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diff --git a/160-h/160-h.htm b/160-h/160-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fa08ca3 --- /dev/null +++ b/160-h/160-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10474 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>he Project Gutenberg eBook of The Awakening and Selected Short Stories, by Kate Chopin</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Awakening and Selected Short Stories, by Kate Chopin</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Awakening and Selected Short Stories</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Kate Chopin</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August, 1994 [eBook #160]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 28, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Judith Boss and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES ***</div> + +<h1>The Awakening<br />and Selected Short Stories</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Kate Chopin</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h3>Contents</h3> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"><b>THE AWAKENING</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">XII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015">XIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0016">XV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0017">XVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0018">XVII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0019">XVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0020">XIX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0021">XX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0022">XXI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0023">XXII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0024">XXIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0025">XXIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0026">XXV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0027">XXVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0028">XXVII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0029">XXVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0030">XXIX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0031">XXX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0032">XXXI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0033">XXXII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0034">XXXIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0035">XXXIV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0036">XXXV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0037">XXXVI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0038">XXXVII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0039">XXXVIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0040">XXXIX</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0041"><b>BEYOND THE BAYOU</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0042"><b>MA’AME PÉLAGIE</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0043">I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0044">II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0045">III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0046">IV</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0047"><b>DÉSIRÉE’S BABY</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0048"><b>A RESPECTABLE WOMAN</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0049"><b>THE KISS</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0050"><b>A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0051"><b>THE LOCKET</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0052">I</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0053">II</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0054"><b>A REFLECTION</b></a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a>THE AWAKENING</h2> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a>I</h3> + +<p> +A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept +repeating over and over: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi!</i> That’s all +right!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose +with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. +</p> + +<p> +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 mocking-bird 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 lady in black was walking demurely +up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the <i>pension</i> had +gone over to the <i>Chênière Caminada</i> in Beaudelet’s lugger to hear +mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,” +instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a>II</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Chênière;</i> about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the +Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to “The Poet and the +Peasant.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +“<i>Quartier Français</i>,” it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain +the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father’s Mississippi plantation and her +girlhood home in the old Kentucky blue-grass 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. +</p> + +<p> +When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the +early dinner. +</p> + +<p> +“I see Léonce 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a>III</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, +and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her <i>peignoir</i>. Blowing out the +candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a +pair of satin <i>mules</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes that the damp sleeve of +her <i>peignoir</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might +have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!” she +exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! we’ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,” he +laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by. +</p> + +<p> +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 good-by to him. +His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the +old rockaway down the sandy road. +</p> + +<p> +A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was +from her husband. It was filled with <i>friandises</i>, with luscious and +toothsome bits—the finest of fruits, <i>patés</i>, a rare bottle or two, +delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>patés</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a>IV</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Adèle 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>accouchements</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +A book had gone the rounds of the <i>pension</i>. 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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a>V</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>camaraderie</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look +upon a faultless Madonna. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Par exemple!</i> I never had to ask. You were always there under my +feet, like a troublesome cat.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on +the scene, then it <i>was</i> like a dog. ‘<i>Passez! Adieu! Allez +vous-en!</i>’” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,” she interjoined, with +excessive naïveté. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Blagueur—farceur—gros bête, va!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Mais ce n’est pas mal! Elle s’y connait, elle a de la +force, oui.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going bathing?” asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was +not so much a question as a reminder. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come!” he insisted. “You mustn’t miss your bath. +Come on. The water must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a>VI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light which, +showing the way, forbids it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, +enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a>VII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Adèle +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Adèle begged to be allowed to slip into the depths of +her pocket. In some unaccountable way they had escaped from Robert. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 bath-house. Two young lovers were +exchanging their hearts’ yearnings beneath the children’s tent, +which they had found unoccupied. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Of whom—of what are you thinking?” asked Adèle 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the +grass?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have you been running away from prayers ever since, <i>ma +chère?</i>” asked Madame Ratignolle, amused. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Pauvre chérie</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Her marriage to Léonce 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went over to +join them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a>VIII</h3> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Granted; as many as you like,” he returned, glancing down into her +eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation. +</p> + +<p> +“I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tiens!</i>” he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. +“<i>Voilà que Madame Ratignolle est jalouse!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! I’m in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” he asked; himself growing serious at his companion’s +solicitation. +</p> + +<p> +“She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the unfortunate +blunder of taking you seriously.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>blagueur</i>. If I thought there was any +doubt—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the gospel. +The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments? +<i>Ma foi!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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 Alcée Arobin and that story of the consul’s +wife at Biloxi?” And he related the story of Alcée 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You made one mistake, Adèle,” 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. <i>Au revoir</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 Sèvres cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bon garçon</i>, and +she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward “the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +The lovers were just entering the grounds of the <i>pension</i>. They were +leaning toward each other as the water-oaks 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Mrs. Pontellier?” +</p> + +<p> +“Down at the beach with the children.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Victor going with the rockaway?” +</p> + +<p> +“The rockaway? Victor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away +somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Call him.” Clatter, clatter! +</p> + +<p> +Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at +the wharf. +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t look up.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the +younger son and brother—a <i>tête montée</i>, with a temper which invited +violence and a will which no ax could break. +</p> + +<p> +“Whenever you say the word I’m ready to thrash any amount of reason +into him that he’s able to hold.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“Why didn’t you tell me so before, mother? You know I +wanted—” Clatter, clatter, clatter! +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you say the Goncourt was?” +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a>IX</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Allez vous-en! Sapristi!</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one present had +heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!” and +she went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a>X</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,” he told +her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I know she is,” assented Mr. Pontellier; “sometimes, not +often.” +</p> + +<p> +Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was +overtaken by Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you think I was afraid?” she asked him, without a shade of +annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I knew you weren’t afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did you come? Why didn’t you stay out there with the +others?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thought of what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of anything. What difference does it make?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very tired,” she uttered, complainingly. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are,” whispered Robert, “Didn’t you know this +was the twenty-eighth of August?” +</p> + +<p> +“The twenty-eighth of August?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door +out to the trunk of a tree. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll stay out here. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I get you a pillow?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one here,” she said, feeling about, for they were in +the shadow. +</p> + +<p> +“It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you chilly?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but I shall be presently.” +</p> + +<p> +“Presently?” he laughed. “Do you know what time it is? How +long are you going to stay out here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. Will you get the shawl?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand. She did +not put it around her. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?” +</p> + +<p> +“I said you might if you wished to.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a>XI</h3> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, +as they looked into his. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know it is past one o’clock? Come on,” and he mounted +the steps and went into their room. +</p> + +<p> +“Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had +gone by. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through +the door. +</p> + +<p> +“You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What +folly is this? Why don’t you come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t cold; I have my shawl.” +</p> + +<p> +“The mosquitoes will devour you.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are no mosquitoes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time +fondly, with a note of entreaty. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I am going to stay out here.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Léonce, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you coming in, Léonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her +husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of +smoke. “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a>XII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, who +intended to go over to the <i>Chênière</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him I am going to the <i>Chênière</i>. The boat is ready; tell him +to hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often noticed +that she lacked forethought. +</p> + +<p> +“Wasn’t it enough to think of going to the <i>Chênière</i> and +waking you up?” she laughed. “Do I have to think of +everything?—as Léonce 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly brown toes +to her pretty black eyes, and back again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why does she look at me like that?” inquired the girl of Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Is she your sweetheart?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a married lady, and has two children.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shut up!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does she understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hush!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are those two married over there—leaning on each other?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” laughed Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory +bob of the head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Sailing across the bay to the <i>Chênière Caminada</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?” said Robert in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we do there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold +snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,” he +went on. