The Awakening Audiobook by Kate Chopin (Chs 01-20)


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Transcript:
PART 1: Chapter I
A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over
and over: "Allez vous-en!
Allez vous-en!
Sapristi! That's all right!"
He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it
was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes
out upon the breeze with maddening persistence.
Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose
with an expression and an exclamation of disgust.
He walked down the gallery and across the narrow "bridges" which connected the Lebrun
cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the
main house.
The parrot and the mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the
right to make all the noise they wished.
Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to
be entertaining.
He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the
main building and next to the last.
Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to
the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day
old.
The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle.
He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the
editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New
Orleans the day before.
Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and
rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on
one side.
His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from
the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the
house.
The main building was called "the house," to distinguish it from the cottages.
The chattering and whistling birds were still at it.
Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from "Zampa" upon the piano.
Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard-boy
whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a
dining-room servant whenever she got outside.
She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves.
Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went.
Farther down, before one of the cottages,a a lady in black was walking demurely up and
down, telling her beads.
A good many persons of the pension had gone over to the Cheniere Caminada in
Beaudelet's lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the
wateroaks playing croquet.
Mr. Pontellier's two children were there-- sturdy little fellows of four and five.
A quadroon nurse followed them about with a faraway, meditative air.
Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly
from his hand.
He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail's pace from the
beach.
He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the
stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily
into the blue of the horizon.
The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his
wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun.
When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of
fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a
supporting post.
"What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!" exclaimed Mr. Pontellier.
He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to
him.
"You are burnt beyond recognition," he added, looking at his wife as one looks at
a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage.
She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically,
drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists.
Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before
leaving for the beach.
She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest
pocket and dropped them into her open palm.
She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at
Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers.
He sent back an answering smile.
"What is it?" asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other.
It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried
to relate it at once.
It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr.
Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself.
Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game
of billiards. "Come go along, Lebrun," he proposed to
Robert.
But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to
Mrs. Pontellier.
"Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna," instructed her husband as
he prepared to leave. "Here, take the umbrella," she exclaimed,
holding it out to him.
He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and
walked away. "Coming back to dinner?" his wife called
after him.
He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders.
He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there.
He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would
not.
It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of "the
game." He did not say this, but she understood it,
and laughed, nodding good-by to him.
Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out.
He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts.
Chapter II
Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about
the color of her hair.
She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost
in some inward maze of contemplation or thought.
Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair.
They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes.
She was rather handsome than beautiful.
Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression and a
contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging.
Robert rolled a cigarette.
He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said.
He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he
was saving it for his after-dinner smoke.
This seemed quite proper and natural on his part.
In coloring he was not unlike his companion.
A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise
have been. There rested no shadow of care upon his
open countenance.
His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and languor of the summer day.
Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm- leaf fan that lay on the porch and began to
fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette.
They chatted incessantly: about the things around them; their amusing adventure out in
the water--it had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the
trees, the people who had gone to the
Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the Farival
twins, who were now performing the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant."
Robert talked a good deal about himself.
He was very young, and did not know any better.
Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the same reason.
Each was interested in what the other said.
Robert spoke of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited
him. He was always intending to go to Mexico,
but some way never got there.
Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where
an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish gave him no small value as a
clerk and correspondent.
He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at Grand Isle.
In former times, before Robert could remember, "the house" had been a summer
luxury of the Lebruns.
Now, flanked by its dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive
visitors from the "Quartier Francais," it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy
and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.
Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and her girlhood
home in the old Kentucky bluegrass country.
She was an American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have
been lost in dilution.
She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged
herself to be married.
Robert was interested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what
the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead.
When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the early
dinner.
"I see Leonce isn't coming back," she said, with a glance in the direction whence her
husband had disappeared.
Robert supposed he was not, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at
Klein's.
When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended the steps and
strolled over toward the croquet players, where, during the half-hour before dinner,
he amused himself with the little
Pontellier children, who were very fond of him.
Chapter III
It was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Klein's hotel.
He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very talkative.
His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep when he came in.
He talked to her while he undressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of news and
gossip that he had gathered during the day.
From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes and a good deal of
silver coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife,
handkerchief, and whatever else happened to be in his pockets.
She was overcome with sleep, and answered him with little half utterances.
He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object of his
existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned him, and valued so
little his conversation.
Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys.
Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room where they
slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were resting comfortably.
The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory.
He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed.
One of them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.
Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever
and needed looking after.
Then he lit a cigar and went and sat near the open door to smoke it.
Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever.
He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day.
Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken.
He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room.
He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the
children.
If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose on earth was it?
He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business.
He could not be in two places at once; making a living for his family on the
street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell them.
He talked in a monotonous, insistent way.
Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room.
She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the
pillow.
She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he questioned her.
When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast
asleep.
Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake.
She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir.
Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet
into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and went out on the porch, where
she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and fro.
It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark.
A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house.
There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a
water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft
hour.
It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.
The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her peignoir
no longer served to dry them.
She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped
almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm.
Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went
on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms.
She could not have told why she was crying.
Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life.
They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's
kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood.
An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her
consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish.
It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day.
It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood.
She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had
directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken.
She was just having a good cry all to herself.
The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her
bare insteps.
The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held
her there in the darkness half a night longer.
The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was
to convey him to the steamer at the wharf.
He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again
at the Island till the coming Saturday.
He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night
before.
He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet
Street.
Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from
Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and
accepted it with no little satisfaction.
"It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!" she exclaimed, smoothing out
the bills as she counted them one by one.
"Oh! we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared
to kiss her good-by.
The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be
brought back to them.
Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were
always on hand to say goodby to him.
His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old
rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs.
Pontellier from New Orleans.
It was from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with
luscious and toothsome bits--the finest of fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two,
delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.
Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was
quite used to receiving them when away from home.
The pates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed
around.
And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little
greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world.
Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.
Chapter IV
It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own
satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their
children.
It was something which he felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling
without subsequent regret and ample atonement.
If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to
rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself
up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing.
Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with
doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-
tots.
The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up
waists and panties and to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of
society that hair must be parted and brushed.
In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother- woman.
The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle.
It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any
harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood.
They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and
esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as
ministering angels.
Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment of every
womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a
brute, deserving of death by slow torture.
Her name was Adele Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the
old ones that have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and
the fair lady of our dreams.
There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty was all there,
flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain;
the blue eyes that were like nothing but
sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or
some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them.
She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace
of every step, pose, gesture.
One would not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms more
slender.
Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she
threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle finger as she
sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.
Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing
and went over to sit with her in the afternoons.
She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans.
She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a
diminutive pair of night-drawers.
She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut out--a marvel of
construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's body so effectually that only two small
eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimo's.
They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts came down chimneys and
insidious currents of deadly cold found their way through key-holes.
Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material needs of
her children, and she could not see the use of anticipating and making winter night
garments the subject of her summer meditations.
But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested, so she had brought forth
newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame
Ratignolle's directions she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment.
Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier also
occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning listlessly against the post.
Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.
That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upon a stick
of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it could possibly hurt her.
Madame Ratignolle had been married seven years.
About every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, and was
beginning to think of a fourth one.
She was always talking about her "condition."
Her "condition" was in no way apparent, and no one would have known a thing about it
but for her persistence in making it the subject of conversation.
Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had subsisted
upon nougat during the entire--but seeing the color mount into Mrs. Pontellier's face
he checked himself and changed the subject.
Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly at home in the
society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown so intimately among them.
There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun's.
They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom existed the most
amicable relations.
A characteristic which distinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most
forcibly was their entire absence of prudery.
Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her, though she had no
difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to
be inborn and unmistakable.
Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard Madame
Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story of one of her
accouchements, withholding no intimate detail.
She was growing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting color
back from her cheeks.
Oftener than once her coming had interrupted the droll story with which
Robert was entertaining some amused group of married women.
A book had gone the rounds of the pension.
When it came her turn to read it, she did so with profound astonishment.
She felt moved to read the book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had
done so,--to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was openly criticised and freely discussed at table.
Mrs. Pontellier gave over being astonished, and concluded that wonders would never
cease.
Chapter V
They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer afternoon--Madame Ratignolle
sewing away, often stopping to relate a story or incident with much expressive
gesture of her perfect hands; Robert and
Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words, glances or smiles which
indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie.
He had lived in her shadow during the past month.
No one thought anything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote
himself to Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived.
Since the age of fifteen, which was eleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand
Isle had constituted himself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel.
Sometimes it was a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some
interesting married woman.
For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle Duvigne's
presence.
But she died between summers; then Robert posed as an inconsolable, prostrating
himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort
she might be pleased to vouchsafe.
Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look upon a
faultless Madonna. "Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath
that fair exterior?" murmured Robert.
"She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her.
It was 'Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the baby
sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where.
Come and read Daudet to me while I sew.'"
"Par exemple! I never had to ask.
You were always there under my feet, like a troublesome cat."
"You mean like an adoring dog.
And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on the scene, then it WAS like a dog.
'Passez! Adieu!
