solved : Questions for Responding to Fiction in English 2328 Use

:
Questions for Responding to Fiction in English 2328

Use these questions below to guide you as you complete your reading responses
for short stories (fiction). I suggest that you choose only a few questions to
answer in your response–but make the response a paragraph–don’t number
your responses. You will probably notice that some of the questions are similar
and that some of the responses may overlap–that’s fine. Your response should
reflect your own thoughts and analysis of the story. Your response to each
story should be at least 200 words (but will probably be longer) and should
show that you have read the story carefully. You should mention the names of
characters, details from the story that support your response, incidents in the
story that affect your reading of it, etc. You must use quotations from the
stories in your responses.

1. What did you like about the story? What did you dislike? Why?

2. Who is your favorite character? Is he or she like you in any way? Would you
make the same decisions (or react in the same ways) in the same situations as this
character? Why or why not? Which characters remind you of people you know?

3. What did you learn about American history, society, art, literature,
philosophy, science (etc.) from this story? What research might you do to help
you understand the story better?

4. What did you learn about life from the story?

5. In what ways do you identify with the story?

6. How would you describe the writer’s style or voice? Style includes use of
irony, symbolism, figurative language, point of view, etc.
Here’s an interesting checklist of literary style that you might find helpful: Checklist: Elements of Literary Style

7. What are your favorite sentences, passages, words, etc. from the story?
Explain your choice.

8. What would you tell a friend about this story?

9. Who would you recommend this story to and why?

10. What value does this story have for you?

11. What connections do you find between the life of the author and his or her
work?

12. What questions did you have after you finished the story?

13. What words did you look up?
:
                                                “At the ‘Cadian Ball”
                                           by Kate Chopin (1850-1904)

 Bobinôt, that big, brown, good-natured
Bobinôt, had no intention of going to the ball, even though he knew Calixta
would be there. For what came of those balls but heartache, and a sickening
disinclination for work the whole week through, till Saturday night came again
and his tortures began afresh? Why could he not love Ozéina, who would marry
him to-morrow; or Fronie, or any one of a dozen others, rather than that little
Spanish vixen? Calixta’s slender foot had never touched Cuban soil; but her
mother’s had, and the Spanish was in her blood all the same. For that reason
the prairie people forgave her much that they would not have overlooked in
their own daughters or sisters.
 Her
eyes,–Bobinôt thought of her eyes, and weakened,–the bluest, the drowsiest,
most tantalizing that ever looked into a man’s, he thought of her flaxen hair
that kinked worse than a mulatto’s close to her head; that broad, smiling mouth
and tip-tilted nose, that full figure; that voice like a rich contralto song,
with cadences in it that must have been taught by Satan, for there was no one
else to teach her tricks on that ‘Cadian prairie. Bobinôt thought of them all
as he plowed his rows of cane.
 There
had even been a breath of scandal whispered about her a year ago, when she went
to Assumption,–but why talk of it? No one did now. “C’est Espagnol,
ça,” most of them said with lenient shoulder-shrugs. “Bon chien tient
de race,”the old men mumbled over their pipes, stirred by recollections.
Nothing was made of it, except that Fronie threw it up to Calixta when the two
quarreled and fought on the church steps after mass one Sunday, about a lover.
Calixta swore roundly in fine ‘Cadian French and with true Spanish spirit, and
slapped Fronie’s face. Fronie had slapped her back; “Tiens, bocotte,
va!” “Espèce de lionèse; prends ça, et ça!” till the curé
himself was obliged to hasten and make peace between them. Bobinôt thought of
it all, and would not go to the ball.
 But in
the afternoon, over at Friedheimer’s store, where he was buying a trace-chain,
he heard some one say that Alcée Laballière would be there. Then wild horses
could not have kept him away. He knew how it would be–or rather he did not
know how it would be–if the handsome young planter came over to the ball as he
sometimes did. If Alcée happened to be in a serious mood, he might only go to
the card-room and play a round or two; or he might stand out on the galleries
talking crops and politics with the old people. But there was no telling. A
drink or two could put the devil in his head,–that was what Bobinôt said to
himself, as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his red bandanna; a gleam
from Calixta’s eyes, a flash of her ankle, a twirl of her skirts could do the
same. Yes, Bobinôt would go to the ball.