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we do there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything—cast bait for fish.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; we’ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’d share it, and scatter it together,” he said. His face +flushed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a>XIII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had placed +a box of <i>poudre de riz</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under +the orange tree. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if Léonce will be uneasy!” she speculated, as she seated +herself at table. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are Madame Antoine and her son?” asked Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we go right away?” she asked, after draining her glass and +brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. +</p> + +<p> +“The sun isn’t as low as it will be in two hours,” he +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“The sun will be gone in two hours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let it go; who cares!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the +<i>Chênière Caminada</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a>XIV</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was not more than nine o’clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the +children. +</p> + +<p> +Léonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to +start at once for the <i>Chênière</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, +Robert—since early this morning?” she said at parting. +</p> + +<p> +“All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! <i>si tu savais</i>,” +and every verse ended with “<i>si tu savais</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Robert’s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, +the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></a>XV</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“To-night!” “This very evening!” “Did you +ever!” “What possesses him!” were some of the replies she +gathered, uttered simultaneously in French and English. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“But when did you make up your mind to all this?” demanded Monsieur +Farival. +</p> + +<p> +“This afternoon,” returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking the +flaky bits of a <i>court bouillon</i> with her fork. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“At what time do you leave?” she asked Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“At ten,” he told her. “Beaudelet wants to wait for the +moon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you all ready to go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in +the city.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna, having +finished her black coffee, left the table. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>peignoir</i>. But +changing her mind once more she resumed the <i>peignoir</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Edna, a little sullenly. “I can’t go to the +trouble of dressing again; I don’t feel like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your +waist. Just look at me!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” persisted Edna; “but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be +offended if we both stayed away.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you feeling well?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Get a chair,” said Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Take the fan,” said Edna, offering it to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some time, +and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Forever, perhaps. I don’t know. It depends upon a good many +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, in case it shouldn’t be forever, how long will it be?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of +patience with me before.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Write to me when you get there, won’t you, Robert?” she +entreated. +</p> + +<p> +“I will, thank you. Good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something more +emphatic than “I will, thank you; good-by,” to such a request. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"></a>XVI</h3> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you get on without him, Edna?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes you could!” laughed Edna. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert. +Are you going down to bathe?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought he had great patience with his brother,” offered Edna, +glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was her name Mariequita?” asked Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“Mariequita—yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, +she’s a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“When do you leave?” asked Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“Next Monday; and you?” +</p> + +<p> +“The following week,” answered Edna, adding, “It has been a +pleasant summer, hasn’t it, Mademoiselle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, “rather +pleasant, if it hadn’t been for the mosquitoes and the Farival +twins.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"></a>XVII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,” said her husband, +somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my dear, I should think you’d understand by this time that +people don’t do such things; we’ve got to observe <i>les +convenances</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don’t remember who was +here.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Give it to Mr. Pontellier,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife’s callers, reading some of +them aloud, with comments as he read. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 Laforcé.’ Came +all the way from Carrolton, too, poor old soul. ‘Miss Wiggs,’ +‘Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.’” He pushed the cards aside. +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy!” exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. “Why are you +taking the thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You used to think the cook was a treasure,” returned Edna, +indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to discover what +was the matter. +</p> + +<p> +“A vase fell upon the hearth,” said Edna. “Never mind; leave +it till morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"></a>XVIII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I hardly think we need new fixtures, Léonce. Don’t let us get +anything new; you are too extravagant. I don’t believe you ever think of +saving or putting by.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>porte cochère</i>. 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 <i>soirée musicale</i>, 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’ +<i>soirées musicales</i> were widely known, and it was considered a privilege +to be invited to them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“’Cité 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a negligé +which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich, melting curves of +her white throat. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your talent is immense, dear!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” protested Edna, well pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"></a>XIX</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>en bonne +ménagère</i>, going and coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she was +able, lending herself to any passing caprice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feel like painting,” answered Edna. “Perhaps I +shan’t always feel like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She isn’t a musician, and I’m not a painter. It isn’t +on account of painting that I let things go.” +</p> + +<p> +“On account of what, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I don’t know. Let me alone; you bother me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 house-maid, 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, +“<i>Ah! si tu savais!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"></a>XX</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>chambres garnies</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>régime</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> dull +coming back to the city; that she saw <i>so</i> few people now; that even +Victor, when he came up from the island for a day or two, had <i>so</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!” said Madame Lebrun to her +son. +</p> + +<p> +“Ravishing!” he admitted. “The city atmosphere has improved +her. Some way she doesn’t seem like the same woman.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"></a>XXI</h3> + +<p> +Some people contended that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose +apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, +peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front room. +They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always open it did +not make so much difference. They often admitted into the room a good deal of +smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light and air that there was came +through them. From her windows could be seen the crescent of the river, the +masts of ships and the big chimneys of the Mississippi steamers. A magnificent +piano crowded the apartment. In the next room she slept, and in the third and +last she harbored a gasoline stove on which she cooked her meals when +disinclined to descend to the neighboring restaurant. It was there also that +she ate, keeping her belongings in a rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a +hundred years of use. +</p> + +<p> +When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s front room door and entered, +she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in mending or +patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed all over when she +saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and all the muscles +of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in the afternoon +light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch of violets on +the side of her head. +</p> + +<p> +“So you remembered me at last,” said Mademoiselle. “I had +said to myself, ‘Ah, bah! she will never come.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you want me to come?” asked Edna with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I had not thought much about it,” answered Mademoiselle. The two +had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. +“I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, +and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. And how +is <i>la belle dame?</i> Always handsome! always healthy! always +contented!” She took Edna’s hand between her strong wiry fingers, +holding it loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon +the back and palm. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she went on; “I sometimes thought: ‘She will +never come. She promised as those women in society always do, without meaning +it. She will not come.’ For I really don’t believe you like me, +Mrs. Pontellier.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know whether I like you or not,” replied Edna, +gazing down at the little woman with a quizzical look. +</p> + +<p> +The candor of Mrs. Pontellier’s admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle +Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the region of +the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised cup of coffee. The +coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very acceptable to Edna, who had +declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun’s and was now beginning to feel +hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which she brought in upon a small table near +at hand, and seated herself once again on the lumpy sofa. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had a letter from your friend,” she remarked, as she poured +a little cream into Edna’s cup and handed it to her. +</p> + +<p> +“My friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wrote to <i>you</i>?” repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her +coffee absently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to me. Why not? Don’t stir all the warmth out of your coffee; +drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was nothing +but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see it,” requested the young woman, entreatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one to +whom it is written.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you just said it concerned me from beginning to +end?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was written about you, not to you. ‘Have you seen Mrs. +Pontellier? How is she looking?’ he asks. ‘As Mrs. Pontellier +says,’ or ‘as Mrs. Pontellier once said.’ ‘If Mrs. +Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu of Chopin’s, +my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but not as you play it. I should +like to know how it affects her,’ and so on, as if he supposed we were +constantly in each other’s society.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see the letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you answered it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see the letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, and again, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then play the Impromptu for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?” +</p> + +<p> +“Time doesn’t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play +the Impromptu.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Painting!” laughed Edna. “I am becoming an artist. Think of +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or your +temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many +gifts—absolute gifts—which have not been acquired by one’s +own effort. And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous +soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by the courageous soul?” +</p> + +<p> +“Courageous, <i>ma foi!</i> The brave soul. The soul that dares and +defies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have +persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?” +</p> + +<p> +“It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,” +replied Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. +</p> + +<p> +The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon which +Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer and drew +forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna’s hands, and +without further comment arose and went to the piano. +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat low at +the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful curves and +angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and imperceptibly the +interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of the Chopin Impromptu. +</p> + +<p> +Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the sofa corner +reading Robert’s letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had glided from +the Chopin into the quivering love notes of Isolde’s song, and back again +to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. +</p> + +<p> +The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and +fantastic—turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The +shadows grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, +over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of +the upper air. +</p> + +<p> +Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle when strange, +new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take her departure. +“May I come again, Mademoiselle?” she asked at the threshold. +</p> + +<p> +“Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are +dark; don’t stumble.” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert’s letter was on the +floor. She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. +Mademoiselle smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced +it in the table drawer. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"></a>XXII</h3> + +<p> +One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old +friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired +physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation +for wisdom rather than skill—leaving the active practice of medicine to +his assistants and younger contemporaries—and was much sought for in +matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, +he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The +Pontelliers were among these. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His +house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful +garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman’s study +window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses +as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at +that hour of the morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you +bring this morning?” He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, +and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none +of their penetration. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I’m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough +fiber—of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow +away. I came to consult—no, not precisely to consult—to talk to you +about Edna. I don’t know what ails her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Pontellier not well,” marveled the Doctor. “Why, I +saw her—I think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street, the +picture of health, it seemed to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; she seems quite well,” said Mr. Pontellier, leaning +forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; “but she +doesn’t act well. She’s odd, she’s not like herself. I +can’t make her out, and I thought perhaps you’d help me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it isn’t easy to explain,” said Mr. Pontellier, +throwing himself back in his chair. “She lets the housekeeping go to the +dickens.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We’ve got +to consider—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that; I told you I couldn’t explain. Her whole +attitude—toward me and everybody and everything—has changed. You +know I have a quick temper, but I don’t want to quarrel or be rude to a +woman, especially my wife; yet I’m driven to it, and feel like ten +thousand devils after I’ve made a fool of myself. She’s making it +devilishly uncomfortable for me,” he went on nervously. +“She’s got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal +rights of women; and—you understand—we meet in the morning at the +breakfast table.” +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, +and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doing! <i>Parbleu!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Has she,” asked the Doctor, with a smile, “has she been +associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual +women—super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the trouble,” broke in Mr. Pontellier, “she +hasn’t been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at +home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by +herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you +she’s peculiar. I don’t like it; I feel a little worried over +it.” +</p> + +<p> +This was a new aspect for the Doctor. “Nothing hereditary?” he +asked, seriously. “Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The +old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins +with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally +ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. +Margaret—you know Margaret—she has all the Presbyterianism +undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets +married in a couple of weeks from now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Send your wife up to the wedding,” exclaimed the Doctor, +foreseeing a happy solution. “Let her stay among her own people for a +while; it will do her good.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s what I want her to do. She won’t go to the marriage. +She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice +thing for a woman to say to her husband!” exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, +fuming anew at the recollection. +</p> + +<p> +“Pontellier,” said the Doctor, after a moment’s reflection, +“let your wife alone for a while. Don’t bother her, and don’t +let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate +organism—a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. +Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired +psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you +and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most +women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to +some cause or causes which you and I needn’t try to fathom. But it will +pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I couldn’t do that; there’d be no reason for it,” +objected Mr. Pontellier. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll go around and see her,” said the Doctor. +“I’ll drop in to dinner some evening <i>en bon ami</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do! by all means,” urged Mr. Pontellier. “What evening will +you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?” he asked, rising to take +his leave. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me +Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on +hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the +ribbons. We’ll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,” he +laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I thank you, my dear sir,” returned the Doctor. “I leave +such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your +blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“What I wanted to say,” continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on +the knob; “I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to +take Edna along?” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don’t +contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, +three months—possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, good-by, <i>à jeudi</i>,” said Mr. Pontellier, as he let +himself out. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, “Is +there any man in the case?” but he knew his Creole too well to make such +a blunder as that. +</p> + +<p> +He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively +looking out into the garden. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"></a>XXIII</h3> + +<p> +Edna’s father was in the city, and had been with them several days. She +was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes in +common, and when together they were companionable. His coming was in the nature +of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new direction for her +emotions. +</p> + +<p> +He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an outfit +for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her marriage. Mr. +Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one immediately connected +with him always deferred to his taste in such matters. And his suggestions on +the question of dress—which too often assumes the nature of a +problem—were of inestimable value to his father-in-law. But for the past +few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna’s hands, and in his society +she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. He had been a colonel +in the Confederate army, and still maintained, with the title, the military +bearing which had always accompanied it. His hair and mustache were white and +silky, emphasizing the rugged bronze of his face. He was tall and thin, and +wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious breadth and depth to his +shoulders and chest. Edna and her father looked very distinguished together, +and excited a good deal of notice during their perambulations. Upon his arrival +she began by introducing him to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He took +the whole matter very seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than +it was, it would not have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had +bequeathed to all of his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which +only depended upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful +achievement. +</p> + +<p> +Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the +cannon’s mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the +children, who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up there in +their mother’s bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned them away +with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the fixed lines of his +countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet him, having +promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle declined the +invitation. So together they attended a <i>soirée musicale</i> at the +Ratignolles’. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the Colonel, +installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once to dine with them +the following Sunday, or any day which he might select. Madame coquetted with +him in the most captivating and naive manner, with eyes, gestures, and a +profusion of compliments, till the Colonel’s old head felt thirty years +younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled, not comprehending. She herself +was almost devoid of coquetry. +</p> + +<p> +There were one or two men whom she observed at the <i>soirée musicale;</i> but +she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract their +notice—to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward them. +Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy selected them, +and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an opportunity to meet her +and talk with her. Often on the street the glance of strange eyes had lingered +in her memory, and sometimes had disturbed her. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier did not attend these <i>soirées musicales</i>. He considered +them <i>bourgeois</i>, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame +Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her <i>soirées</i> was too +“heavy,” too far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse +flattered her. But she disapproved of Mr. Pontellier’s club, and she was +frank enough to tell Edna so. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn’t stay home more in the +evenings. I think you would be more—well, if you don’t mind my +saying it—more united, if he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! dear no!” said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. +“What should I do if he stayed home? We wouldn’t have anything to +say to each other.” +</p> + +<p> +She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but he did +not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, though she realized +that he might not interest her long; and for the first time in her life she +felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. He kept her busy serving +him and ministering to his wants. It amused her to do so. She would not permit +a servant or one of the children to do anything for him which she might do +herself. Her husband noticed, and thought it was the expression of a deep +filial attachment which he had never suspected. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel drank numerous “toddies” during the course of the day, +which left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting strong +drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantastic names, and +for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that it devolved upon +Edna to procure for him. +</p> + +<p> +When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he could discern in +Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which her husband had +reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. She and her father +had been to the race course, and their thoughts when they seated themselves at +table were still occupied with the events of the afternoon, and their talk was +still of the track. The Doctor had not kept pace with turf affairs. He had +certain recollections of racing in what he called “the good old +times” when the Lecompte stables flourished, and he drew upon this fund +of memories so that he might not be left out and seem wholly devoid of the +modern spirit. But he failed to impose upon the Colonel, and was even far from +impressing him with this trumped-up knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked +her father on his last venture, with the most gratifying results to both of +them. Besides, they had met some very charming people, according to the +Colonel’s impressions. Mrs. Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, +who were there with Alcée Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the hours +in a fashion that warmed him to think of. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, and was +even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially when he +considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He endeavored, in a +general way, to express a particular disapproval, and only succeeded in +arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law. A pretty dispute +followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father’s cause and the Doctor +remained neutral. +</p> + +<p> +He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and noted a +subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman he had known +into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with the forces of life. Her +speech was warm and energetic. There was no repression in her glance or +gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful, sleek animal waking up in the sun. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was cold, and +under their beneficent influence the threatened unpleasantness melted and +vanished with the fumes of the wine. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing plantation +experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth, when he hunted +’possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed the pecan trees, +shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in mischievous idleness. +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things, related a +somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he had acted a +conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was the Doctor happier +in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and curious story of the +waning of a woman’s love, seeking strange, new channels, only to return +to its legitimate source after days of fierce unrest. It was one of the many +little human documents which had been unfolded to him during his long career as +a physician. The story did not seem especially to impress Edna. She had one of +her own to tell, of a woman who paddled away with her lover one night in a +pirogue and never came back. They were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no +one ever heard of them or found trace of them from that day to this. It was a +pure invention. She said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. That, also, +was an invention. Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But every glowing word +seemed real to those who listened. They could feel the hot breath of the +Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of the pirogue through the +glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds’ wings, rising startled +from among the reeds in the salt-water pools; they could see the faces of the +lovers, pale, close together, rapt in oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into +the unknown. +</p> + +<p> +The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks with +Edna’s memory that night. +</p> + +<p> +Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the night was +chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak across his breast +as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his fellow-creatures better +than most men; knew that inner life which so seldom unfolds itself to +unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted Pontellier’s invitation. He +was growing old, and beginning to need rest and an imperturbed spirit. He did +not want the secrets of other lives thrust upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it isn’t Arobin,” he muttered to himself as he +walked. “I hope to heaven it isn’t Alcée Arobin.