Allez vous-en!'"
"Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous," she interjoined, with excessive
naivete. That made them all laugh.
The right hand jealous of the left!
The heart jealous of the soul! But for that matter, the Creole husband is
never jealous; with him the gangrene passion is one which has become dwarfed by
disuse.
Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his one
time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights, of
consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge.
While the lady at the needle kept up a little running, contemptuous comment:
"Blagueur--farceur--gros bete, va!"
He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier.
She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it was impossible for
her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion was earnest.
It was understood that he had often spoken words of love to Madame Ratignolle, without
any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed
a similar role toward herself.
It would have been unacceptable and annoying.
Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she sometimes dabbled with
in an unprofessional way.
She liked the dabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which
no other employment afforded her. She had long wished to try herself on
Madame Ratignolle.
Never had that lady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated there
like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching her splendid
color.
Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. Pontellier, that he
might watch her work.
She handled her brushes with a certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and
close acquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude.
Robert followed her work with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory
expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle.
"Mais ce n'est pas mal!
Elle s'y connait, elle a de la force, oui." During his oblivious attention he once
quietly rested his head against Mrs. Pontellier's arm.
As gently she repulsed him.
Once again he repeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be
thoughtlessness on his part; yet that was no reason she should submit to it.
She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but firmly.
He offered no apology. The picture completed bore no resemblance
to Madame Ratignolle.
She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look like her.
But it was a fair enough piece of work, and in many respects satisfying.
Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so.
After surveying the sketch critically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its
surface, and crumpled the paper between her hands.
The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at the respectful
distance which they required her to observe.
Mrs. Pontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house.
She sought to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry.
But they were greatly in earnest.
They had only come to investigate the contents of the bonbon box.
They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding out two
chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain hope that they might be filled; and then away
they went.
The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that came up from the
south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea.
Children freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the oaks.
Their voices were high and penetrating.
Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and thread all
neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely.
She complained of faintness.
Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and a fan.
She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face with cologne, while Robert plied the fan with
unnecessary vigor.
The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering if
there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the rose
tint had never faded from her friend's face.
She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries with the grace
and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to possess.
Her little ones ran to meet her.
Two of them clung about her white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with
a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms.
Though, as everybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a pin!
"Are you going bathing?" asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier.
It was not so much a question as a reminder.
"Oh, no," she answered, with a tone of indecision.
"I'm tired; I think not."
Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whose sonorous murmur
reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty.
"Oh, come!" he insisted.
"You mustn't miss your bath. Come on.
The water must be delicious; it will not hurt you.
Come."
He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the door, and
put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked away
together toward the beach.
The sun was low in the west and the breeze was soft and warm.
>
PART 2: Chapter VI
Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with Robert, she
should in the first place have declined, and in the second place have followed in
obedience to one of the two contradictory impulses which impelled her.
A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,--the light which, showing the
way, forbids it.
At that early period it served but to bewilder her.
It moved her to dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome
her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.
In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a
human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and
about her.
This may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young
woman of twenty-eight--perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to
vouchsafe to any woman.
But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled,
chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such
beginning!
How many souls perish in its tumult!
The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring,
inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in
mazes of inward contemplation.
The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding
the body in its soft, close embrace.
Chapter VII
Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic hitherto
contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her own small
life all within herself.
At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life--that outward
existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.
That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of reserve that
had always enveloped her.
There may have been--there must have been-- influences, both subtle and apparent,
working in their several ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the
influence of Adele Ratignolle.
The excessive physical charm of the Creole had first attracted her, for Edna had a
sensuous susceptibility to beauty.
Then the candor of the woman's whole existence, which every one might read, and
which formed so striking a contrast to her own habitual reserve--this might have
furnished a link.
Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call
sympathy, which we might as well call love.
The two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm, under the huge
white sunshade.
Edna had prevailed upon Madame Ratignolle to leave the children behind, though she
could not induce her to relinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adele
begged to be allowed to slip into the depths of her pocket.
In some unaccountable way they had escaped from Robert.
The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did of a long, sandy
path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that bordered it on either side made
frequent and unexpected inroads.
There were acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand.
Further away still, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations
of orange or lemon trees intervening.
The dark green clusters glistened from afar in the sun.
The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the more
feminine and matronly figure.
The charm of Edna Pontellier's physique stole insensibly upon you.
The lines of her body were long, clean and symmetrical; it was a body which
occasionally fell into splendid poses; there was no suggestion of the trim,
stereotyped fashion-plate about it.
A casual and indiscriminating observer, in passing, might not cast a second glance
upon the figure.
But with more feeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of
its modeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which made Edna
Pontellier different from the crowd.
She wore a cool muslin that morning--white, with a waving vertical line of brown
running through it; also a white linen collar and the big straw hat which she had
taken from the peg outside the door.
The hat rested any way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was heavy, and
clung close to her head.
Madame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze veil about
her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets
that protected her wrists.
She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness of ruffles that became her.
The draperies and fluttering things which she wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty
as a greater severity of line could not have done.
There were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solid construction,
built with small, protecting galleries facing the water.
Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun's possessed a
compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential paraphernalia of the bath and
whatever other conveniences the owners might desire.
The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just strolled down to the beach
for a walk and to be alone and near the water.
The Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one another under the same roof.
Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit.
Unlocking the door of her bath-room she went inside, and soon emerged, bringing a
rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two huge hair pillows covered
with crash, which she placed against the front of the building.
The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by side, with
their backs against the pillows and their feet extended.
Madame Ratignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather delicate
handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carried suspended
somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon.
Edna removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat.
She took the fan from Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her
companion.
It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarks about the
heat, the sun, the glare.
But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into
froth.
It fluttered the skirts of the two women and kept them for a while engaged in
adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hair-pins and hat-pins.
A few persons were sporting some distance away in the water.
The beach was very still of human sound at that hour.
The lady in black was reading her morning devotions on the porch of a neighboring
bathhouse.
Two young lovers were exchanging their hearts' yearnings beneath the children's
tent, which they had found unoccupied. Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about,
had finally kept them at rest upon the sea.
The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the blue sky went; there were a
few white clouds suspended idly over the horizon.
A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and others to the south
seemed almost motionless in the far distance.
"Of whom--of what are you thinking?" asked Adele of her companion, whose countenance
she had been watching with a little amused attention, arrested by the absorbed
expression which seemed to have seized and
fixed every feature into a statuesque repose.
"Nothing," returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: "How stupid!
But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to such a question.
Let me see," she went on, throwing back her head and narrowing her fine eyes till they
shone like two vivid points of light.
"Let me see. I was really not conscious of thinking of
anything; but perhaps I can retrace my thoughts."
"Oh! never mind!" laughed Madame Ratignolle.
"I am not quite so exacting. I will let you off this time.
It is really too hot to think, especially to think about thinking."
"But for the fun of it," persisted Edna.
"First of all, the sight of the water stretching so far away, those motionless
sails against the blue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit
and look at.
The hot wind beating in my face made me think--without any connection that I can
trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as the ocean to
the very little girl walking through the grass, which was higher than her waist.
She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one
strikes out in the water.
Oh, I see the connection now!" "Where were you going that day in Kentucky,
walking through the grass?" "I don't remember now.
I was just walking diagonally across a big field.
My sun-bonnet obstructed the view.
I could see only the stretch of green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on
forever, without coming to the end of it. I don't remember whether I was frightened
or pleased.
I must have been entertained.
"Likely as not it was Sunday," she laughed; "and I was running away from prayers, from
the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom by my father that chills me yet to
think of."
"And have you been running away from prayers ever since, ma chere?" asked Madame
Ratignolle, amused. "No! oh, no!"
Edna hastened to say.
"I was a little unthinking child in those days, just following a misleading impulse
without question.
On the contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold upon me;
after I was twelve and until-until--why, I suppose until now, though I never thought
much about it--just driven along by habit.
But do you know," she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and
leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of her companion,
"sometimes I feel this summer as if I were
walking through the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided."
Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was near her.
Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly and warmly.
She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand, murmuring in an undertone,
"Pauvre cherie."
The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent herself readily
to the Creole's gentle caress.
She was not accustomed to an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in
herself or in others.
She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal through force of
unfortunate habit.
Her older sister, Margaret, was matronly and dignified, probably from having assumed
matronly and housewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having died
when they were quite young, Margaret was not effusive; she was practical.
Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether accidentally or not, they seemed to
have been all of one type--the self- contained.
She never realized that the reserve of her own character had much, perhaps everything,
to do with this.
Her most intimate friend at school had been one of rather exceptional intellectual
gifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired and strove to imitate;
and with her she talked and glowed over the
English classics, and sometimes held religious and political controversies.
Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly disturbed her
without causing any outward show or manifestation on her part.
At a very early age--perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean of waving grass--
she remembered that she had been passionately enamored of a dignified and
sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in Kentucky.
She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor remove her eyes from his
face, which was something like Napoleon's, with a lock of black hair failing across
the forehead.
