Lilacs and Other Stories
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Kate Chopin (1850-1904) was an American writer of novels and short stories. She is now considered to have been a forerunner of the feminist literature of the 20th century. Throughout her career, Chopin gained inspiration from a trip to the South in Louisiana and much of her fiction was set there. She valued its vague, less structured and more sensual atmosphere. Although she was pigeonholed as a regional writer, she wanted badly to reach a national audience. She tried to consign with her collection of Creole stories and finally succeeded with "Lilacs and Other Stories". "Lilacs" is the tale of a worldly Parisian actress, Adrienne Farival, who inspired every spring by the scent of the first lilac blossom, visits the convent where she spent her youth to find one day, she is banished forever. This collection includes 23 other distinctive tales of Southern Life including "Beyond the Bayou," a story of a middle-aged black woman named La Folle who lives on an abandoned field next to the bayou from which she has never ventured to the lands beyond her home.
on the store across the road, where he had seen her enter. “She is the granddaughter of that Madame Izidore”— “What! Ma’ame Zidore whom they drove off the island last winter?” “Yes, yes. Well, you know, they say the old woman stole wood and things,—I don’t know how true it is,—and destroyed people’s property out of pure malice.” “And she lives now on the Bon-Dieu?” “Yes, on Le Blôt’s place, in a perfect wreck of a cabin. You see, she gets it for nothing; not a negro on the place but has
upon the sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline stands annoying them and disturbing the game. Léandre reproves her. She begins to cry, and old black Clémentine, her nurse, who is not far off, limps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive the little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself better than she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor and raised a great “bo-bo” on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and angry enough about it; and she
a character as an American child. But the trouble was that after the little one went away, she could think of nothing really objectionable against her except the accident of her birth, which was, after all, her misfortune; and her ignorance of the French language, which was not her fault. But the touch of the caressing baby arms; the pressure of the soft little body in the night; the tones of the voice, and the feeling of the hot lips when the child kissed her, believing herself to be with her
this when circumstances required. However, he held her hand longer than he needed to when he bade her good-by. For he got entangled in explaining why he should have to go back to the plantation to see how matters stood there, and he dropped her hand only when the rambling speech was ended. He left her sitting by the window in a big brocaded armchair. She drew the lace curtain aside to watch him pass in the street. He lifted his hat and smiled when he saw her. Any other man she knew would have
warmest appreciation. When the day of her departure came, Sister Agathe was not satisfied to say good-by at the portal as the others did. She walked down the drive beside the creeping old cabriolet, chattering her pleasant last words. And then she stood—it was as far as she might go—at the edge of the road, waving good-by in response to the fluttering of Adrienne’s handkerchief. Four hours later Sister Agathe, who was instructing a class of little girls for their first communion, looked up at