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"></a>XXIV</h3> + +<p> +Edna and her father had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the subject of +her refusal to attend her sister’s wedding. Mr. Pontellier declined to +interfere, to interpose either his influence or his authority. He was following +Doctor Mandelet’s advice, and letting her do as she liked. The Colonel +reproached his daughter for her lack of filial kindness and respect, her want +of sisterly affection and womanly consideration. His arguments were labored and +unconvincing. He doubted if Janet would accept any excuse—forgetting that +Edna had offered none. He doubted if Janet would ever speak to her again, and +he was sure Margaret would not. +</p> + +<p> +Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off with his +wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded shoulders, his Bible +reading, his “toddies” and ponderous oaths. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding on his way +to New York and endeavor by every means which money and love could devise to +atone somewhat for Edna’s incomprehensible action. +</p> + +<p> +“You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Léonce,” asserted the +Colonel. “Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down good +and hard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.” +</p> + +<p> +The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife into her +grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought it needless +to mention at that late day. +</p> + +<p> +Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband’s leaving home as +she had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached when he +was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting and +affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and his repeated +expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous about his health and +his welfare. She bustled around, looking after his clothing, thinking about +heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignolle would have done under similar +circumstances. She cried when he went away, calling him her dear, good friend, +and she was quite certain she would grow lonely before very long and go to join +him in New York. +</p> + +<p> +But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found herself +alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had come herself and +carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The old madame did not +venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected during Léonce’s +absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She was hungry for them—even a +little fierce in her attachment. She did not want them to be wholly +“children of the pavement,” she always said when begging to have +them for a space. She wished them to know the country, with its streams, its +fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young. She wished them to +taste something of the life their father had lived and known and loved when he, +too, was a little child. +</p> + +<p> +When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief. A +feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. She walked all +through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting it for the first +time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if she had never sat and +reclined upon them before. And she perambulated around the outside of the +house, investigating, looking to see if windows and shutters were secure and in +order. The flowers were like new acquaintances; she approached them in a +familiar spirit, and made herself at home among them. The garden walks were +damp, and Edna called to the maid to bring out her rubber sandals. And there +she stayed, and stooped, digging around the plants, trimming, picking dead, dry +leaves. The children’s little dog came out, interfering, getting in her +way. She scolded him, laughed at him, played with him. The garden smelled so +good and looked so pretty in the afternoon sunlight. Edna plucked all the +bright flowers she could find, and went into the house with them, she and the +little dog. +</p> + +<p> +Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had never +before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to say that the +butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they would require only half +their usual quantity of bread, of milk and groceries. She told the cook that +she herself would be greatly occupied during Mr. Pontellier’s absence, +and she begged her to take all thought and responsibility of the larder upon +her own shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candles in the center +of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle of light in +which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and shadowy. The cook, +placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast—a luscious tenderloin +broiled <i>à point</i>. The wine tasted good; the <i>marron glacé</i> seemed to +be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine in a comfortable +<i>peignoir</i>. +</p> + +<p> +She thought a little sentimentally about Léonce and the children, and wondered +what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the doggie, she +talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was beside himself with +astonishment and delight over these companionable advances, and showed his +appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks and a lively agitation. +</p> + +<p> +Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she grew +sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and determined to +start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that her time was completely +her own to do with as she liked. +</p> + +<p> +After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled comfortably +beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as she had not +known before. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"></a>XXV</h3> + +<p> +When the weather was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed the sun to +mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had reached a stage when +she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working, when in the humor, with +sureness and ease. And being devoid of ambition, and striving not toward +accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from the work in itself. +</p> + +<p> +On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of the friends +she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors and nursed a mood with +which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It +was not despair; but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its +promise broken and unfulfilled. Yet there were other days when she listened, +was led on and deceived by fresh promises which her youth held out to her. +</p> + +<p> +She went again to the races, and again. Alcée Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp called +for her one bright afternoon in Arobin’s drag. Mrs. Highcamp was a +worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the forties, +with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had a daughter who +served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of young men of fashion. +Alcée Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar figure at the race course, the +opera, the fashionable clubs. There was a perpetual smile in his eyes, which +seldom failed to awaken a corresponding cheerfulness in any one who looked into +them and listened to his good-humored voice. His manner was quiet, and at times +a little insolent. He possessed a good figure, a pleasing face, not +overburdened with depth of thought or feeling; and his dress was that of the +conventional man of fashion. +</p> + +<p> +He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her father. +He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to him +unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs. Highcamp +called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to witness the turf event +of the season. +</p> + +<p> +There were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse as well +as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She sat between her +two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughed at Arobin’s +pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp’s ignorance. The race horse was a +friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere of the stables +and the breath of the blue grass paddock revived in her memory and lingered in +her nostrils. She did not perceive that she was talking like her father as the +sleek geldings ambled in review before them. She played for very high stakes, +and fortune favored her. The fever of the game flamed in her cheeks and eyes, +and it got into her blood and into her brain like an intoxicant. People turned +their heads to look at her, and more than one lent an attentive ear to her +utterances, hoping thereby to secure the elusive but ever-desired +“tip.” Arobin caught the contagion of excitement which drew him to +Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp remained, as usual, unmoved, with her +indifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so. Arobin also +remained and sent away his drag. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts of Arobin +to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her daughter from the +races, and tried to convey to her what she had missed by going to the +“Dante reading” instead of joining them. The girl held a geranium +leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and noncommittal. Mr. +Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who only talked under compulsion. He was +unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full of delicate courtesy and consideration +toward her husband. She addressed most of her conversation to him at table. +They sat in the library after dinner and read the evening papers together under +the droplight; while the younger people went into the drawing-room near by and +talked. Miss Highcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She +seemed to have apprehended all of the composer’s coldness and none of his +poetry. While Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had lost her +taste for music. +</p> + +<p> +When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a lame offer to +escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless concern. It was +Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it was late when they +reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to enter for a second to +light his cigarette—his match safe was empty. He filled his match safe, +but did not light his cigarette until he left her, after she had expressed her +willingness to go to the races with him again. +</p> + +<p> +Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the Highcamp +dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She rummaged in the +larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some crackers. She opened a +bottle of beer which she found in the icebox. Edna felt extremely restless and +excited. She vacantly hummed a fantastic tune as she poked at the wood embers +on the hearth and munched a cracker. +</p> + +<p> +She wanted something to happen—something, anything; she did not know +what. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour to talk over +the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But there was nothing +else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for hours in a sort of +monotonous agitation. +</p> + +<p> +In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to write her +regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so next day and tell him +about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide awake composing a letter +which was nothing like the one which she wrote next day. When the maid awoke +her in the morning Edna was dreaming of Mr. Highcamp playing the piano at the +entrance of a music store on Canal Street, while his wife was saying to Alcée +Arobin, as they boarded an Esplanade Street car: +</p> + +<p> +“What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must +go.” +</p> + +<p> +When, a few days later, Alcée Arobin again called for Edna in his drag, Mrs. +Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But as that lady had +not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she was not at home. The +daughter was just leaving the house to attend the meeting of a branch Folk Lore +Society, and regretted that she could not accompany them. Arobin appeared +nonplused, and asked Edna if there were any one else she cared to ask. +</p> + +<p> +She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the fashionable +acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She thought of Madame +Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not leave the house, except to +take a languid walk around the block with her husband after nightfall. +Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at such a request from Edna. Madame +Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but for some reason Edna did not want +her. So they went alone, she and Arobin. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came back upon +her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and confidential. It was no +labor to become intimate with Arobin. His manner invited easy confidence. The +preliminary stage of becoming acquainted was one which he always endeavored to +ignore when a pretty and engaging woman was concerned. +</p> + +<p> +He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. They +laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling her how +different life might have been if he had known her years before. With ingenuous +frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy he had been, and +impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar from a saber +cut which he had received in a duel outside of Paris when he was nineteen. She +touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the inside of his white +wrist. A quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic impelled her fingers to +close in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt the pressure of her pointed +nails in the flesh of his palm. +</p> + +<p> +She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel. +</p> + +<p> +“The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,” she +said. “I shouldn’t have looked at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” he entreated, following her; “it never +occurred to me that it might be repulsive.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old, +vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw enough +in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said his +lingering good night. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you go to the races again?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said. “I’ve had enough of the races. I +don’t want to lose all the money I’ve won, and I’ve got to +work when the weather is bright, instead of—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning +may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Day after?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, please don’t refuse me! I know something of such things. I +might help you with a stray suggestion or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Good night. Why don’t you go after you have said good night? I +don’t like you,” she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting +to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and sincerity, +and she knew that he felt it. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry you don’t like me. I’m sorry I offended you. +How have I offended you? What have I done? Can’t you forgive me?” +And he bent and pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to +withdraw them. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Arobin,” she complained, “I’m greatly upset by the +excitement of the afternoon; I’m not myself. My manner must have misled +you in some way. I wish you to go, please.” She spoke in a monotonous, +dull tone. He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, +looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier,” he said finally. +“My own emotions have done that. I couldn’t help it. When I’m +near you, how could I help it? Don’t think anything of it, don’t +bother, please. You see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, +I shall do so. If you let me come back, I—oh! you will let me come +back?” +</p> + +<p> +He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. Alcée +Arobin’s manner was so genuine that it often deceived even himself. +</p> + +<p> +Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she was alone +she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had kissed so warmly. +Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She felt somewhat like a +woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into an act of infidelity, and +realizes the significance of the act without being wholly awakened from its +glamour. The thought was passing vaguely through her mind, “What would he +think?