Hi, I am here again. If it were not for the date on
the blog, I would never remember the last time I published something here.
Well, there is a reasonable explanation for that: I have been writing and reading a
lot in my Master’s program.
One of the things I am studying is (American and English) literature.
So, every week we are supposed to read, analyze, and write something. That’s why I shouldn't
be blogging right now; I should be reading, writing or analyzing something instead,
right?
However, I would like to share this story with you guys . I hope you like Kate Chopin!
See you guys around. I gotta go back to my academic
routine.
Oh yes... er... Happy Easter everyone!
Oh yes... er... Happy Easter everyone!
Kate Chopin, born Katherine O'Flaherty in St. Louis,
Missouri on February 8, 1850, is considered one of the first feminist authors
of the 20th century. She was following a rather conventional path as a housewife
until an unfortunate tragedy -- the untimely death of her husband -- altered
the course of her life. >>>MORE ABOUT HER<<<
I
The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was
going to rain. Bobint, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect
equality with his little son, called the child's attention to certain sombre
clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by
a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Friedheimer's store and decided to
remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty
kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise.
"Mama'll be 'fraid, yes, he suggested with
blinking eyes.
"She'll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie
helpin' her this evenin'," Bobint responded reassuringly.
"No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin' her
yistiday,' piped Bibi.
Bobint arose and going across to the counter purchased
a can of shrimps, of which Calixta was very fond. Then he retumed to his perch
on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst.
It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant
field. Bibi laid his little hand on his father's knee and was not afraid.
II
Calixta, at home, felt no uneasiness for their safety.
She sat at a side window sewing furiously on a sewing machine. She was greatly
occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and
often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She
unfastened her white sacque at the throat. It began to grow dark, and suddenly
realizing the situation she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and
doors.
Out on the small front gallery she had hung Bobint's
Sunday clothes to dry and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell.
As she stepped outside, Alce Laballire rode in at the gate. She had not seen
him very often since her marriage, and never alone. She stood there with
Bobint's coat in her hands, and the big rain drops began to fall. Alce rode his
horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and
there were plows and a harrow piled up in the corner.
"May I come and wait on your gallery till the
storm is over, Calixta?" he asked.
Come 'long in, M'sieur Alce."
His voice and her own startled her as if from a
trance, and she seized Bobint's vest. Alce, mounting to the porch, grabbed the
trousers and snatched Bibi's braided jacket that was about to be carried away
by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside, but it
was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open: the water
beat in upon the boards in driving sheets, and he went inside, closing the door
after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the
water out.
"My! what a rain! It's good two years sence it
rain' like that," exclaimed Calixta as she rolled up a piece of bagging
and Alce helped her to thrust it beneath the crack.
She was a little fuller of figure than five years
before when she married; but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue
eyes still retained their melting quality; and her yellow hair, dishevelled by
the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples.
The rain beat upon the low, shingled roof with a force
and clatter that threatened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They
were in the dining room the sitting room the general utility room. Adjoining
was her bed room, with Bibi's couch along side her own. The door stood open,
and the room with its white, monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim
and mysterious.
Alce flung himself into a rocker and Calixta nervously
began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had
been sewing.
lf this keeps up, Dieu sait if the levees goin' to
stan it!" she exclaimed.
"What have you got to do with the levees?"
"I got enough to do! An' there's Bobint with Bibi
out in that storm if he only didn' left Friedheimer's!"
"Let us hope, Calixta, that Bobint's got sense
enough to come in out of a cyclone."
She went and stood at the window with a greatly
disturbed look on her face. She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture.
It was stiflingly hot. Alce got up and joined her at the window, looking over
her shoulder. The rain was coming down in sheets obscuring the view of far-off
cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the
lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of
the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed
to invade the very boards they stood upon.
Calixta put her hands to her eyes, and with a cry,
staggered backward. Alce's arm encircled her, and for an instant he drew her
close and spasmodically to him.
"Bont!" she cried, releasing herself from
his encircling arm and retreating from the window, the house'll go next! If I
only knew w'ere Bibi was!" She would not compose herself; she would not be
seated. Alce clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her
warm, palpitating body when he had unthinkingly drawn her into his arms, had
aroused all the old-time infatuation and desire for her flesh.
"Calixta," he said, "don't be
frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck, with so many
tall trees standing about. There! aren't you going to be quiet? say, aren't
you?" He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming.
Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a
glimpse of her full, firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at
him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that
unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and
there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded
him of Assumption.
"Do you rememberin Assumption, Calixta?" he
asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption
he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh
fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an
immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature
whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor
forbade him to prevail. Now well, now her lips seemed in a manner free to be
tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts.
They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar
of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in
that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm,
elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a
creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the
undying life of the world.
The generous abundance of her passion, without guile
or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in
depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached.
When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in
quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And
when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of
life's mystery.
He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed,
enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she
clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand
stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders.
The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away.
The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep.
But they dared not yield.
III
The rain was over; and the sun was turning the
glistening green world into a palace of gems. Calixta, on the gallery, watched
Alce ride away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face; and she lifted
her pretty chin in the air and laughed aloud.
Bobint and Bibi, trudging home, stopped without at the
cistern to make themselves presentable.
"My! Bibi, w'at will yo' mama say! You ought to
be ashame'. You oughta' put on those good pants. Look at 'em! An' that mud on
yo' collar! How you got that mud on yo' collar, Bibi? I never saw such a
boy!" Bibi was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobint was the
embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to remove from his own person and
his son's the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He
scraped the mud off Bibi's bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully
removed all traces from his heavy brogans. Then, prepared for the worst the
meeting with an over-scrupulous housewife, they entered cautiously at the back
door.
Calixta was preparing supper. She had set the table
and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in.
"Oh, Bobint! You back! My! But I was uneasy.
W'ere you been during the rain? An' Bibi? he ain't wet? he ain't hurt?"
She had clasped Bibi and was kissing him effusively. Bobint's explanations and
apologies which he had been composing all along the way, died on his lips as
Calixta felt him to see if he were dry, and seemed to express nothing but
satisfaction at their safe return.
"I brought you some shrimps, Calixta,"
offered Bobint, hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the
table.
"Shrimps! Oh, Bobint! you too good fo'
anything!" and she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek that resounded,
"J'vous rponds, we'll have a feas' to-night! umph-umph!"
Bobint and Bibi began to relax and enjoy themselves,
and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud
that anyone might have heard them as far away as Laballire's.
IV
Alce Laballire wrote to his wife, Clarisse, that
night. It was a loving letter, full of tender solicitude. He told her not to
hurry back, but if she and the babies liked it at Biloxi, to stay a month
longer. He was getting on nicely; and though he missed them, he was willing to
bear the separation a while longerrealizing that their health and pleasure were
the first things to be considered.
V
As for Clarisse, she was charmed upon receiving her
husband's letter. She and the babies were doing well. The society was
agreeable; many of her old friends and acquaintances were at the bay. And the
first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the pleasant liberty of
her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her husband, their intimate conjugal
life was something which she was more than willing to forego for a while.
So the storm passed and every one was happy.
The Storm was featured as The Short Story of the Day
on Thu, Jan 29, 2015
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