Balcony Stories

by Grace Elizabeth King

There is much of life passed on the balcony in a country where the summer unrolls in six moon-lengths, and where the nights have to come with a double endowment of vastness and splendor to compensate for the tedious, sun-parched days. And in that country the women love to sit and talk together of summer nights, on balconies, in their vague, loose, white garments, - men are not balcony sitters, - with their sleeping children within easy hearing, the stars breaking the cool darkness, or the moon making a show of light - oh, such a discreet show of light! - through the vines. And the children inside, waking to go from one sleep into another, hear the low, soft mother-voices on the balcony, talking about this person and that, old times, old friends, old experiences; and it seems to them, hovering a moment in wakefulness, that there is no end of the world or time, or of the mother-knowledge; but, illimitable as it is, the mother-voices and the mother-love and protection fill it all, - with their mother's hand in theirs, children are not afraid even of God, - and they drift into slumber again, their little dreams taking all kinds of pretty reflections from the great unknown horizon outside, as their fragile soap-bubbles take on reflec-tions from the sun and clouds.

Genres: Short Stories

144 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1968

About the author

Grace Elizabeth King was an American author of Louisiana stories, history, and biography, and a leader in historical and literary activities.

Reviews

[Teresa · Rating 4 out of 5]

These stories, though some may seem mere vignettes, are delightful, charming even, apart from the darkness of a few, which includes one of her most famous. King’s biases can raise my hackles (especially the ending of a short story I recently read called "Bonne Maman" that’s not part of this collection) but these are better written, certainly more cohesive, than others I’ve previously read. The characters King probably feels sorry for (e.g., a spoiled-brat aristocrat whose fortunes drastically change after the Civil War) will not evoke pity in readers today, demonstrating the maxim that good writing can end up having meaning that an author likely didn't intend.

King employs unique metaphors--the fleece (sometimes the flesh still sticking to it) left on the brambles by the driven herd [to describe family heirlooms sold to and displayed in French Quarter antique shops]--and at times unusual faceless narrators, including one privy to a private, intimate conversation. Most surprising are the outright ‘hints’ of sensuality--the pretty honeymoon costume that suggests—well! to proceed--and some deadpan humor--the description is longer than the voyage. Her sense of place is, as usual, spot-on: the prologue is lovely, and still pertinent to an atmosphere of New Orleans, as are her descriptions of nearby bayous.