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her husband +seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without love as an excuse. +</p> + +<p> +She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcée Arobin was absolutely nothing +to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his glances, and above all +the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted like a narcotic upon her. +</p> + +<p> +She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"></a>XXVI</h3> + +<p> +Alcée Arobin wrote Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity. +It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her absurd +that she should have taken his action so seriously, so dramatically. She felt +sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own +self-consciousness. If she ignored his note it would give undue importance to a +trivial affair. If she replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave +in his mind the impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his +influence. After all, it was no great matter to have one’s hand kissed. +She was provoked at his having written the apology. She answered in as light +and bantering a spirit as she fancied it deserved, and said she would be glad +to have him look in upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination and his +business gave him the opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his disarming +naïveté. And then there was scarcely a day which followed that she did not see +him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in pretexts. His attitude +became one of good-humored subservience and tacit adoration. He was ready at +all times to submit to her moods, which were as often kind as they were cold. +She grew accustomed to him. They became intimate and friendly by imperceptible +degrees, and then by leaps. He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at +first and brought the crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, +appealing to the animalism that stirred impatiently within her. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna’s senses as a +visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that personality +which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed to reach +Edna’s spirit and set it free. +</p> + +<p> +It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when Edna climbed +the stairs to the pianist’s apartments under the roof. Her clothes were +dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she entered the room. +Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked a little and warmed the +room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a pot of chocolate on the +stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to Edna as she entered. A bust of +Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, scowled at her from the mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! here comes the sunlight!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from +her knees before the stove. “Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can +let the fire alone.” +</p> + +<p> +She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in removing +Edna’s dripping mackintosh. +</p> + +<p> +“You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But +would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle +which you brought me for my cold.” A piece of red flannel was wrapped +around Mademoiselle’s throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head +on one side. +</p> + +<p> +“I will take some brandy,” said Edna, shivering as she removed her +gloves and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have +done. Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, +“Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade +Street.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially +interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring +to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her +hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from her own hair, +secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed place. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t you astonished?” +</p> + +<p> +“Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your father +in Mississippi? where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just two steps away,” laughed Edna, “in a little four-room +house around the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I +pass by; and it’s for rent. I’m tired looking after that big house. +It never seemed like mine, anyway—like home. It’s too much trouble. +I have to keep too many servants. I am tired bothering with them.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is not your true reason, <i>ma belle</i>. There is no use in +telling me lies. I don’t know your reason, but you have not told me the +truth.” Edna did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. +</p> + +<p> +“The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn’t +that enough reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“They are your husband’s,” returned Mademoiselle, with a +shrug and a malicious elevation of the eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a +caprice. I have a little money of my own from my mother’s estate, which +my father sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and +I am beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my +work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that +myself, but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I +said, I have sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house +for little or nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally +for me, says she will come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, +like the feeling of freedom and independence.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does your husband say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will +think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so.” +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. “Your reason is not yet clear to +me,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she sat +for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her +husband’s bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it +would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an +explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but +whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!” Edna +exclaimed. “You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you +everything that you like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be +merry for once.” And she uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of +her being. +</p> + +<p> +If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during the +interval of Edna’s visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited. And +she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her while +the young woman read the letter. +</p> + +<p> +The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin +sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and +Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and handed +it to Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“Another! so soon!” she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. +“Tell me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me again +if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a +message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to +forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you show me his letters, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you +cannot deceive me,” and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument +and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat holding it in +her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an effulgence, +warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared her for joy +and exultation. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. +“Why did you not tell me?” She went and grasped +Mademoiselle’s hands up from the keys. “Oh! unkind! malicious! Why +did you not tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“That he was coming back? No great news, <i>ma foi</i>. I wonder he did +not come long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“But when, when?” cried Edna, impatiently. “He does not say +when.” +</p> + +<p> +“He says ‘very soon.’ You know as much about it as I do; it +is all in the letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought—” and she +snatched the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, +looking for the reason, which was left untold. +</p> + +<p> +“If I were young and in love with a man,” said Mademoiselle, +turning on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she +looked down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, “it seems +to me he would have to be some <i>grand esprit;</i> a man with lofty aims and +ability to reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his +fellow-men. It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a +man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, +Mademoiselle; or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. +Why,” went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into +Mademoiselle’s twisted face, “do you suppose a woman knows why she +loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: ‘Go to! Here is a +distinguished statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to +fall in love with him.’ Or, ‘I shall set my heart upon this +musician, whose fame is on every tongue?’ Or, ‘This financier, who +controls the world’s money markets?’ +</p> + +<p> +“You are purposely misunderstanding me, <i>ma reine</i>. Are you in love +with Robert?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a +glow overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked her companion. “Why do you love him when you +ought not to?” +</p> + +<p> +Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle +Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because +he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because +he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can’t +straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. +Because—” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you do, in short,” laughed Mademoiselle. “What will +you do when he comes back?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive.” +</p> + +<p> +She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his return. +The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours before, seemed +bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets on her way home. +</p> + +<p> +She stopped at a confectioner’s and ordered a huge box of bonbons for the +children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she scribbled a +tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. +</p> + +<p> +Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, +telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house around +the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting that he was +not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her in entertaining +the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with cheerfulness. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"></a>XXVII</h3> + +<p> +“What is the matter with you?” asked Arobin that evening. “I +never found you in such a happy mood.” Edna was tired by that time, and +was reclining on the lounge before the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the +sun pretty soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that ought to be reason enough,” he acquiesced. “You +wouldn’t give me another if I sat here all night imploring you.” He +sat close to her on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched +the hair that fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his +fingers through her hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. +</p> + +<p> +“One of these days,” she said, “I’m going to pull +myself together for a while and think—try to determine what character of +a woman I am; for, candidly, I don’t know. By all the codes which I am +acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I +can’t convince myself that I am. I must think about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t. What’s the use? Why should you bother thinking about +it when I can tell you what manner of woman you are.” His fingers strayed +occasionally down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was growing a +little full and double. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is +captivating. Spare yourself the effort.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I shan’t tell you anything of the sort, though I +shouldn’t be lying if I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?” she asked irrelevantly. +</p> + +<p> +“The pianist? I know her by sight. I’ve heard her play.” +</p> + +<p> +“She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don’t +notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.” +</p> + +<p> +“For instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me +and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. +‘The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and +prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings +bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Whither would you soar?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half +comprehend her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard she’s partially demented,” said Arobin. +</p> + +<p> +“She seems to me wonderfully sane,” Edna replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m told she’s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why +have you introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! talk of me if you like,” cried Edna, clasping her hands +beneath her head; “but let me think of something else while you +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m jealous of your thoughts to-night. They’re making you a +little kinder than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if +they were not here with me.” She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes +were very near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, +while the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to +look into each other’s eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she +clasped his head, holding his lips to hers. +</p> + +<p> +It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. It +was a flaming torch that kindled desire. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"></a>XXVIII</h3> + +<p> +Edna cried a little that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase of +the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her an +overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the unexpected +and the unaccustomed. There was her husband’s reproach looking at her +from the external things around her which he had provided for her external +existence. There was Robert’s reproach making itself felt by a quicker, +fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her toward him. +Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had been lifted from +her eyes, enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life, +that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But among the conflicting +sensations which assailed her, there was neither shame nor remorse. There was a +dull pang of regret because it was not the kiss of love which had inflamed her, +because it was not love which had held this cup of life to her lips. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"></a>XXIX</h3> + +<p> +Without even waiting for an answer from her husband regarding his opinion or +wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting her home on +Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around the block. A feverish +anxiety attended her every action in that direction. There was no moment of +deliberation, no interval of repose between the thought and its fulfillment. +Early upon the morning following those hours passed in Arobin’s society, +Edna set about securing her new abode and hurrying her arrangements for +occupying it. Within the precincts of her home she felt like one who has +entered and lingered within the portals of some forbidden temple in which a +thousand muffled voices bade her begone. +</p> + +<p> +Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired aside from +her husband’s bounty, she caused to be transported to the other house, +supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. +</p> + +<p> +Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the house-maid +when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid and robust, and had +never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, with a red silk +handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect her hair from the +dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, unhooking a picture from the wall +when he entered. He had found the front door open, and had followed his ring by +walking in unceremoniously. +</p> + +<p> +“Come down!” he said. “Do you want to kill yourself?” +She greeted him with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her +occupation. +</p> + +<p> +If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in +sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. +</p> + +<p> +He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the foregoing +attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation which +confronted him. +</p> + +<p> +“Please come down,” he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up +at her. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered; “Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe +is working over at the ‘pigeon house’—that’s the name +Ellen gives it, because it’s so small and looks like a pigeon +house—and some one has to do this.” +</p> + +<p> +Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to tempt +fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went into +contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when she saw +him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna herself could +not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So it was he who +in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, and dislodging +ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took off his dust-cap and +went out to wash his hands. +</p> + +<p> +Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather duster +along the carpet when he came in again. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything more you will let me do?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That is all,” she answered. “Ellen can manage the +rest.” She kept the young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling +to be left alone with Arobin. +</p> + +<p> +“What about the dinner?” he asked; “the grand event, the +<i>coup d’état?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the ‘<i>coup +d’état?</i>’ Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of +everything—crystal, silver and gold, Sèvres, flowers, music, and +champagne to swim in. I’ll let Léonce pay the bills. I wonder what +he’ll say when he sees the bills.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you ask me why I call it a <i>coup d’état?</i>” Arobin +had put on his coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. +She told him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. +</p> + +<p> +“When do you go to the ‘pigeon house?’—with all due +acknowledgment to Ellen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?” asked +Arobin. “The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such +a thing, has parched my throat to a crisp.” +</p> + +<p> +“While Ellen gets the water,” said Edna, rising, “I will say +good-by and let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million +things to do and think of.” +</p> + +<p> +“When shall I see you?” asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the +maid having left the room. +</p> + +<p> +“At the dinner, of course. You are invited.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not before?—not to-night or to-morrow morning or to-morrow noon or +night? or the day after morning or noon? Can’t you see yourself, without +my telling you, what an eternity it is?” +</p> + +<p> +He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking up +at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Not an instant sooner,” she said. But she laughed and looked at +him with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to +wait. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"></a>XXX</h3> + +<p> +Though Edna had spoken of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in truth a +very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited were few +and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an even dozen +seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting for the moment that +Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree <i>souffrante</i> and unpresentable, +and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a thousand regrets at the last +moment. So there were only ten, after all, which made a cozy, comfortable +number. +</p> + +<p> +There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in the +thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, who +laughed a good deal at other people’s witticisms, and had thereby made +himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. Of course, there +was Alcée Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented to come. Edna had sent +her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings for her hair. Monsieur +Ratignolle brought himself and his wife’s excuses. Victor Lebrun, who +happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, had accepted with alacrity. +There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer in her teens, who looked at the world +through lorgnettes and with the keenest interest. It was thought and said that +she was intellectual; it was suspected of her that she wrote under a <i>nom de +guerre</i>. She had come with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected +with one of the daily papers, of whom nothing special could be said, except +that he was observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the +tenth, and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Arobin and +Monsieur Ratignolle on either side of their hostess. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came Mrs. Merriman, +Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and Mademoiselle Reisz next to +Monsieur Ratignolle. +</p> + +<p> +There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the table, an +effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin under strips of +lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass candelabra, burning softly +under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant roses, yellow and red, abounded. There +were silver and gold, as she had said there would be, and crystal which +glittered like the gems which the women wore. +</p> + +<p> +The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion and +replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be collected +throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly diminutive, was +elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes hoisted at table upon +bulky volumes. +</p> + +<p> +“Something new, Edna?” exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette +directed toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost +sputtered, in Edna’s hair, just over the center of her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite new; ‘brand’ new, in fact; a present from my husband. +It arrived this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my +birthday, and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink my +health. Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, +composed—would you say ‘composed?’” with an appeal to +Miss Mayblunt—“composed by my father in honor of Sister +Janet’s wedding.” +</p> + +<p> +Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a garnet +gem. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, all things considered,” spoke Arobin, “it might not be +amiss to start out by drinking the Colonel’s health in the cocktail which +he composed, on the birthday of the most charming of women—the daughter +whom he invented.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Merriman’s laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so +contagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that never +slackened. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched before her, +just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare it to nothing she +had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted were unspeakably rare. +She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck to it. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the <i>mets</i>, the +<i>entre-mets</i>, the service, the decorations, even the people. He looked up +from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to the gentleman of +that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and Arobin, lawyers. The young +man admitted that Laitner was a warm personal friend, who permitted +Arobin’s name to decorate the firm’s letterheads and to appear upon +a shingle that graced Perdido Street. +</p> + +<p> +“There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,” +said Arobin, “that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these +days to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.” Monsieur +Ratignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle Reisz if she +considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which had been set the +previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur Ratignolle in French, +which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, but characteristic. +Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to say of the symphony concerts, and +insulting remarks to make of all the musicians of New Orleans, singly and +collectively. All her interest seemed to be centered upon the delicacies placed +before her. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin’s remark about inquisitive people +reminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles +Hotel—but as Mr. Merriman’s stories were always lame and lacking +point, his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to +ask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought the week +before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking “books” with +Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current literary +topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privately to Miss Mayblunt, +who pretended to be greatly amused and to think it extremely clever. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm and +impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. Her attention +was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating herself at table; and +when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier and more vivacious than Mrs. +Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference for an opportunity to reclaim his +attention. There was the occasional sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently +removed to be an agreeable accompaniment rather than an interruption to the +conversation. Outside the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; +the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came +through the open windows. +</p> + +<p> +The golden shimmer of Edna’s satin gown spread in rich folds on either +side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the +color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one may +sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her attitude, in +her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the high-backed chair and +spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who looks +on, who stands alone. +</p> + +<p> +But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking her; +the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her like an +obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It was something +which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to issue from some vast +cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her the acute longing which +always summoned into her spiritual vision the presence of the beloved one, +overpowering her at once with a sense of the unattainable. +</p> + +<p> +The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around the +circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people together with jest +and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break the pleasant charm. At +ten o’clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignolle was waiting for him at +home. She was <i>bien souffrante</i>, and she was filled with vague dread, +which only her husband’s presence could allay. +</p> + +<p> +Mademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to escort her to +the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good, rich wines, and they must +have turned her head, for she bowed pleasantly to all as she withdrew from +table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, and whispered: “<i>Bonne nuit, +ma reine; soyez sage</i>.” She had been a little bewildered upon rising, +or rather, descending from her cushions, and Monsieur Ratignolle gallantly took +her arm and led her away. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When she had +finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor’s black curls. He +was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of champagne to +the light. +</p> + +<p> +As if a magician’s wand had touched him, the garland of roses transformed +him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the color of crushed +grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing fire. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sapristi!</i>” exclaimed Arobin. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She took from the +back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had covered her +shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it across the boy in +graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black, conventional evening dress. +He did not seem to mind what she did to him, only smiled, showing a faint gleam +of white teeth, while he continued to gaze with narrowing eyes at the light +through his glass of champagne. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!” exclaimed +Miss Mayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘There was a graven image of Desire<br /> +Painted with red blood on a ground of gold.’” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +murmured Gouvernail, under his breath. +</p> + +<p> +The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed volubility into +silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a reverie, and to be seeing +pleasing visions in the amber bead. +</p> + +<p> +“Sing,” entreated Mrs. Highcamp. “Won’t you sing to +us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let him alone,” said Arobin. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s posing,” offered Mr. Merriman; “let him have it +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe he’s paralyzed,” laughed Mrs. Merriman. And +leaning over the youth’s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held +it to his lips. He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass +she laid it upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy +handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’ll sing for you,” he said, turning in his chair +toward Mrs. Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at +the ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning an +instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Ah! si tu savais!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” she cried, “don’t sing that. I don’t want +you to sing it,” and she laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon +the table as to shatter it against a carafe. The wine spilled over +Arobin’s legs and some of it trickled down upon Mrs. Highcamp’s +black gauze gown. Victor had lost all idea of courtesy, or else he thought his +hostess was not in earnest, for he laughed and went on: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Ah! si tu savais<br /> +Ce que tes yeux me disent”— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you mustn’t! you mustn’t,” exclaimed Edna, and +pushing back her chair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over +his mouth. He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I won’t, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn’t know you meant +it,” looking up at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was +like a pleasing sting to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his +head and flung it across the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Victor; you’ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her +scarf.