 That was the year Alcée Laballière put nine
hundred acres in rice. It was putting a good deal of money into the ground, but
the returns promised to be glorious. Old Madame Laballière, sailing about the
spacious galleries in her white volante, figured it all out in her head.
Clarisse, her goddaughter helped her a little, and together they built more
air-castles than enough. Alcée worked like a mule that time; and if he did not
kill himself, it was because his constitution was an iron one. It was an
every-day affair for him to come in from the field well-nigh exhausted, and wet
to the waist. He did not mind if there were visitors; he left them to his
mother and Clarisse. There were often guests: young men and women who came up
from the city, which was but a few hours away, to visit his beautiful
kinswoman. She was worth going a good deal farther than that to see. Dainty as
a lily; hardy as a sunflower; slim, tall, graceful, like one of the reeds that
grew in the marsh. Cold and kind and cruel by turn, and everything that was
aggravating to Alcée.
 He
would have liked to sweep the place of those visitors, often. Of the men, above
all, with their ways and their manners; their swaying of fans like women, and
dandling about hammocks. He could have pitched them over the levee into the
river, if it hadn’t meant murder. That was Alcée. But he must have been crazy
the day he came in from the rice-field, and, toil-stained as he was, clasped
Clarisse by the arms and panted a volley of hot, blistering love-words into her
face. No man had ever spoken love to her like that.
 “Monsieur!”
she exclaimed, looking him full in the eyes, without a quiver. Alcée’s hands
dropped and his glance wavered before the chill of her calm, clear eyes.
 “Par
exemple!” she muttered disdainfully, as she turned from him, deftly
adjusting the careful toilet that he had so brutally disarranged.
 That
happened a day or two before the cyclone came that cut into the rice like fine
steel. It was an awful thing, coming so swiftly, without a moment’s warning in
which to light a holy candle or set a piece of blessed palm burning. Old madame
wept openly and said her beads, just as her son Didier, the New Orleans one,
would have done. If such a thing had happened to Alphonse, the Laballière
planting cotton up in Natchitoches, he would have raved and stormed like a
second cyclone, and made his surroundings unbearable for a day or two. But
Alcée took the misfortune differently. He looked ill and gray after it, and
said nothing. His speechlessness was frightful. Clarisse’s heart melted with
tenderness; but when she offered her soft, purring words of condolence, he
accepted them with mute indifference. Then she and her nénaine wept afresh in
each other’s arms.
 A
night or two later, when Clarisse went to her window to kneel there in the
moonlight and say her prayers before retiring, she saw that Bruce, Alcée’s
negro servant, had led his master’s saddle-horse noiselessly along the edge of
the sward that bordered the gravel-path, and stood holding him nearby.
Presently, she heard Alcée quit his room, which was beneath her own, and
traverse the lower portico. As he emerged from the shadow and crossed the strip
of moonlight, she perceived that he carried a pair of well-filled saddle-bags
which he at once flung across the animal’s back. He then lost no time in
mounting, and after a brief exchange of words with Bruce, went cantering away,
taking no precaution to avoid the noisy gravel as the negro had done.
 Clarisse
had never suspected that it might be Alcée’s custom to sally forth from the
plantation secretly, and at such an hour; for it was nearly midnight. And had
it not been for the telltale saddle-bags, she would only have crept to bed, to
wonder, to fret and dream unpleasant dreams. But her impatience and anxiety
would not be held in check. Hastily unbolting the shutters of her door that
opened upon the gallery, she stepped outside and called softly to the old
Negro.
 “Gre’t
Peter! Miss Clarisse. I was n’ sho it was a ghos’ o’ w’at, stan’in’ up dah,
plumb in de night, dataway.”
 He
mounted halfway up the long, broad flight of stairs. She was standing at the
top.
 “Bruce,
w’ere has Monsieur Alcée gone?” she asked.
 “W’y,
he gone ’bout he business, I reckin, “replied Bruce, striving to be
noncommittal at the outset.
 “W’ere
has Monsieur Alcée gone?” she reiterated, stamping her bare foot. “I
won’t stan’ any nonsense or any lies; mine, Bruce.”
 “I
don’ ric’lic ez I eva tole you lie yit, Miss Clarisse. Mista Alcée, he
all broke up, sho.”
 “W’ere–has–he
gone? Ah, Sainte Vierge! faut de la patience! butor, va!”
 “W’en
I was in he room, a-breshin’ off he clo’es to-day, ” the darkey began,
settling himself against the stair-rail, “he look dat speechless an’ down,
I say, ‘You ‘pear tu me like some pussun w’at gwine have a spell o’ sickness,
Mista Alcée.’ He say, ‘You reckin?’ ‘I dat he git up, go look hisse’f stiddy in
de glass. Den he go to de chimbly an’ jerk up de quinine bottle an po’ a gre’t
hoss-dose on to he han’. An’ he swalla dat mess in a wink, an’ wash hit down
wid a big dram o’ w’iskey w’at he keep in he room, aginst he come all soppin’
wet outen de fiel’.
 “He
‘lows, ‘No, I ain’ gwine be sick, Bruce.’ Den he square off. He say, ‘I kin mak
out to stan’ up an’ gi’ an’ take wid any man I knows, lessen hit ‘s John L.
Sulvun. But w’en God A’mighty an’ a ‘omen jines fo’ces agin me, dat ‘s one too
many fur me.’ I tell ‘im, ‘Jis so,’ whils’ I’se makin’ out to bresh a spot off
w’at ain’ dah, on he coat colla. I tell ‘im, ‘You wants li’le res’, suh.’ He
say, ‘No, I wants li’le fling; dat w’at I wants; an I gwine git it. Pitch me a
fis’ful o’ clo’es in dem ‘ar saddle-bags.’ Dat w’at he say. Don’t you bodda,
missy. He jis’ gone a-caperin’ yonda to de Cajun ball. Uh–uh–de skeeters is
fair’ a-swarmin’ like bees roun’ yo’ foots!”
 The
