Mr. Mathurin, from his elevation1 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 scent2 of the fields. He was in shirtsleeves, walking around the gallery 230that encircled the big square white house. Beneath was a brick-paved portico3 upon which the lower rooms opened. At wide intervals4 were large whitewashed5 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, Azélie?” 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 plumb6 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.
231“That’s you again!” the young man exclaimed, with a pretended air of annoyance7, when he saw her. He straightened himself, and looked down at her and her pail with a comprehending glance. The sweat was standing8 in shining beads9 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, pungent10 odor of the varied11 wares12 and provisions massed within. Azélie seemed to like the odor, and, lifting her head, snuffed the air as people sometimes do upon entering a conservatory13 filled with fragrant14 flowers.
232A broad ray of light streamed in through the open door, illumining the dingy15 interior. The double wooden shutters16 of the windows were all closed, and secured on the inside by iron hooks.
“Well, w’at you want, Azélie?” 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.”
“I come git a li’le piece o’ meat. We plumb out o’ meat home.”
He seemed exasperated18.
“Bonté! 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 penetrating19, 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; 233they 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,” grumbled20 ’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 loath21 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 aggravation22 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 indifference23 234toward his sex, and thought it inexcusable.
“Well, Azélie, 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 Azélie’s composition. She seriously drew a small flask24 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.”
“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 Azélie’s needs were not yet satisfied. She wanted tobacco; he would not give it to her. A spool26 of thread; he rolled one up, together with two sticks of peppermint27 candy, and placed it in her pail. When she asked for a bottle of coal-oil, he grudgingly28 consented, but assured her it would be useless to 235cudgel her brain further, for he would positively29 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 clatter30 with the tin funnels31, she herself withdrew from the counter against which she had been leaning.
After they quitted the store, ’Polyte, with a perplexed32 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 trot33. ’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 plantation34 house, and only its pointed35 roof 236could be discerned like a speck36 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 Arsène Pauché. 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 shrug37. “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 237quite 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 repose38 himself after the fatigues39 of the day.
He lay long in the hammock that evening, thinking over the day’s happenings and the morrow’s work, half dozing40, half dreaming, and wholly possessed41 by the charm of the night, the warm, sweeping42 air that blew through the long corridor, and the almost unbroken stillness that enveloped43 him.
At times his random44 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 muzzle45 against ’Polyte’s cheek. He caressed46 the fellow’s shaggy head. “I don’t know w’at’s the matta with her,” he sighed; “I don’ b’lieve she’s got good sense.”
238The 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 scattered48 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 flare49 of light that he could discern through the chinks, and that lasted as long as a match might burn.
He was now fully50 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.
239As cautiously as he could he donned an extra garment, thrust his bare feet into slippers51, 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 darted52 through the open window as nimbly as a cat. ’Polyte staggered back as if a heavy blow had stunned53 him. His first thought and his first exclamation54 were: “My God! how close I come to killin’ you!”
It was Azélie. She uttered no cry, but made one quick effort to run when she saw him. He seized her arm and held her with a brutal55 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 240brought 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.
“You hurtin’ me, Mr. ’Polyte,” she complained, squirming. He somewhat relaxed, but did not relinquish57, his hold upon her.
“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, après tout59. An’ my popa he want a picayune tobacca? It’s ‘No’—” She spoke60 loud in her monotonous61, shrill62 voice. ’Polyte kept saying: “Hush63, 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.
241“It was w’en you was behine the boxes to the coal-oil tank—I unhook’ it,” she explained sullenly64.
“An’ you don’ know I could sen’ you to Baton65 Rouge66 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.
“Azélie,” 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. Co ’way f’on 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 242back 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 sobs67.
After that night ’Polyte loved Azélie desperately68. The very action which should have revolted him had seemed, on the contrary, to inflame69 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 stifle70 it.
He watched now in a tremor71 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. 243She 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 shuddered72 with disgust to discern in her a being so wholly devoid73 of moral sense.
He had always been an industrious74, bustling75 fellow, never idle. Now there were hours and hours in which he did nothing but long for the sight of Azélie. Even when at work there was that gnawing76 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 Arsène 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 Azélie 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 244was not indignant; she was not flustered77 or agitated78, as might have been a susceptible79, 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!”
“You mus’ los’ yo’ head,” she told him, red from the effort of the struggle, when he released her.
“You right, Azélie; 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 shameful81, and he knew it, and he did not care. He invented pretexts82 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 caresses83 without returning them, and yet 245that 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 Arsène would go back to Little River. He had arranged to ask Azélie 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 awaken84 Azélie to finer, better impulses when he should have her apart to himself.
But when the time came to propose it, Azélie looked at him in amazement85. “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’, Azélie; 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, Azélie,” he pleaded. “W’enever 246I think ’bout Li’le river it always make me sad—like I think about a graveyard86. 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, Azélie; 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 determined87 to stay with him and be his wife.
It was a cool, crisp morning in December that they went away. In a ramshackle wagon88, drawn89 by an ill-mated team, Arsène Pauché 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 mischief90 as he peeped over the side. Azélie, with the pink sunbonnet completely hiding her round young face, sat beside her father, who drove.
247’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 astonishment91.
“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 Azélie,” he said.
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1
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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5
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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10
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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11
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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14
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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27
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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grudgingly
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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41
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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42
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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43
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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45
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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46
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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48
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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49
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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50
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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51
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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53
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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60
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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67
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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69
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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71
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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72
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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73
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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77
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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82
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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84
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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85
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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86
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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89
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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