But the cavalry officer melted imperceptibly out of her existence.
At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman who visited a
lady on a neighboring plantation.
It was after they went to Mississippi to live.
The young man was engaged to be married to the young lady, and they sometimes called
upon Margaret, driving over of afternoons in a buggy.
Edna was a little miss, just merging into her teens; and the realization that she
herself was nothing, nothing, nothing to the engaged young man was a bitter
affliction to her.
But he, too, went the way of dreams. She was a grown young woman when she was
overtaken by what she supposed to be the climax of her fate.
It was when the face and figure of a great tragedian began to haunt her imagination
and stir her senses. The persistence of the infatuation lent it
an aspect of genuineness.
The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.
The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk.
Any one may possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or
comment. (This was a sinister reflection which she
cherished.)
In the presence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as she
handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the likeness.
When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold glass passionately.
Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this respect
resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees of Fate.
It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met him.
He fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his suit with an
earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired.
He pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her.
She fancied there was a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she
was mistaken.
Add to this the violent opposition of her father and her sister Margaret to her
marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no further for the motives which led her to
accept Monsieur Pontellier for her husband.
The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, was not for
her in this world.
As the devoted wife of a man who worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with
a certain dignity in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon
the realm of romance and dreams.
But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry officer and
the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found herself face to face with the
realities.
She grew fond of her husband, realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that
no trace of passion or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection,
thereby threatening its dissolution.
She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way.
She would sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would
sometimes forget them.
The year before they had spent part of the summer with their grandmother Pontellier in
Iberville.
Feeling secure regarding their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except
with an occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though
she did not admit this, even to herself.
It seemed to free her of a responsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which
Fate had not fitted her.
Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that summer day when they
sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of it escaped her.
She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle's shoulder.
She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice and the
unaccustomed taste of candor.
It muddled her like wine, or like a first breath of freedom.
There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by a troop of
children, searching for them.
The two little Pontelliers were with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle's little
girl in his arms.
There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, looking disagreeable
and resigned.
The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax their
muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug
into the bath-house.
The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood there in a line,
gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging their vows and sighs.
The lovers got up, with only a silent protest, and walked slowly away somewhere
else.
The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went over to join
them.
Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she complained
of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints.
She leaned draggingly upon his arm as they walked.
Chapter VIII
"Do me a favor, Robert," spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as soon as she
and Robert had started their slow, homeward way.
She looked up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the
umbrella which he had lifted.
"Granted; as many as you like," he returned, glancing down into her eyes that
were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation.
"I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone."
"Tiens!" he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh.
"Voila que Madame Ratignolle est jalouse!"
"Nonsense! I'm in earnest; I mean what I say.
Let Mrs. Pontellier alone." "Why?" he asked; himself growing serious at
his companion's solicitation.
"She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the unfortunate blunder of
taking you seriously."
His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began to beat it
impatiently against his leg as he walked. "Why shouldn't she take me seriously?" he
demanded sharply.
"Am I a comedian, a clown, a jack-in-the- box?
Why shouldn't she? You Creoles!
I have no patience with you!
Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing programme?
I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously.
I hope she has discernment enough to find in me something besides the blagueur.
If I thought there was any doubt--" "Oh, enough, Robert!" she broke into his
heated outburst.
"You are not thinking of what you are saying.
You speak with about as little reflection as we might expect from one of those
children down there playing in the sand.
If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention
of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you
would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you."
Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the gospel.
The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Oh! well! That isn't it," slamming his hat down
vehemently upon his head.
"You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a fellow."
"Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments?
Ma foi!"
"It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you--" he went on, unheedingly, but
breaking off suddenly: "Now if I were like Arobin-you remember Alcee Arobin and that
story of the consul's wife at Biloxi?"
And he related the story of Alcee Arobin and the consul's wife; and another about
the tenor of the French Opera, who received letters which should never have been
written; and still other stories, grave and
gay, till Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously
was apparently forgotten.
Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's
rest which she considered helpful.
Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience--he called it
rudeness--with which he had received her well-meant caution.
"You made one mistake, Adele," he said, with a light smile; "there is no earthly
possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously.
You should have warned me against taking myself seriously.
Your advice might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some
reflection.
Au revoir. But you look tired," he added,
solicitously. "Would you like a cup of bouillon?
Shall I stir you a toddy?
Let me mix you a toddy with a drop of Angostura."
She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable.
He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying
to the rear of the house.
And he himself brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sevres cup, with a
flaky cracker or two on the saucer.
She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open door, and
received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon garcon, and she
meant it.
Robert thanked her and turned away toward "the house."
The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension.
They were leaning toward each other as the wateroaks bent from the sea.
There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet.
Their heads might have been turned upside- down, so absolutely did they tread upon
blue ether.
The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than
usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and
the children.
Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition.
They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour.
The young man ascended to his mother's room.
It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer, sloping
ceiling.
Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the Gulf, and as far across it as a man's
eye might reach. The furnishings of the room were light,
cool, and practical.
Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine.
A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the
machine.
The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her
health. Robert went over and seated himself on the
broad sill of one of the dormer windows.
He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the
precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves.
The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room; it was of a ponderous,
by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his mother
exchanged bits of desultory conversation.
"Where is Mrs. Pontellier?" "Down at the beach with the children."
"I promised to lend her the Goncourt.
Don't forget to take it down when you go; it's there on the bookshelf over the small
table." Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! for the
next five or eight minutes.
"Where is Victor going with the rockaway?" "The rockaway?
Victor?" "Yes; down there in front.
He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere."
"Call him." Clatter, clatter!
Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the
wharf. "He won't look up."
Madame Lebrun flew to the window.
She called "Victor!" She waved a handkerchief and called again.
The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop.
Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance.
Victor was the younger son and brother--a tete montee, with a temper which invited
violence and a will which no ax could break.
"Whenever you say the word I'm ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that
he's able to hold." "If your father had only lived!"
Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang!
It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the universe and all
things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher
order had not Monsieur Lebrun been removed
to other spheres during the early years of their married life.
"What do you hear from Montel?"
Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past
twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun's taking off had left
in the Lebrun household.
Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! "I have a letter somewhere," looking in the
machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket.
"He says to tell you he will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month,"--
clatter, clatter!--"and if you still have the intention of joining him"--bang!
clatter, clatter, bang!
"Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted--" Clatter, clatter,
clatter! "Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back
with the children?
She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon
till the last minute." Clatter, clatter!
"Where are you going?"
"Where did you say the Goncourt was?"
Chapter IX
Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it could be without
smoking the chimney or threatening explosion.
The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room.
Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful
festoons between.
The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin
curtains which draped the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the
capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.
It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert
and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach.
An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday;
and they were being suitably entertained by their families, with the material help of
Madame Lebrun.
The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged
about in rows and in clusters.
Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier
in the evening.
There was now an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences
and give a more general tone to the conversation.
Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual bedtime.
A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the
colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down.
The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so, and making their authority
felt.
Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished, or
rather, offered.
But there was nothing systematic about the programme, no appearance of prearrangement
nor even premeditation.
At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to play the
piano.
They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin's colors, blue and white, having
been dedicated to the Blessed Virgin at their baptism.
They played a duet from "Zampa," and at the earnest solicitation of every one present
followed it with the overture to "The Poet and the Peasant."
"Allez vous-en!
Sapristi!" shrieked the parrot outside the door.
He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not
listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer.
Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the
interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of
darkness.
Victor Lebrun objected; and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate.
The parrot fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the
whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the
twins in that one impetuous outburst.
Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had
heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city.
A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor.
The mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her daughter with
greedy admiration and nervous apprehension.
She need have had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation.
She had been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk
tights.
Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially crimped, stood out like
fluffy black plumes over her head.
Her poses were full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they
shot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering.
But there was no reason why every one should not dance.
Madame Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the others.
She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing an expression into
the strains which was indeed inspiring.
She was keeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she and her
husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and making it
attractive.
Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to separate during the
brief period when one or the other should be whirling around the room in the arms of
a man.
They might have danced together, but they did not think of it.
The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with shrieks
and protests as they were dragged away.
They had been permitted to sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked
the limit of human indulgence.
The ice-cream was passed around with cake-- gold and silver cake arranged on platters
in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during the afternoon back of the
kitchen by two black women, under the supervision of Victor.
It was pronounced a great success-- excellent if it had only contained a little
less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been frozen a degree harder, and if the
salt might have been kept out of portions of it.
Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about recommending it and urging every
one to partake of it to excess.
After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with Robert, and once
with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and swayed like a reed in the wind
when he danced, she went out on the gallery
and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded a view of all that went
on in the hall and could look out toward the Gulf.
There was a soft effulgence in the east.
The moon was coming up, and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across
the distant, restless water.
"Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?" asked Robert, coming out on the
porch where she was.
Of course Edna would like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it
would be useless to entreat her. "I'll ask her," he said.
"I'll tell her that you want to hear her.
She likes you. She will come."
He turned and hurried away to one of the far cottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was
shuffling away.