mosquitoes were indeed attacking Clarisse’s white feet savagely. She had
unconsciously been alternately rubbing one foot over the other during the
darkey’s recital.
 “The
‘Cadian ball, ” she repeated contemptously. “Humph! Par exemple!Nice
conduc’ for a Laballière. An’ he needs a saddle-bag, fill’ with clothes, to go
to the ‘Cadian ball!”
 “Oh,
Miss Clarisse; you go on to bed, chile; git yo’ soun’ sleep. He ‘low he
comeback in couple weeks o’ so. I kiarn be repeatin’ lot o’ truck w’at young
mans say, out heah face o’ a young gal.”
 Clarisse
said no more, but turned and abruptly reentered the house.
 “You
done talk too much wid yo’ mouf already, you ole fool nigga, you,”
muttered Bruce to himself as he walked away.
 Alcée
reached the ball very late, of course–too late for the chicken gumbo which had
been served at midnight.
 The
big, low-ceiled room–they called it a hall–was packed with men and women
dancing to the music of three fiddles. There were broad galleries all around
it. There was a room at one side where sober-faced men were playing cards.
Another, in which babies were sleeping, was called le parc aux petits.
Any one who is white may go to a ‘Cadian ball, but he must pay for his
lemonade, his coffee and chicken gumbo. And he must behave himself like a
‘Cadian. Grosboeuf was giving this ball. He had been giving them since he was a
young man, and he was a middle-aged one, now. In that time he could recall but
one disturbance, and that was caused by American railroaders, who were not in
touch with their surroundings and had no business there. “Ces maudits gens
du raiderode,” Grosboeuf called them.
 Alcée
Laballière’s presence at the ball caused a flutter even among the men, who
could not but admire his “nerve” after such misfortune befalling him.
To be sure, they knew the Laballières were rich–that there were resources
East, and more again in the city. But they felt it took a brave hommeto
stand a blow like that philosophically. One old gentleman, who was in the habit
of reading a Paris newspaper and knew things, chuckled gleefully to everybody
that Alcée’s conduct was altogether chic, mais chic. That he had more panache
than Boulanger. Well, perhaps he had.
 But
what he did not show outwardly was that he was in a mood for ugly things
to-night. Poor Bobinôt alone felt it vaguely. He discerned a gleam of it in
Alcée’s handsome eyes, as the young planter stood in the doorway, looking with
rather feverish glance upon the assembly, while he laughed and talked with a
‘Cadian farmer who was beside him.
 Bobinôt
himself was dull-looking and clumsy. Most of the men were. But the young women
were very beautiful. The eyes that glanced into Alcée’s as they passed him were
big, dark, soft as those of the young heifers standing out in the cool prairie
grass.
 But
the belle was Calixta. Her white dress was not nearly so handsome or well made
as Fronie’s (she and Fronie had quite forgotten the battle on the church steps,
and were friends again), nor were her slippers so stylish as those of Ozéina;
and she fanned herself with a handkerchief, since she had broken her red fan at
the last ball, and her aunts and uncles were not willing to give her another.
But all the men agreed she was at her best to-night. Such animation! and
abandon! such flashes of wit!
 “Hé,
Bobinôt! Mais w’at’s the matta? W’at you standin’ planté là like
ole Ma’ame Tina’s cow in the bog, you?”
 That
was good. That was an excellent thrust at Bobinôt, who had forgotten the figure
of the dance with his mind bent on other things, and it started a clamor of
laughter at his expense. He joined good-naturedly. It was better to receive
even such notice as that from Calixta than none at all. But Madame Suzonne,
sitting in a corner, whispered to her neighbor that if Ozéina were to conduct
herself in a like manner, she should immediately be taken out to the mule-cart
and driven home. The women did not always approve of Calixta.
 Now
and then were short lulls in the dance, when couples flocked out upon the
galleries for a brief respite and fresh air. The moon had gone down pale in the
west, and in the east was yet no promise of day. After such an interval, when
the dancers again assembled to resume the interrupted quadrille, Calixta was
not among them.
 She
was sitting upon a bench out in the shadow, with Alcée beside her. They were
acting like fools. He had attempted to take a little gold ring from her finger;
just for the fun of it, for there was nothing he could have done with the ring
but replace it again. But she clinched her hand tight. He pretended that it was
a very difficult matter to open it. Then he kept the hand in his. They seemed
to forget about it. He played with her ear-ring, a thin crescent of gold
hanging from her small brown ear. He caught a wisp of the kinky hair that had
escaped its fastening, and rubbed the ends of it against his shaven cheek.
 “You
know, last year in Assumption, Calixta?” They belonged to the younger
generation, so preferred to speak English.
 “Don’t
come say Assumption to me, M’sieur Alcée. I done yeard Assumption till I ‘m
plumb sick.”
 “Yes,
I know. The idiots! Because you were in Assumption, and I happened to go to
Assumption, they must have it that we went together. But it was nice–hein,
Calixta?–in Assumption?”
 They
saw Bobinôt emerge from the hall and stand a moment outside the lighted
doorway, peering uneasily and searchingly into the darkness. He did not see
them, and went slowly back.
 “There
is Bobinôt looking for you. You are going to set poor Bobinôt crazy. You ‘ll
marry him some day; hein, Calixta?”
 “I
don’t say no, me,” she replied, striving to withdraw her hand, which he
held more firmly for the attempt.
 “But
come, Calixta; you know you said you would go back to Assumption, just to spite
them.”
 “No,
I neva said that, me. You mus’ dreamt that.”
 “Oh,
I thought you did. You know I ‘m going down to the city.”
 “W’en?”

