1894

LA BELLE ZORAIDE

by Kate Chopin

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 of2cafe-au-lait. 4 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!2Malheureuse! 4 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.'