She was dragging a chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the
crying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was endeavoring to put to
sleep.
She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who had quarreled with almost
every one, owing to a temper which was self-assertive and a disposition to trample
upon the rights of others.
Robert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty.
She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance.
She made an awkward, imperious little bow as she went in.
She was a homely woman, with a small weazened face and body and eyes that
glowed.
She had absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with a
bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.
"Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play," she requested of Robert.
She sat perfectly still before the piano, not touching the keys, while Robert carried
her message to Edna at the window.
A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one as they
saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and a prevailing
air of expectancy everywhere.
Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thus signaled out for the imperious little
woman's favor.
She would not dare to choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz would please
herself in her selections. Edna was what she herself called very fond
of music.
Musical strains, well rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind.
She sometimes liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or
practiced.
One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled "Solitude."
It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the piece was something else,
but she called it "Solitude."
When she heard it there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing
beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked.
His attitude was one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant
bird winging its flight away from him.
Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire gown, taking
mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue between tall hedges.
Again, another reminded her of children at play, and still another of nothing on earth
but a demure lady stroking a cat.
The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano sent a keen
tremor down Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column.
It was not the first time she had heard an artist at the piano.
Perhaps it was the first time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was
tempered to take an impress of the abiding truth.
She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and blaze before
her imagination. She waited in vain.
She saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair.
But the very passions themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it,
lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon her splendid body.
She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her.
Mademoiselle had finished.
She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow, she went away, stopping for neither, thanks
nor applause. As she passed along the gallery she patted
Edna upon the shoulder.
"Well, how did you like my music?" she asked.
The young woman was unable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist
convulsively.
Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears.
She patted her again upon the shoulder as she said:
"You are the only one worth playing for.
Those others? Bah!" and she went shuffling and sidling on
down the gallery toward her room. But she was mistaken about "those others."
Her playing had aroused a fever of enthusiasm.
"What passion!" "What an artist!"
"I have always said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!"
"That last prelude! Bon Dieu!
It shakes a man!"
It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband.
But some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour and
under that mystic moon.
Chapter X
At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice.
There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way.
He did not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered
behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and hold themselves
apart.
He walked between them, whether with malicious or mischievous intent was not
wholly clear, even to himself.
The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon the arms of
their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them,
and could sometimes hear what he said.
She wondered why he did not join them. It was unlike him not to.
Of late he had sometimes held away from her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion
upon the next and the next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost.
She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as
one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it
was shining.
The people walked in little groups toward the beach.
They talked and laughed; some of them sang.
There was a band playing down at Klein's hotel, and the strains reached them
faintly, tempered by the distance.
There were strange, rare odors abroad--a tangle of the sea smell and of weeds and
damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms
somewhere near.
But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land.
There was no weight of darkness; there were no shadows.
The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness
of sleep. Most of them walked into the water as
though into a native element.
The sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into one
another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy crests that coiled
back like slow, white serpents.
Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim.
She had received instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the
children.
Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he was nearly at the
point of discouragement in realizing the futility of his efforts.
A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was a hand
near by that might reach out and reassure her.
But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child, who
of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with
over-confidence.
She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping
stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water.
A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been
given her to control the working of her body and her soul.
She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength.
She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.
Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and
admiration.
Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this
desired end. "How easy it is!" she thought.
"It is nothing," she said aloud; "why did I not discover before that it was nothing.
Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby!"
She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her
newly conquered power, she swam out alone.
She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the
vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the moonlit sky, conveyed to her
excited fancy.
As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.
Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left
there.
She had not gone any great distance--that is, what would have been a great distance
for an experienced swimmer.
But to her unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a
barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome.
A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled
her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering
faculties and managed to regain the land.
She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to
say to her husband, "I thought I should have perished out there alone."
"You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you," he told her.
Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes and was
ready to return home before the others had left the water.
She started to walk away alone.
They all called to her and shouted to her. She waved a dissenting hand, and went on,
paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain her.
"Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious," said Madame
Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna's abrupt departure
might put an end to the pleasure.
"I know she is," assented Mr. Pontellier; "sometimes, not often."
Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was
overtaken by Robert.
"Did you think I was afraid?" she asked him, without a shade of annoyance.
"No; I knew you weren't afraid." "Then why did you come?
Why didn't you stay out there with the others?"
"I never thought of it." "Thought of what?"
"Of anything.
What difference does it make?" "I'm very tired," she uttered,
complainingly. "I know you are."
"You don't know anything about it.
Why should you know? I never was so exhausted in my life.
But it isn't unpleasant. A thousand emotions have swept through me
to-night.
I don't comprehend half of them. Don't mind what I'm saying; I am just
thinking aloud.
I wonder if I shall ever be stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz's playing moved me
to-night. I wonder if any night on earth will ever
again be like this one.
It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny,
half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night."
"There are," whispered Robert, "Didn't you know this was the twenty-eighth of August?"
"The twenty-eighth of August?"
"Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is
shining--the moon must be shining--a spirit that has haunted these shores for ages
rises up from the Gulf.
With its own penetrating vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him
company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the semi-celestials.
His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he has sunk back,
disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs. Pontellier.
Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell.
Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of
her divine presence."
"Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy.
He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a
reproach.
He could not explain; he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and
understood.
He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was
exhausted.
She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts
trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon
it.
She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere--somewhere in
advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them.
Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to
the trunk of a tree. "Will you stay out here and wait for Mr.
Pontellier?" he asked.
"I'll stay out here. Good-night."
"Shall I get you a pillow?" "There's one here," she said, feeling
about, for they were in the shadow.
"It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about."
"No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she
adjusted it beneath her head.
She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief.
She was not a supercilious or an over- dainty woman.
She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no
cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to
invade her whole body.
"Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?" asked Robert, seating himself on
the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was
fastened to the post.
"If you wish. Don't swing the hammock.
Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window-sill over at the house?"
"Are you chilly?"
"No; but I shall be presently." "Presently?" he laughed.
"Do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here?"
"I don't know.
Will you get the shawl?" "Of course I will," he said, rising.
He went over to the house, walking along the grass.
She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight.
It was past midnight. It was very quiet.
When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand.
She did not put it around her. "Did you say I should stay till Mr.
Pontellier came back?"
"I said you might if you wished to." He seated himself again and rolled a
cigarette, which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak.
No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence,
or more pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire.
When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good-night.
She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep.
Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked
away.
>
PART 3: Chapter XI
"What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed," said
her husband, when he discovered her lying there.
He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house.
His wife did not reply. "Are you asleep?" he asked, bending down
close to look at her.
"No." Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with
no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his. "Do you know it is past one o'clock?
Come on," and he mounted the steps and went into their room.
"Edna!" called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by.
"Don't wait for me," she answered.
He thrust his head through the door. "You will take cold out there," he said,
irritably. "What folly is this?
Why don't you come in?"
"It isn't cold; I have my shawl." "The mosquitoes will devour you."
"There are no mosquitoes." She heard him moving about the room; every
sound indicating impatience and irritation.
Another time she would have gone in at his request.
She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of
submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move,
sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill
of the life which has been portioned out to us.
"Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?" he asked again, this time fondly, with a
note of entreaty.
"No; I am going to stay out here." "This is more than folly," he blurted out.
"I can't permit you to stay out there all night.
You must come in the house instantly."
With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock.
She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant.
She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted.
She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and if she had
submitted to his command.
Of course she had; she remembered that she had.
But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, feeling as she then
did.
"Leonce, go to bed," she said, "I mean to stay out here.
I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to.
Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you."
Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment.
He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet
of his own.
He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his
wife. She did not wish any.
He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded
to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside
and drank another glass of wine.
Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her.
Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable
interval of time smoked some more cigars.
Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious,
grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul.
The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the exuberance which had
sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions
which crowded her in.
The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems
to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from
silver to copper in the sleeping sky.
The old owl no longer hooted, and the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent
their heads. Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and
still in the hammock.
She tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into the house.
"Are you coming in, Leonce?" she asked, turning her face toward her husband.
"Yes, dear," he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke.
"Just as soon as I have finished my cigar."
Chapter XII
She slept but a few hours.
They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed with dreams that were intangible,
that eluded her, leaving only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something
unattainable.
She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning.
The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties.
However, she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or
from within.
She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in
alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of responsibility.
Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep.
A few, who intended to go over to the Cheniere for mass, were moving about.
The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling toward
the wharf.
The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer- book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her
Sunday silver beads, was following them at no great distance.
Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more than half inclined to do anything that
suggested itself.
He put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall,
followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.
The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewing-machine was sweeping the
galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom.
Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.
"Tell him I am going to the Cheniere. The boat is ready; tell him to hurry."
He had soon joined her.
She had never sent for him before. She had never asked for him.
She had never seemed to want him before.
She did not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding his
presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of
anything extraordinary in the situation.
But his face was suffused with a quiet glow when he met her.
They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee.
There was no time to wait for any nicety of service.
They stood outside the window and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which
they drank and ate from the window-sill.