 “To-night.”

 “Betta
make has’e, then; it ‘s mos’ day.”
 “Well,
to-morrow ‘ll do.”
 “W’at
you goin’ do, yonda?”
 “I
don’t know. Drown myself in the lake, maybe; unless you go down there to visit
your uncle.”
 Calixta’s
senses were reeling; and they well-nigh left her when she felt Alcée’s lips
brush her ear like the touch of a rose.
 “Mista
Alcée! Is dat Mista Alcée?” the thick voice of a negro was asking; he
stood on the ground, holding to the banister-rails near which the couple sat.
 “W’at
do you want now?” cried Alcée impatiently. “Can’t I have a moment of
peace?”
 “I
ben huntin’ you high an’ low, suh,” answered the man. “Dey–dey some
one in de road, onda de mulbare-tree, want see you a minute.”
 “I
wouldn’t go out to the road to see the Angel Gabriel. And if you come back here
with any more talk, I’ll have to break your neck.” The negro turned
mumbling away.
 Alcée
and Calixta laughed softly about it. Her boisterousness was all gone. They
talked low, and laughed softly, as lovers do.
 “Alcée!
Alcée Laballière!”
 It was
not the negro’s voice this time; but one that went through Alcée’s body like an
electric shock, bringing him to his feet.
 Clarisse
was standing there in her riding-habit, where the negro had stood. For an
instant confusion reigned in Alcée’s thoughts, as with one who awakes suddenly
from a dream. But he felt that something of serious import had brought his
cousin to the ball in the dead of night.
 “W’at
does this mean, Clarisse?” he asked.
 “It
means something has happen’ at home. You mus’ come.”
 “Happened
to maman?” he questioned, in alarm.
 “No;
nénaine is well, and asleep. It is something else. Not to frighten you. But you
mus’ come. Come with me, Alcée.”
 There
was no need for the imploring note. He would have followed the voice anywhere.
 She
had now recognized the girl sitting back on the bench.
 “Ah,
c’est vous, Calixta? Comment ça va, mon enfant?”
 “Tcha
va b’en; et vous, mam’zélle?”
 Alcée
swung himself over the low rail and started to follow Clarisse, without a word,
without a glance back at the girl. He had forgotten he was leaving her there.
But Clarisse whispered something to him, and he turned back to say
“Good-night, Calixta,” and offer his hand to press through the
railing. She pretended not to see it.

