinas, or
one of those distant countries far away, where he would no longer hear
his Creole tongue spoken, nor dance Calinda, nor hold la belle Zoraide
in his arms.
"The poor thing was heartbroken when Mezor was sent away from her,
but she took comfort and hope in the thought of her baby that she
would soon be able to clasp to her breast.
"La belle Zoraide's sorrows had now begun in earnest. Not only
sorrows but sufferings, and with the anguish of maternity came the
shadow of death. But there is no agony that a mother will not forget
when she holds her first-born to her heart, and presses her lips
upon the baby flesh that is her own, yet far more precious than her
own.
"So, instinctively, when Zoraide came out of the awful shadow she
gazed questioningly about her, and felt with her trembling hands
upon either side of her. 'Ou li, mo piti a moin? where is my little
one?' she asked imploringly. Madame who was there and the nurse who
was there both told her in turn, 'To piti a toi, li mouri' ('Your
little one is dead'), which was a wicked falsehood that must have
caused the angels in heaven to weep. For the baby was living and
well and strong. It had at once been removed from its mother's side,
to be sent away to Madame's plantation, far up the coast. Zoraide
could only moan in reply, 'Li mouri, li mouri,' and she turned her
face to the wall.
"Madame had hoped, in thus depriving Zoraide of her child, to have
her young waiting-maid again at her side free, happy, and beautiful as
of old. But there was a more powerful will than Madame's at work-
the will of the good God, who had already designed that Zoraide should
grieve with a sorrow that was never more to be lifted in this world.
La belle Zoraide was no more. In her stead was a sad-eyed woman who
mourned night and day for her baby. 'Li mouri, li mouri,' she would
sigh over and over again to those about her, and to herself when
others grew weary of her complaint.
"Yet, in spite of all, M'sieur Ambroise was still in the notion to
marry her. A sad wife or a merry one was all the same to him so long
as that wife was Zoraide. And she seemed to consent, or rather submit,
to the approaching marriage as though nothing mattered any longer in
this world.
"One day, a black servant entered a little noisily the room in which
Zoraide sat sewing. With a look of strange and vacuous happiness
upon her face, Zoraide arose hastily. 'Hush, hush,' she whispered,
lifting a warning finger, 'my little one is asleep; you must not
awaken her.'
"Upon the bed was a senseless bundle of rags shaped like an infant
in swaddling clothes. Over this dummy the woman had drawn the mosquito
bar, and she was sitting contentedly beside it. In short, from that
day Zoraide was demented. Night nor day did she lose sight of the doll
that lay in her bed or in her arms.
"And now was Madame stung with sorrow and remorse at seeing this
terrible affliction that had befallen her dear Zoraide. Consulting
with Doctor Langle, they decided to bring back to the mother the
real baby of flesh and blood that was now toddling about, and
kicking its heels in the dust yonder upon the plantation.
"It was Madame herself who led the pretty, tiny little "griffe" girl
to her mother. Zoraide was sitting upon a stone bench in the
courtyard, listening to the soft splashing of the fountain, and
watching the fitful shadows of the palm leaves upon the broad, white
flagging.
"'Here,' said Madame, approaching, 'here, my poor dear Zoraide, is
your own little child. Keep her; she is yours. No one will ever take
her from you again.'
"Zoraide looked with sullen suspicion upon her mistress and the
child before her. Reaching out a hand she thrust the little one
mistrustfully away from her. With the other hand she clasped the rag
bundle fiercely to her breast; for she suspected a plot to deprive her
of it.
"Nor could she ever be induced to let her own child approach her;
and finally the little one was sent back to the plantation, where
she was never to know the love of mother or father.
"And now this is the end of Zoraide's story. She was never known
again as la belle Zoraide, but ever after as Zoraide la folle, whom no
one ever wanted to marry- not even M'sieur Ambroise. She lived to be
an old woman, whom some people pitied and others laughed at- always
clasping her bundle of rags- her 'piti.'
"Are you asleep, Ma'zelle Titite?"
"No, I am not asleep; I was thinking. Ah, the poor little one, Man
Loulou, the poor little one! better had she died!"
But this is the way Madame Delisle and Manna Loulou really talked to
each other:
"Vou pre droumi, Ma'zelle Titite?"
"Non, pa pre droumi; mo yapre zongler. Ah, la pauv' piti, Man
Loulou. La pauv' piti! Mieux li mouri!"
THE END
|