Edna said it tasted good. She had not thought of coffee nor of
anything. He told her he had often noticed that she
lacked forethought.
"Wasn't it enough to think of going to the Cheniere and waking you up?" she laughed.
"Do I have to think of everything?--as Leonce says when he's in a bad humor.
I don't blame him; he'd never be in a bad humor if it weren't for me."
They took a short cut across the sands.
At a distance they could see the curious procession moving toward the wharf--the
lovers, shoulder to shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them;
old Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by
inch, and a young barefooted Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a
basket on her arm, bringing up the rear. Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her
a little in the boat.
No one present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita.
She had a round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes.
Her hands were small, and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket.
Her feet were broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them.
Edna looked at her feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.
Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much room.
In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who considered himself
the better sailor of the two.
But he would not quarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with
Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment,
appealing to Robert.
She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making "eyes" at Robert and
making "mouths" at Beaudelet. The lovers were all alone.
They saw nothing, they heard nothing.
The lady in black was counting her beads for the third time.
Old Monsieur Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of
what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject.
Edna liked it all.
She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly brown toes to her pretty black eyes,
and back again. "Why does she look at me like that?"
inquired the girl of Robert.
"Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?"
"No. Is she your sweetheart?" "She's a married lady, and has two
children."
"Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano's wife, who
had four children. They took all his money and one of the
children and stole his boat."
"Shut up!" "Does she understand?"
"Oh, hush!" "Are those two married over there--leaning
on each other?"
"Of course not," laughed Robert. "Of course not," echoed Mariequita, with a
serious, confirmatory bob of the head. The sun was high up and beginning to bite.
The swift breeze seemed to Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and
hands. Robert held his umbrella over her.
As they went cutting sidewise through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the
wind filling and overflowing them.
Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at the sails, and
Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath.
Sailing across the bay to the Cheniere Caminada, Edna felt as if she were being
borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, whose chains had been
loosening--had snapped the night before
when the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she chose
to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no
longer noticed Mariequita.
The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were covered with Spanish moss.
She beat the moss down impatiently, and muttered to herself sullenly.
"Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?" said Robert in a low voice.
"What shall we do there?"
"Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold snakes, and
watch the lizards sun themselves."
She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be alone there
with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean's roar and watching the slimy lizards
writhe in and out among the ruins of the old fort.
"And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow," he went on.
"What shall we do there?"
"Anything--cast bait for fish." "No; we'll go back to Grande Terre.
Let the fish alone." "We'll go wherever you like," he said.
"I'll have Tonie come over and help me patch and trim my boat.
We shall not need Beaudelet nor any one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?"
"Oh, no."
"Then I'll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines.
Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the treasures are
hidden--direct you to the very spot, perhaps."
"And in a day we should be rich!" she laughed.
"I'd give it all to you, the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up.
I think you would know how to spend it.
Pirate gold isn't a thing to be hoarded or utilized.
It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of seeing the
golden specks fly."
"We'd share it, and scatter it together," he said.
His face flushed.
They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our Lady of
Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun's glare.
Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita walked away
with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill humor and reproach at
Robert from the corner of her eye.
Chapter XIII
A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service.
Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her eyes.
Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure; but her one
thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church and reach the open air.
She arose, climbing over Robert's feet with a muttered apology.
Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had
followed Mrs. Pontellier, he sank back into his seat.
He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in black, who did not notice him or reply,
but kept her eyes fastened upon the pages of her velvet prayer-book.
"I felt giddy and almost overcome," Edna said, lifting her hands instinctively to
her head and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead.
"I couldn't have stayed through the service."
They were outside in the shadow of the church.
Robert was full of solicitude.
"It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone staying.
Come over to Madame Antoine's; you can rest there."
He took her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into her
face.
How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the reeds that
grew in the salt-water pools!
The long line of little gray, weather- beaten houses nestled peacefully among the
orange trees. It must always have been God's day on that
low, drowsy island, Edna thought.
They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask for water.
A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from the cistern, which was nothing
more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in the ground.
The water which the youth handed to them in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it
was cool to her heated face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her.
Madame Antoine's cot was at the far end of the village.
She welcomed them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her
door to let the sunlight in.
She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily across the floor.
She could speak no English, but when Robert made her understand that the lady who
accompanied him was ill and desired to rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna
feel at home and to dispose of her comfortably.
The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed, snow-white,
invited one to repose.
It stood in a small side room which looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the
shed, where there was a disabled boat lying keel upward.
Madame Antoine had not gone to mass.
Her son Tonie had, but she supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert
to be seated and wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and
smoked.
Madame Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner.
She was boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.
Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing the greater
part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and arms in
the basin that stood between the windows.
She took off her shoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the
high, white bed.
How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweet country
odor of laurel lingering about the sheets and mattress!
She stretched her strong limbs that ached a little.
She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while.
She looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them one after
the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw for the first time, the
fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh.
She clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep.
She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the things about her.
She could hear Madame Antoine's heavy, scraping tread as she walked back and forth
on the sanded floor.
Some chickens were clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in
the grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert
and Tonie talking under the shed.
She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily
over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on--Tonie's slow, Acadian
drawl, Robert's quick, soft, smooth French.
She understood French imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were
only part of the other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses.
When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and soundly.
The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine's step was no longer to be
heard in the adjoining room.
Even the chickens had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck.
The mosquito bar was drawn over her; the old woman had come in while she slept and
let down the bar.
Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the window,
she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced.
Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against the sloping
keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a book.
Tonie was no longer with him.
She wondered what had become of the rest of the party.
She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in the little
basin between the windows.
Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had placed a box
of poudre de riz within easy reach.
Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in
the little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin.
Her eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed.
When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room.
She was very hungry.
No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table
that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf
and a bottle of wine beside the plate.
Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth.
She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down.
Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging
bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up.
An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the
orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she
inquired.
"The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up,
leaving only you and me as past relics.
How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from
Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her
shoulder.
"You have slept precisely one hundred years.
I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under
the shed reading a book.
The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."
"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," said Edna, moving with him into
the house.
"But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?"
"Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they
thought it best not to awake you.
Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?"
"I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table.
"Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among
sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth.
"Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna.
"Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe.
I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go."
He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh.
He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her.
Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert
had foraged the island.
He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which
she ate the food which he had procured for her.
"Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together
the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two
hours," he answered.
"The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!"
They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back,
panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence.
Tonie did not dare to return.
He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother.
It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped
lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold.
The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the
grass.
Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground-- that is, he lay upon the ground beside her,
occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown.
Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door.
She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling
pitch.
And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the
Cheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span.
All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of
the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten
it.
Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold.
When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty
spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water
were phantom ships, speeding to cover.
Chapter XIV
The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she
delivered him into the hands of his mother.
He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken
charge of him and pacified him as well as she could.
Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours.
The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as
Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand.
With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill
humor.
Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and
caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep.
It was not more than nine o'clock.
No one had yet gone to bed but the children.
Leonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to
start at once for the Cheniere.
But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and
fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been
dissuaded from crossing the bay.
He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in
regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame
Ratignolle did not remember what.
He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and
oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large
fan.
She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he
detested above all things to be left alone.
When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and
lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child comfortably in his bed.
The quadroon had vanished.
When they emerged from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.
"Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert--since early
this morning?" she said at parting.
"All but the hundred years when you were sleeping.
Goodnight." He pressed her hand and went away in the
direction of the beach.
He did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.
Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband's return.
She had no desire to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit
with the Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices
reached her as they sat in conversation before the house.
She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover
wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life.
She could only realize that she herself-- her present self--was in some way different
from the other self.
That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions
in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect.
She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her.
It did not occur to her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the
livelong day.
She was not tired, and she felt that he was not.
She regretted that he had gone.
It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not absolutely required to
leave her.
As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert had sung as they
crossed the bay. It began with "Ah! Si tu savais," and every
verse ended with "si tu savais."
Robert's voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true.
The voice, the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory.
Chapter XV
When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her habit, an
unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on.
Several persons were talking at once, and Victor's voice was predominating, even over
that of his mother.
Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was
flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty white gown,
suggested a rich, rare blossom.
She took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle.
As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had been
served when she entered the room, several persons informed her simultaneously that
Robert was going to Mexico.
She laid her spoon down and looked about her bewildered.
He had been with her, reading to her all the morning, and had never even mentioned
such a place as Mexico.
She had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say he was at the
house, upstairs with his mother.
This she had thought nothing of, though she was surprised when he did not join her
later in the afternoon, when she went down to the beach.
She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who presided.
Edna's face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she never thought of
disguising.
He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of a smile as he returned her glance.
He looked embarrassed and uneasy.
"When is he going?" she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert were not there to
answer for himself. "To-night!"
"This very evening!"
"Did you ever!" "What possesses him!" were some of the
replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French and English.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed.
"How can a person start off from Grand Isle to Mexico at a moment's notice, as if he
were going over to Klein's or to the wharf or down to the beach?"
"I said all along I was going to Mexico; I've been saying so for years!" cried
Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of a man defending himself
against a swarm of stinging insects.
Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle.
"Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going to-night," she called
out.
"Really, this table is getting to be more and more like Bedlam every day, with
everybody talking at once.
Sometimes--I hope God will forgive me--but positively, sometimes I wish Victor would
lose the power of speech."
Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, of which he
failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might afford her a more
ample opportunity and license to talk herself.
Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in mid-ocean in his
earliest youth and drowned.
Victor thought there would be more logic in thus disposing of old people with an
established claim for making themselves universally obnoxious.
Madame Lebrun grew a trifle hysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard
names.
"There's nothing much to explain, mother," he said; though he explained, nevertheless-
-looking chiefly at Edna--that he could only meet the gentleman whom he intended to
join at Vera Cruz by taking such and such a
steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet was going out with his
lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave him an opportunity of reaching the
city and making his vessel in time.
"But when did you make up your mind to all this?" demanded Monsieur Farival.
"This afternoon," returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance.
"At what time this afternoon?" persisted the old gentleman, with nagging
determination, as if he were cross- questioning a criminal in a court of
justice.
"At four o'clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival," Robert replied, in a high voice
and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some gentleman on the stage.
She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking the flaky
bits of a court bouillon with her fork.
The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to speak in whispers
of matters which they rightly considered were interesting to no one but themselves.
The lady in black had once received a pair of prayer-beads of curious workmanship from
Mexico, with very special indulgence attached to them, but she had never been
able to ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border.
Father Fochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but he had not
done so to her satisfaction.
And she begged that Robert would interest himself, and discover, if possible, whether
she was entitled to the indulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican
prayer-beads.
Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in dealing with
the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous people, unscrupulous and
revengeful.
She trusted she did them no injustice in thus condemning them as a race.
She had known personally but one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and
whom she would have trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he.
One day he was arrested for stabbing his wife.
She never knew whether he had been hanged or not.
Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote about a
Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in Dauphine Street.
No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival, who went into convulsions over the
droll story. Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to
be talking and clamoring at that rate.
She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or the Mexicans.
"At what time do you leave?" she asked Robert.
"At ten," he told her.
"Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon." "Are you all ready to go?"
"Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall
pack my trunk in the city."
He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna, having
finished her black coffee, left the table. She went directly to her room.
The little cottage was close and stuffy after leaving the outer air.
But she did not mind; there appeared to be a hundred different things demanding her
attention indoors.
She began to set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the
quadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed.
She gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of chairs, and
put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer.
She changed her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper.
She rearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy.
Then she went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed.
They were very playful and inclined to talk--to do anything but lie quiet and go
to sleep.
Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and told her she need not return.
Then she sat and told the children a story. Instead of soothing it excited them, and
added to their wakefulness.
She left them in heated argument, speculating about the conclusion of the
tale which their mother promised to finish the following night.
The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to have Mrs.
Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr. Robert went away.
Edna returned answer that she had already undressed, that she did not feel quite
well, but perhaps she would go over to the house later.
She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to remove her peignoir.
But changing her mind once more she resumed the peignoir, and went outside and sat down
before her door.
She was overheated and irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while.
Madame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter.
"All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me," replied Edna, "and
moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert starting off in such a
ridiculously sudden and dramatic way!
As if it were a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all morning
when he was with me." "Yes," agreed Madame Ratignolle.
"I think it was showing us all--you especially--very little consideration.
It wouldn't have surprised me in any of the others; those Lebruns are all given to
heroics.
But I must say I should never have expected such a thing from Robert.
Are you not coming down? Come on, dear; it doesn't look friendly."
"No," said Edna, a little sullenly.
"I can't go to the trouble of dressing again; I don't feel like it."
"You needn't dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your waist.
Just look at me!"
"No," persisted Edna; "but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended if we both
stayed away."
Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truth rather
desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation which was still in
progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans.
Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag.
"Aren't you feeling well?" he asked.
"Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?"
He lit a match and looked at his watch. "In twenty minutes," he said.
The sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a while.
He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the porch.
"Get a chair," said Edna.
"This will do," he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took
it off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of the heat.
"Take the fan," said Edna, offering it to him.
"Oh, no! Thank you.
It does no good; you have to stop fanning some time, and feel all the more
uncomfortable afterward." "That's one of the ridiculous things which
men always say.
I have never known one to speak otherwise of fanning.
How long will you be gone?" "Forever, perhaps.
I don't know.
It depends upon a good many things." "Well, in case it shouldn't be forever, how
long will it be?" "I don't know."
"This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for.
I don't like it.
I don't understand your motive for silence and mystery, never saying a word to me
about it this morning." He remained silent, not offering to defend
himself.
He only said, after a moment: "Don't part from me in any ill humor.
I never knew you to be out of patience with me before."
"I don't want to part in any ill humor," she said.
"But can't you understand?
I've grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all the time, and your action
seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don't even offer an excuse for it.
Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of how pleasant it would be to see
you in the city next winter." "So was I," he blurted.
"Perhaps that's the--" He stood up suddenly and held out his hand.
"Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You won't--I hope you won't completely
forget me."
She clung to his hand, striving to detain him.
"Write to me when you get there, won't you, Robert?" she entreated.
"I will, thank you.
Good-by." How unlike Robert!
The merest acquaintance would have said something more emphatic than "I will, thank
you; good-by," to such a request.
He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house, for he descended
the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out there with an oar across his
shoulder waiting for Robert.
They walked away in the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet's voice;
Robert had apparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion.
Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to hide, even
from herself as she would have hidden from another, the emotion which was troubling--
tearing--her.
Her eyes were brimming with tears. For the first time she recognized the
symptoms of infatuation which she had felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her
earliest teens, and later as a young woman.
The recognition did not lessen the reality, the poignancy of the revelation by any
suggestion or promise of instability. The past was nothing to her; offered no
lesson which she was willing to heed.
The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate.
The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing then
with the biting conviction that she had lost that which she had held, that she had
been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened being demanded.
>
PART 4: Chapter XVI
"Do you miss your friend greatly?" asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning as she came
creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on her way to the beach.
She spent much of her time in the water since she had acquired finally the art of
swimming.
As their stay at Grand Isle drew near its close, she felt that she could not give too
much time to a diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that she
knew.
When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the shoulder and spoke to her, the
woman seemed to echo the thought which was ever in Edna's mind; or, better, the
feeling which constantly possessed her.
Robert's going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaning out of
everything.
The conditions of her life were in no way changed, but her whole existence was
dulled, like a faded garment which seems to be no longer worth wearing.
She sought him everywhere--in others whom she induced to talk about him.
She went up in the mornings to Madame Lebrun's room, braving the clatter of the
old sewing-machine.
She sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done.
She gazed around the room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall, and
discovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined with the keenest
interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for
enlightenment concerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between its
pages.
There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in her lap, a
round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth.
The eyes alone in the baby suggested the man.
And that was he also in kilts, at the age of five, wearing long curls and holding a
whip in his hand.
It made Edna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long trousers;
while another interested her, taken when he left for college, looking thin, long-faced,
with eyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions.
But there was no recent picture, none which suggested the Robert who had gone away five
days ago, leaving a void and wilderness behind him.
"Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for them himself!
He found wiser use for his money, he says," explained Madame Lebrun.
She had a letter from him, written before he left New Orleans.
Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to look for it either on
the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on the mantelpiece.
The letter was on the bookshelf.
It possessed the greatest interest and attraction for Edna; the envelope, its size
and shape, the post-mark, the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside
before opening it.
There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the city that
afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, that he was well, and sent her
his love and begged to be affectionately remembered to all.
There was no special message to Edna except a postscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier
desired to finish the book which he had been reading to her, his mother would find
it in his room, among other books there on the table.
Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to
her.
Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him.
Even her husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert's departure,
expressed regret that he had gone.
"How do you get on without him, Edna?" he asked.
"It's very dull without him," she admitted.
Mr. Pontellier had seen Robert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or
more. Where had they met?
On Carondelet Street, in the morning.
They had gone "in" and had a drink and a cigar together.
What had they talked about?
Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought were
promising. How did he look?
How did he seem--grave, or gay, or how?
Quite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier
found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek fortune and adventure in a
strange, queer country.
Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children persisted in
playing in the sun when they might be under the trees.
She went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not being more
attentive.
It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be making of
Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to speak of him.
The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way resembled that which she
felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever expected to feel.
She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never
voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of struggles.
They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the conviction that she had
a right to them and that they concerned no one but herself.
Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her
children, or for any one.
Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not appear to understand
each other or to be talking the same language.
Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain.
"I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my
children; but I wouldn't give myself.
I can't make it more clear; it's only something which I am beginning to
comprehend, which is revealing itself to me."
"I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the
unessential," said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; "but a woman who would give her
life for her children could do no more than that--your Bible tells you so.
I'm sure I couldn't do more than that." "Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna.
She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning that lady,
following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she did not
greatly miss her young friend.
"Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert.
Are you going down to bathe?"
"Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I haven't been in
the surf all summer," replied the woman, disagreeably.