 “How come that? You settin’ yere by yo’se’f,
Calixta?” It was Bobinôt who had found her there alone. The dancers had
not yet come out. She looked ghastly in the faint, gray light struggling out of
the east.
 “Yes,
that ‘s me. Go yonda in the parc aux petits an’ ask Aunt Olisse fu’ my
hat. She knows w’ere ‘t is. I want to go home, me.”
 “How
you came?”
 “I
come afoot, with the Cateaus. But I’m goin’ now. I ent goin’ wait fu’ ’em. I’m
plumb wo’ out, me.”
 “Kin
I go with you, Calixta?”
 “I
don’ care.”
 They
went together across the open prairie and along the edge of the fields,
stumbling in the uncertain light. He told her to lift her dress that was
getting wet and bedraggled; for she was pulling at the weeds and grasses with
her hands.
 “I
don’ care; it ‘s got to go in the tub, anyway. You been sayin’ all along you
want to marry me, Bobinôt. Well, if you want, yet, I don’ care, me.”
 The
glow of a sudden and overwhelming happiness shone out in the brown, rugged face
of the young Acadian. He could not speak, for very joy. It choked him.
 “Oh
well, if you don’ want,” snapped Calixta, flippantly, pretending to be
piqued at his silence.
 “Bon
Dieu! You know that makes me crazy, w’at you sayin’. You mean that,
Calixta? You ent goin’ turn roun’ agin?”
 “I
neva tole you that much yet, Bobinôt. I mean that. Tiens,”
and she held out her hand in the business-like manner of a man who clinches a
bargain with a hand-clasp. Bobinôt grew bold with happiness and asked Calixta
to kiss him. She turned her face, that was almost ugly after the night’s
dissipation, and looked steadily into his.
 “I
don’ want to kiss you, Bobinôt,” she said, turning away again, “not
to-day. Some other time. Bonté divine! ent you satisfy, yet!”

 “Oh,
I ‘m satisfy, Calixta,” he said.

 Riding through a patch of wood, Clarisse’s saddle
became ungirted, and she and Alcée dismounted to readjust it.
 For
the twentieth time he asked her what had happened at home.
 “But,
Clarisse, w’at is it? Is it a misfortune?”
 “Ah
Dieu sait!” It ‘s only something that happen’ to me.”
 “To
you!”
 “I
saw you go away las night, Alcée, with those saddle-bags,” she said,
haltingly, striving to arrange something about the saddle, “an’ I made
Bruce tell me. He said you had gone to the ball, an’ wouldn’ be home for weeks
an’ weeks. I thought, Alcée–maybe you were going to–to Assumption. I got
wild. An’ then I knew if you didn’t come back, now, to-night, I could
n’t stan’ it,–again.”
 She
had her face hidden in her arm that she was resting against the saddle when she
said that.
 He
began to wonder if this meant love. But she had to tell him so, before he
believed it. And when she told him, he thought the face of the Universe was
changed–just like Bobinôt. Was it last week the cyclone had well-nigh ruined
him? The cyclone seemed a huge joke, now. It was he, then, who, an hour ago was
kissing little Calixta’s ear and whispering nonsense into it. Calixta was like
a myth, now. The one, only, great reality in the world was Clarisse standing
before him, telling him that she loved him.
 In the
distance they heard the rapid discharge of pistol-shots; but it did not disturb
them. They knew it was only the negro musicians who had gone into the yard to
fire their pistols into the air, as the custom is, and to announce “le
bal est fini.”
                                                           

                       The Storm
                          by Kate
Chopin

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