"I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should have
remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had furnished a
theme for much pleasantry.
Some among them thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting
the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes
believed to accompany the artistic temperament.
Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her
pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling.
She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much
nutriment in small compass, she said.
They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and
no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such
food to people and requiring them to pay for it.
"She must feel very lonely without her son," said Edna, desiring to change the
subject.
"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him
go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously.
"Her favorite son!
Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale
upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for
Victor alone.
She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is.
She worships him and the ground he walks on.
Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family,
and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed!
I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear.
I liked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a
pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city.
I like to play to him.
That Victor! hanging would be too good for him.
It's a wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago."
"I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered Edna, glad to be talking
about Robert, no matter what was said. "Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or
two ago," said Mademoiselle.
"It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort of claim
upon.
He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with her, or bathing with her,
or carrying her basket--I don't remember what;--and he became so insulting and
abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on
the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good while.
It's about time he was getting another." "Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna.
"Mariequita--yes, that was it; Mariequita.
I had forgotten. Oh, she's a sly one, and a bad one, that
Mariequita!"
Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have listened to her
venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost
unhappy.
She had not intended to go into the water; but she donned her bathing suit, and left
Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the children's tent.
The water was growing cooler as the season advanced.
Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated her.
She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not
wait for her. But Mademoiselle waited.
She was very amiable during the walk back, and raved much over Edna's appearance in
her bathing suit. She talked about music.
She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote her address with the
stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found in her pocket.
"When do you leave?" asked Edna.
"Next Monday; and you?" "The following week," answered Edna,
adding, "It has been a pleasant summer, hasn't it, Mademoiselle?"
"Well," agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, "rather pleasant, if it hadn't been
for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins."
Chapter XVII
The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans.
It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose round, fluted
columns supported the sloping roof.
The house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green.
In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every
description which flourishes in South Louisiana.
Within doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type.
The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperies hung at
doors and windows.
There were paintings, selected with judgment and discrimination, upon the
walls.
The cut glass, the silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table were
the envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr. Pontellier.
Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its various
appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss.
He greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and derived genuine
pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a rare lace curtain--no matter
what--after he had bought it and placed it among his household gods.
On Tuesday afternoons--Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's reception day--there was a
constant stream of callers--women who came in carriages or in the street cars, or
walked when the air was soft and distance permitted.
A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a diminutive silver tray for
the reception of cards, admitted them.
A maid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or chocolate, as
they might desire.
Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome reception gown, remained in the drawing-
room the entire afternoon receiving her visitors.
Men sometimes called in the evening with their wives.
This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously followed since
her marriage, six years before.
Certain evenings during the week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes
the play.
Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten o'clock, and
rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the evening--dinner being served
at half-past seven.
He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few weeks after
their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together.
The boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet could be heard
occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the quadroon, lifted in mild protest and
entreaty.
Mrs. Pontellier did not wear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary
house dress.
Mr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he served the
soup and handed it to the boy in waiting. "Tired out, Edna?
Whom did you have?
Many callers?" he asked. He tasted his soup and began to season it
with pepper, salt, vinegar, mustard-- everything within reach.
"There were a good many," replied Edna, who was eating her soup with evident
satisfaction. "I found their cards when I got home; I was
out."
"Out!" exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation in his
voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her through his glasses.
"Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday?
What did you have to do?" "Nothing.
I simply felt like going out, and I went out."
"Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse," said her husband, somewhat
appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.
"No, I left no excuse.
I told Joe to say I was out, that was all."
"Why, my dear, I should think you'd understand by this time that people don't
do such things; we've got to observe les convenances if we ever expect to get on and
keep up with the procession.
If you felt that you had to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some
suitable explanation for your absence.
"This soup is really impossible; it's strange that woman hasn't learned yet to
make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a
better one.
Was Mrs. Belthrop here?" "Bring the tray with the cards, Joe.
I don't remember who was here."
The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver tray,
which was covered with ladies' visiting cards.
He handed it to Mrs. Pontellier.
"Give it to Mr. Pontellier," she said. Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and
removed the soup.
Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife's callers, reading some of them aloud,
with comments as he read. "'The Misses Delasidas.'
I worked a big deal in futures for their father this morning; nice girls; it's time
they were getting married. 'Mrs. Belthrop.'
I tell you what it is, Edna; you can't afford to snub Mrs. Belthrop.
Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over.
His business is worth a good, round sum to me.
You'd better write her a note. 'Mrs. James Highcamp.'
Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs. Highcamp, the better.
'Madame Laforce.' Came all the way from Carrolton, too, poor
old soul.
'Miss Wiggs,' 'Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.'" He pushed the cards aside.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming.
"Why are you taking the thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?"
"I'm not making any fuss over it.
But it's just such seeming trifles that we've got to take seriously; such things
count." The fish was scorched.
Mr. Pontellier would not touch it.
Edna said she did not mind a little scorched taste.
The roast was in some way not to his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the
vegetables were served.
"It seems to me," he said, "we spend money enough in this house to procure at least
one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his self-respect."
"You used to think the cook was a treasure," returned Edna, indifferently.
"Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human.
They need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ.
Suppose I didn't look after the clerks in my office, just let them run things their
own way; they'd soon make a nice mess of me and my business."
"Where are you going?" asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from table without
having eaten a morsel except a taste of the highly-seasoned soup.
"I'm going to get my dinner at the club.
Good night." He went into the hall, took his hat and
stick from the stand, and left the house. She was somewhat familiar with such scenes.
They had often made her very unhappy.
On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived of any desire to finish
her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the kitchen to
administer a tardy rebuke to the cook.
Once she went to her room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally
writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, after
all, she had accomplished no good that was worth the name.
But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced deliberation.
Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward fire that lighted them.
After finishing her dinner she went to her room, having instructed the boy to tell any
other callers that she was indisposed.
It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which
the maid had turned low.
She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the
garden below.
All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the
perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage.
She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet, half-darkness which met
her moods.
But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above
and the stars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes
without promise, devoid even of hope.
She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro down its whole length,
without stopping, without resting.
She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons,
rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her
wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet.
When she saw it lying there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it.
But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little
glittering circlet.
In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung it upon the
tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something.
The crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.
A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to discover what
was the matter.
"A vase fell upon the hearth," said Edna. "Never mind; leave it till morning."
"Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma'am," insisted the young
woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered upon the carpet.
"And here's your ring, ma'am, under the chair."
Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger.
Chapter XVIII
The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, asked Edna if she
would not meet him in town in order to look at some new fixtures for the library.
"I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce.
Don't let us get anything new; you are too extravagant.
I don't believe you ever think of saving or putting by."
"The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save it," he said.
He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with him and select new fixtures.
He kissed her good-by, and told her she was not looking well and must take care of
herself.
She was unusually pale and very quiet. She stood on the front veranda as he
quitted the house, and absently picked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a
trellis near by.
She inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her white
morning gown.
The boys were dragging along the banquette a small "express wagon," which they had
filled with blocks and sticks.
The quadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a fictitious
animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was crying his wares in the
street.
Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon her face.
She felt no interest in anything about her.
The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes,
were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic.
She went back into the house.
She had thought of speaking to the cook concerning her blunders of the previous
night; but Mr. Pontellier had saved her that disagreeable mission, for which she
was so poorly fitted.
Mr. Pontellier's arguments were usually convincing with those whom he employed.
He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna would sit down that evening, and
possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinner deserving of the name.
Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches.
She could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her eyes.
She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor.
Finally she gathered together a few of the sketches--those which she considered the
least discreditable; and she carried them with her when, a little later, she dressed
and left the house.
She looked handsome and distinguished in her street gown.
The tan of the seashore had left her face, and her forehead was smooth, white, and
polished beneath her heavy, yellow-brown hair.
There were a few freckles on her face, and a small, dark mole near the under lip and
one on the temple, half-hidden in her hair. As Edna walked along the street she was
thinking of Robert.
She was still under the spell of her infatuation.
She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering.
But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing itself upon her.
It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any
special or peculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which
dominated her thought, fading sometimes as
if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity
which filled her with an incomprehensible longing.
Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle's.
Their intimacy, begun at Grand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other
with some frequency since their return to the city.
The Ratignolles lived at no great distance from Edna's home, on the corner of a side
street, where Monsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a
steady and prosperous trade.
His father had been in the business before him, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in
the community and bore an enviable reputation for integrity and
clearheadedness.
His family lived in commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the
side within the porte cochere.
There was something which Edna thought very French, very foreign, about their whole
manner of living.
In the large and pleasant salon which extended across the width of the house, the
Ratignolles entertained their friends once a fortnight with a soiree musicale,
sometimes diversified by card-playing.
There was a friend who played upon the 'cello.
One brought his flute and another his violin, while there were some who sang and
a number who performed upon the piano with various degrees of taste and agility.
The Ratignolles' soirees musicales were widely known, and it was considered a
privilege to be invited to them.
Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had returned that morning
from the laundry.
She at once abandoned her occupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without
ceremony into her presence.
"'Cite can do it as well as I; it is really her business," she explained to Edna, who
apologized for interrupting her.
And she summoned a young black woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be very
careful in checking off the list which she handed her.
She told her to notice particularly if a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur
Ratignolle's, which was missing last week, had been returned; and to be sure to set to
one side such pieces as required mending and darning.
Then placing an arm around Edna's waist, she led her to the front of the house, to
the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of great roses that stood upon the
hearth in jars.
Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a neglige which
left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich, melting curves of her
white throat.
"Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day," said Edna with a smile
when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches and
started to unfold them.
"I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if I wanted to be doing
something. What do you think of them?
Do you think it worth while to take it up again and study some more?
I might study for a while with Laidpore."
She knew that Madame Ratignolle's opinion in such a matter would be next to
valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but determined; but she sought the
words of praise and encouragement that
would help her to put heart into her venture.
"Your talent is immense, dear!" "Nonsense!" protested Edna, well pleased.
"Immense, I tell you," persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the sketches one by
one, at close range, then holding them at arm's length, narrowing her eyes, and
dropping her head on one side.
"Surely, this Bavarian peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never
have I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to reach out a
hand and take one."
Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at her friend's
praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth.
She retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame Ratignolle, who
appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly exhibited the pictures to her
husband when he came up from the store a little later for his midday dinner.
Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the earth.
His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his goodness of heart, his broad
charity, and common sense.
He and his wife spoke English with an accent which was only discernible through
its un-English emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation.
Edna's husband spoke English with no accent whatever.
The Ratignolles understood each other perfectly.
If ever the fusion of two human beings into one has been accomplished on this sphere it
was surely in their union.
As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, "Better a dinner of herbs,"
though it did not take her long to discover that it was no dinner of herbs, but a
delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every way satisfying.
Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her looking not so
well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic.
He talked a good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and
neighborhood gossip.
He spoke with an animation and earnestness that gave an exaggerated importance to
every syllable he uttered.
His wife was keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork
the better to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth.
Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them.
The little glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no
regret, no longing.
It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and she could see in it but an
appalling and hopeless ennui.
She was moved by a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,--a pity for that
colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind
contentment, in which no moment of anguish
ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium.
Edna vaguely wondered what she meant by "life's delirium."
It had crossed her thought like some unsought, extraneous impression.
Chapter XIX
Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to have
stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon the tiles.
She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such futile expedients.
She began to do as she liked and to feel as she liked.
She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not return the visits of
those who had called upon her.
She made no ineffectual efforts to conduct her household en bonne menagere, going and
coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending herself to any
passing caprice.
Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a certain tacit
submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected line of conduct
completely bewildered him.
It shocked him. Then her absolute disregard for her duties
as a wife angered him. When Mr. Pontellier became rude, Edna grew
insolent.
She had resolved never to take another step backward.
"It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household, and the
mother of children, to spend in an atelier days which would be better employed
contriving for the comfort of her family."
"I feel like painting," answered Edna. "Perhaps I shan't always feel like it."
"Then in God's name paint! but don't let the family go to the devil.
There's Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn't let
everything else go to chaos. And she's more of a musician than you are a
painter."
"She isn't a musician, and I'm not a painter.
It isn't on account of painting that I let things go."
"On account of what, then?"
"Oh! I don't know. Let me alone; you bother me."
It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a
little unbalanced mentally.
He could see plainly that she was not herself.
That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside
that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the
world.
Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office.
Edna went up to her atelier--a bright room in the top of the house.
She was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishing anything,
however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree.
For a time she had the whole household enrolled in the service of art.
The boys posed for her.
They thought it amusing at first, but the occupation soon lost its attractiveness
when they discovered that it was not a game arranged especially for their
entertainment.
The quadroon sat for hours before Edna's palette, patient as a savage, while the
house-maid took charge of the children, and the drawing-room went undusted.
But the housemaid, too, served her term as model when Edna perceived that the young
woman's back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened
from its confining cap, became an inspiration.
While Edna worked she sometimes sang low the little air, "Ah! si tu savais!"
It moved her with recollections.
She could hear again the ripple of the water, the flapping sail.
She could see the glint of the moon upon the bay, and could feel the soft, gusty
beating of the hot south wind.
A subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold upon the
brushes and making her eyes burn. There were days when she was very happy
without knowing why.
She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with
the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern
day.
She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places.
She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in.
And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested.
There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,--when it did not seem
worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her
like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity
like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation.
She could not work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her
blood.
Chapter XX
It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz.
She had not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by
their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see her--above all, to
listen while she played upon the piano.
Quite early in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist.
Unfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz's card, and looking up
her address in the city directory, she found that the woman lived on Bienville
Street, some distance away.
The directory which fell into her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon
reaching the number indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a
respectable family of mulattoes who had chambres garnies to let.
They had been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of a
Mademoiselle Reisz.
In fact, they knew nothing of any of their neighbors; their lodgers were all people of
the highest distinction, they assured Edna.
She did not linger to discuss class distinctions with Madame Pouponne, but
hastened to a neighboring grocery store, feeling sure that Mademoiselle would have
left her address with the proprietor.
He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know her, he
informed his questioner.
In truth, he did not want to know her at all, or anything concerning her--the most
disagreeable and unpopular woman who ever lived in Bienville Street.
He thanked heaven she had left the neighborhood, and was equally thankful that
he did not know where she had gone.
Edna's desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since these unlooked-for
obstacles had arisen to thwart it.
She was wondering who could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly
occurred to her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do so.
She knew it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the most distant
terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing concerning her.
She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing herself upon the subject as the
corner grocer.
Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the middle of
November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived,
on Chartres Street.
Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before the door and
lower windows.
The iron bars were a relic of the old regime, and no one had ever thought of
dislodging them. At the side was a high fence enclosing the
garden.
A gate or door opening upon the street was locked.
Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and stood upon the banquette, waiting
to be admitted.
It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her hands upon her
apron, was close at his heels.
Before she saw them Edna could hear them in altercation, the woman--plainly an anomaly-
-claiming the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to
answer the bell.
Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made no attempt to
conceal either his astonishment or his delight.
He was a dark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling
his mother, but with ten times her impetuosity.
He instructed the black woman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs.
Pontellier desired to see her.
The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty when she had not been permitted to
do it all, and started back to her interrupted task of weeding the garden.
Whereupon Victor administered a rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing
to its rapidity and incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna.
Whatever it was, the rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went
mumbling into the house. Edna did not wish to enter.
It was very pleasant there on the side porch, where there were chairs, a wicker
lounge, and a small table.
She seated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to rock
gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol.
Victor drew up his chair beside her.
He at once explained that the black woman's offensive conduct was all due to imperfect
training, as he was not there to take her in hand.
He had only come up from the island the morning before, and expected to return next
day.
He stayed all winter at the island; he lived there, and kept the place in order
and got things ready for the summer visitors.
But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, and every now and
again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the city.
My! but he had had a time of it the evening before!
He wouldn't want his mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper.
He was scintillant with recollections.
Of course, he couldn't think of telling Mrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a
woman and not comprehending such things.
But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him through the shutters as he
passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty!
Certainly he smiled back, and went up and talked to her.
Mrs. Pontellier did not know him if she supposed he was one to let an opportunity
like that escape him.
Despite herself, the youngster amused her. She must have betrayed in her look some
degree of interest or entertainment.
The boy grew more daring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have found herself, in a
little while, listening to a highly colored story but for the timely appearance of
Madame Lebrun.
That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the summer.
Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier go inside?
Would she partake of some refreshment?
Why had she not been there before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how
were those sweet children? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm
November?
Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother's chair, where he
commanded a view of Edna's face.
He had taken her parasol from her hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it
and twirled it above him as he lay on his back.
When Madame Lebrun complained that it was so dull coming back to the city; that she
saw so few people now; that even Victor, when he came up from the island for a day
or two, had so much to occupy him and
engage his time; then it was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge and
winked mischievously at Edna.
She somehow felt like a confederate in crime, and tried to look severe and
disapproving. There had been but two letters from Robert,
with little in them, they told her.
Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for the letters, when his
mother entreated him to go in search of them.
He remembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when put to the
test. One letter was written from Vera Cruz and
the other from the City of Mexico.
He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his advancement.
So far, the financial situation was no improvement over the one he had left in New
Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastly better.
He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the people and their habits, the
conditions of life which he found there. He sent his love to the family.
He inclosed a check to his mother, and hoped she would affectionately remember him
to all his friends. That was about the substance of the two
letters.
Edna felt that if there had been a message for her, she would have received it.
The despondent frame of mind in which she had left home began again to overtake her,
and she remembered that she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz.
Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived.
She gave Edna the address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the
remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some other day.
The afternoon was already well advanced.
Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held it over her
while he walked to the car with her.
He entreated her to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly
confidential.
She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she should have
been dignified and reserved. "How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!" said
Madame Lebrun to her son.
"Ravishing!" he admitted. "The city atmosphere has improved her.
Some way she doesn't seem like the same woman."
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