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. Miss +Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it was time to +say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how it could be so late. +</p> + +<p> +Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon her +daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk French and sing +French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and intention to call upon +Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented itself. He asked if +Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not. +</p> + +<p> +The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness had +fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna’s disbanding +guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the night. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"></a>XXXI</h3> + +<p> +“Well?” questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the +others had departed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and +feeling the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated. +</p> + +<p> +“What next?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“The servants are all gone. They left when the musicians did. I have +dismissed them. The house has to be closed and locked, and I shall trot around +to the pigeon house, and shall send Celestine over in the morning to straighten +things up.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights. +</p> + +<p> +“What about upstairs?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is all right; but there may be a window or two unlatched. We +had better look; you might take a candle and see. And bring me my wrap and hat +on the foot of the bed in the middle room.” +</p> + +<p> +He went up with the light, and Edna began closing doors and windows. She hated +to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin found her cape and hat, +which he brought down and helped her to put on. +</p> + +<p> +When everything was secured and the lights put out, they left through the front +door, Arobin locking it and taking the key, which he carried for Edna. He +helped her down the steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you have a spray of jessamine?” he asked, breaking off a few +blossoms as he passed. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I don’t want anything.” +</p> + +<p> +She seemed disheartened, and had nothing to say. She took his arm, which he +offered her, holding up the weight of her satin train with the other hand. She +looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in and out so close to +her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was the whistle of a railway +train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight bells were ringing. They met +no one in their short walk. +</p> + +<p> +The “pigeon house” stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow +<i>parterre</i> that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front +porch, upon which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened +directly into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room +for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. +</p> + +<p> +Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in making +the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books on the table and a +lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, covered with a rug or +two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. But the room was filled +with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin had sent them, and had had +Celestine distribute them during Edna’s absence. Her bedroom was +adjoining, and across a small passage were the dining-room and kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you tired?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and chilled, and miserable. I feel as if I had been wound up to a +certain pitch—too tight—and something inside of me had +snapped.” She rested her head against the table upon her bare arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You want to rest,” he said, “and to be quiet. I’ll go; +I’ll leave you and let you rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic hand. His +touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could have fallen quietly +asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand over her hair. He brushed the +hair upward from the nape of her neck. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning,” he said. +“You have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the +last straw; you might have dispensed with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she admitted; “it was stupid.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out.” His hand had +strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh +to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you were going away,” she said, in an uneven voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I am, after I have said good night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good night,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night +until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"></a>XXXII</h3> + +<p> +When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife’s intention to abandon her home +and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of +unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which he was +unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted upon her rash +impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and above all else, +what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal when he uttered this +warning; that was a thing which would never have entered into his mind to +consider in connection with his wife’s name or his own. He was simply +thinking of his financial integrity. It might get noised about that the +Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their +<i>ménage</i> on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable +mischief to his business prospects. +</p> + +<p> +But remembering Edna’s whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing +that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he grasped the +situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his well-known business +tact and cleverness. +</p> + +<p> +The same mail which brought to Edna his letter of disapproval carried +instructions—the most minute instructions—to a well-known architect +concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, +and which he desired carried forward during his temporary absence. +</p> + +<p> +Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the furniture, +carpets, pictures—everything movable, in short—to places of +security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned over +to the artisans. There was to be an addition—a small snuggery; there was +to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms as had not +yet been subjected to this improvement. +</p> + +<p> +Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the effect +that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn abroad, and +that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing sumptuous +alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy until their return. Mr. +Pontellier had saved appearances! +</p> + +<p> +Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk his +intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier was accepted and +taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that it should be so. +</p> + +<p> +The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character of a +home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected like a warm +glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in the social scale, +with a corresponding sense of having risen in the spiritual. Every step which +she took toward relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and +expansion as an individual. She began to look with her own eyes; to see and to +apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No longer was she content to +“feed upon opinion” when her own soul had invited her. +</p> + +<p> +After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a week with +her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, with all the +summer’s promise hovering in the air. +</p> + +<p> +How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when she felt +their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks pressed against her +own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with hungry eyes that could not +be satisfied with looking. And what stories they had to tell their mother! +About the pigs, the cows, the mules! About riding to the mill behind Gluglu; +fishing back in the lake with their Uncle Jasper; picking pecans with +Lidie’s little black brood, and hauling chips in their express wagon. It +was a thousand times more fun to haul real chips for old lame Susie’s +real fire than to drag painted blocks along the banquette on Esplanade Street! +</p> + +<p> +She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the darkies +laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in the back lake. +She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of herself, and +gathering and filling herself with their young existence. They listened, +breathless, when she told them the house in Esplanade Street was crowded with +workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and filling the place with clatter. They +wanted to know where their bed was; what had been done with their +rocking-horse; and where did Joe sleep, and where had Ellen gone, and the cook? +But, above all, they were fired with a desire to see the little house around +the block. Was there any place to play? Were there any boys next door? Raoul, +with pessimistic foreboding, was convinced that there were only girls next +door. Where would they sleep, and where would papa sleep? She told them the +fairies would fix it all right. +</p> + +<p> +The old Madame was charmed with Edna’s visit, and showered all manner of +delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that the Esplanade +Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her the promise and pretext +to keep the children indefinitely. +</p> + +<p> +It was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She carried away +with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks. All along the +journey homeward their presence lingered with her like the memory of a +delicious song. But by the time she had regained the city the song no longer +echoed in her soul. She was again alone. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"></a>XXXIII</h3> + +<p> +It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz that the little +musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some small necessary household +purchase. The key was always left in a secret hiding-place in the entry, which +Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to be away, Edna would usually enter and +wait for her return. +</p> + +<p> +When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s door one afternoon there was no +response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered and found the apartment +deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled up, and it was for +a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, that she sought out her friend. +</p> + +<p> +She had worked at her canvas—a young Italian character study—all +the morning, completing the work without the model; but there had been many +interruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and others of a social +nature. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too public +thoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had neglected her much of +late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the little house and the +manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to hear all about the dinner +party; Monsieur Ratignolle had left <i>so</i> early. What had happened after he +left? The champagne and grapes which Edna sent over were <i>too</i> delicious. +She had so little appetite; they had refreshed and toned her stomach. Where on +earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier in that little house, and the boys? +And then she made Edna promise to go to her when her hour of trial overtook +her. +</p> + +<p> +“At any time—any time of the day or night, dear,” Edna +assured her. +</p> + +<p> +Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said: +</p> + +<p> +“In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without a +certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That is the +reason I want to say you mustn’t mind if I advise you to be a little +careful while you are living here alone. Why don’t you have some one come +and stay with you? Wouldn’t Mademoiselle Reisz come?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; she wouldn’t wish to come, and I shouldn’t want her +always with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the reason—you know how evil-minded the world is—some +one was talking of Alcée Arobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn’t +matter if Mr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignolle +was telling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a +woman’s name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he boast of his successes?” asked Edna, indifferently, +squinting at her picture. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes. +But his character is so well known among the men. I shan’t be able to +come back and see you; it was very, very imprudent to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mind the step!” cried Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t neglect me,” entreated Madame Ratignolle; “and +don’t mind what I said about Arobin, or having some one to stay with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” Edna laughed. “You may say anything you like +to me.” They kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not far to +go, and Edna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the street. +</p> + +<p> +Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made their +“party call.” Edna felt that they might have dispensed with the +formality. They had also come to invite her to play <i>vingt-et-un</i> one +evening at Mrs. Merriman’s. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and Mr. +Merriman or Mr. Arobin would take her home. Edna accepted in a half-hearted +way. She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman. +</p> + +<p> +Late in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, and stayed +there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invade her with the very +atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room. +</p> + +<p> +Edna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops and across the +river. The window frame was filled with pots of flowers, and she sat and picked +the dry leaves from a rose geranium. The day was warm, and the breeze which +blew from the river was very pleasant. She removed her hat and laid it on the +piano. She went on picking the leaves and digging around the plants with her +hat pin. Once she thought she heard Mademoiselle Reisz approaching. But it was +a young black girl, who came in, bringing a small bundle of laundry, which she +deposited in the adjoining room, and went away. +</p> + +<p> +Edna seated herself at the piano, and softly picked out with one hand the bars +of a piece of music which lay open before her. A half-hour went by. There was +the occasional sound of people going and coming in the lower hall. She was +growing interested in her occupation of picking out the aria, when there was a +second rap at the door. She vaguely wondered what these people did when they +found Mademoiselle’s door locked. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” she called, turning her face toward the door. And this +time it was Robert Lebrun who presented himself. She attempted to rise; she +could not have done so without betraying the agitation which mastered her at +sight of him, so she fell back upon the stool, only exclaiming, “Why, +Robert!” +</p> + +<p> +He came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what he was saying or +doing. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen—oh! how well you look! Is +Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you come back?” asked Edna in an unsteady voice, wiping +her face with her handkerchief. She seemed ill at ease on the piano stool, and +he begged her to take the chair by the window. +</p> + +<p> +She did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool. +</p> + +<p> +“I returned day before yesterday,” he answered, while he leaned his +arm on the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound. +</p> + +<p> +“Day before yesterday!” she repeated, aloud; and went on thinking +to herself, “day before yesterday,” in a sort of an uncomprehending +way. She had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour, and he had lived +under the same sky since day before yesterday; while only by accident had he +stumbled upon her. Mademoiselle must have lied when she said, “Poor fool, +he loves you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Day before yesterday,” she repeated, breaking off a spray of +Mademoiselle’s geranium; “then if you had not met me here to-day +you wouldn’t—when—that is, didn’t you mean to come and +see me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, I should have gone to see you. There have been so many +things—” he turned the leaves of Mademoiselle’s music +nervously. “I started in at once yesterday with the old firm. After all +there is as much chance for me here as there was there—that is, I might +find it profitable some day. The Mexicans were not very congenial.” +</p> + +<p> +So he had come back because the Mexicans were not congenial; because business +was as profitable here as there; because of any reason, and not because he +cared to be near her. She remembered the day she sat on the floor, turning the +pages of his letter, seeking the reason which was left untold. +</p> + +<p> +She had not noticed how he looked—only feeling his presence; but she +turned deliberately and observed him. After all, he had been absent but a few +months, and was not changed. His hair—the color of hers—waved back +from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more burned than +it had been at Grand Isle. She found in his eyes, when he looked at her for one +silent moment, the same tender caress, with an added warmth and entreaty which +had not been there before—the same glance which had penetrated to the +sleeping places of her soul and awakened them. +</p> + +<p> +A hundred times Edna had pictured Robert’s return, and imagined their +first meeting. It was usually at her home, whither he had sought her out at +once. She always fancied him expressing or betraying in some way his love for +her. And here, the reality was that they sat ten feet apart, she at the window, +crushing geranium leaves in her hand and smelling them, he twirling around on +the piano stool, saying: +</p> + +<p> +“I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier’s absence; +it’s a wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your +moving—mother told me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to +New York with him, or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered +here with housekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan’t +have you at Grand Isle next summer; it won’t seem—do you see much +of Mademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she +wrote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went +away?” A flush overspread his whole face. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t believe that my letters would be of any interest to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is an excuse; it isn’t the truth.” Edna reached for her +hat on the piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil +of hair with some deliberation. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?” asked Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to come +back till late.” She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you wait for her?” asked Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“Not if you think she will not be back till late,” adding, as if +suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, “and I should miss the +pleasure of walking home with you.” Edna locked the door and put the key +back in its hiding-place. +</p> + +<p> +They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks +encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the distance they +rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the Pontellier mansion, which +looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert had never known the house, and +looked at it with interest. +</p> + +<p> +“I never knew you in your home,” he remarked. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you did not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it +seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into +the little house. +</p> + +<p> +“You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it +is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you.” +</p> + +<p> +She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse about +his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an engagement. +She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was growing dusk. When he +saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained, with all the soft lines gone +out of it, he threw his hat aside and seated himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you know I want to stay if you will let me!” he exclaimed. All +the softness came back. She laughed, and went and put her hand on his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the first moment you have seemed like the old Robert. I’ll +go tell Celestine.” She hurried away to tell Celestine to set an extra +place. She even sent her off in search of some added delicacy which she had not +thought of for herself. And she recommended great care in dripping the coffee +and having the omelet done to a proper turn. +</p> + +<p> +When she reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things +that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a photograph, and +exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +“Alcée Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tried to make a sketch of his head one day,” answered Edna, +“and he thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. +I thought it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing +materials.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I have a great many such photographs. I never think of returning +them. They don’t amount to anything.” Robert kept on looking at the +picture. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me—do you think his head worth drawing? Is he a friend +of Mr. Pontellier’s? You never said you knew him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He isn’t a friend of Mr. Pontellier’s; he’s a friend +of mine. I always knew him—that is, it is only of late that I know him +pretty well. But I’d rather talk about you, and know what you have been +seeing and doing and feeling out there in Mexico.” Robert threw aside the +picture. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the +quiet, grassy street of the <i>Chênière;</i> the old fort at Grande Terre. +I’ve been working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There was +nothing interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +She leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light. +</p> + +<p> +“And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these +days?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the +quiet, grassy street of the <i>Chênière Caminada;</i> the old sunny fort at +Grande Terre. I’ve been working with a little more comprehension than a +machine, and still feeling like a lost soul. There was nothing +interesting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Pontellier, you are cruel,” he said, with feeling, closing +his eyes and resting his head back in his chair. They remained in silence till +old Celestine announced dinner. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"></a>XXXIV</h3> + +<p> +The dining-room was very small. Edna’s round mahogany would have almost +filled it. As it was there was but a step or two from the little table to the +kitchen, to the mantel, the small buffet, and the side door that opened out on +the narrow brick-paved yard. +</p> + +<p> +A certain degree of ceremony settled upon them with the announcement of dinner. +There was no return to personalities. Robert related incidents of his sojourn +in Mexico, and Edna talked of events likely to interest him, which had occurred +during his absence. The dinner was of ordinary quality, except for the few +delicacies which she had sent out to purchase. Old Celestine, with a bandana +<i>tignon</i> twisted about her head, hobbled in and out, taking a personal +interest in everything; and she lingered occasionally to talk patois with +Robert, whom she had known as a boy. +</p> + +<p> +He went out to a neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, and when +he came back he found that Celestine had served the black coffee in the parlor. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back,” he said. “When +you are tired of me, tell me to go.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never tire me. You must have forgotten the hours and hours at Grand +Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle,” he said, not looking at +her, but rolling a cigarette. His tobacco pouch, which he laid upon the table, +was a fantastic embroidered silk affair, evidently the handiwork of a woman. +</p> + +<p> +“You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,” said Edna, +picking up the pouch and examining the needlework. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; it was lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,” +he replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +“They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very +picturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was she like—the one who gave you the pouch? You must have +known her very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was very ordinary. She wasn’t of the slightest importance. I +knew her well enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you visit at her house? Was it interesting? I should like to know +and hear about the people you met, and the impressions they made on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the +imprint of an oar upon the water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was she such a one?” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be ungenerous for me to admit that she was of that order and +kind.” He thrust the pouch back in his pocket, as if to put away the +subject with the trifle which had brought it up. +</p> + +<p> +Arobin dropped in with a message from Mrs. Merriman, to say that the card party +was postponed on account of the illness of one of her children. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Arobin?” said Robert, rising from the obscurity. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did they +treat you down in Mexique?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fairly well.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not well enough to keep you there. Stunning girls, though, in +Mexico. I thought I should never get away from Vera Cruz when I was down there +a couple of years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands and things +for you?” asked Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! my! no! I didn’t get so deep in their regard. I fear they made +more impression on me than I made on them.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were less fortunate than Robert, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender +confidences?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been imposing myself long enough,” said Robert, rising, +and shaking hands with Edna. “Please convey my regards to Mr. Pontellier +when you write.” +</p> + +<p> +He shook hands with Arobin and went away. +</p> + +<p> +“Fine fellow, that Lebrun,” said Arobin when Robert had gone. +“I never heard you speak of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew him last summer at Grand Isle,” she replied. “Here is +that photograph of yours. Don’t you want it?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do I want with it? Throw it away.” She threw it back on the +table. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not going to Mrs. Merriman’s,” she said. “If +you see her, tell her so. But perhaps I had better write. I think I shall write +now, and say that I am sorry her child is sick, and tell her not to count on +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It would be a good scheme,” acquiesced Arobin. “I +don’t blame you; stupid lot!” +</p> + +<p> +Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to write the +note. Arobin lit a cigar and read the evening paper, which he had in his +pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the date?” she asked. He told her. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you mail this for me when you go out?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while +she straightened things on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want to do?” he asked, throwing aside the paper. +“Do you want to go out for a walk or a drive or anything? It would be a +fine night to drive.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I don’t want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and +amuse yourself. Don’t stay.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go away if I must; but I shan’t amuse myself. You know +that I only live when I am near you.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood up to bid her good night. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that one of the things you always say to women?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have said it before, but I don’t think I ever came so near +meaning it,” he answered with a smile. There were no warm lights in her +eyes; only a dreamy, absent look. +</p> + +<p> +“Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,” he said, and he kissed her +hand and went away. +</p> + +<p> +She stayed alone in a kind of reverie—a sort of stupor. Step by step she +lived over every instant of the time she had been with Robert after he had +entered Mademoiselle Reisz’s door. She recalled his words, his looks. How +few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A vision—a +transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose before her. She writhed +with a jealous pang. She wondered when he would come back. He had not said he +would come back. She had been with him, had heard his voice and touched his +hand. But some way he had seemed nearer to her off there in Mexico. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"></a>XXXV</h3> + +<p> +The morning was full of sunlight and hope. Edna could see before her no +denial—only the promise of excessive joy. She lay in bed awake, with +bright eyes full of speculation. “He loves you, poor fool.” If she +could but get that conviction firmly fixed in her mind, what mattered about the +rest? She felt she had been childish and unwise the night before in giving +herself over to despondency. She recapitulated the motives which no doubt +explained Robert’s reserve. They were not insurmountable; they would not +hold if he really loved her; they could not hold against her own passion, which +he must come to realize in time. She pictured him going to his business that +morning. She even saw how he was dressed; how he walked down one street, and +turned the corner of another; saw him bending over his desk, talking to people +who entered the office, going to his lunch, and perhaps watching for her on the +street. He would come to her in the afternoon or evening, sit and roll his +cigarette, talk a little, and go away as he had done the night before. But how +delicious it would be to have him there with her! She would have no regrets, +nor seek to penetrate his reserve if he still chose to wear it. +</p> + +<p> +Edna ate her breakfast only half dressed. The maid brought her a delicious +printed scrawl from Raoul, expressing his love, asking her to send him some +bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning ten tiny white pigs all +lying in a row beside Lidie’s big white pig. +</p> + +<p> +A letter also came from her husband, saying he hoped to be back early in March, +and then they would get ready for that journey abroad which he had promised her +so long, which he felt now fully able to afford; he felt able to travel as +people should, without any thought of small economies—thanks to his +recent speculations in Wall Street. +</p> + +<p> +Much to her surprise she received a note from Arobin, written at midnight from +the club. It was to say good morning to her, to hope she had slept well, to +assure her of his devotion, which he trusted she in some faintest manner +returned. +</p> + +<p> +All these letters were pleasing to her. She answered the children in a cheerful +frame of mind, promising them bonbons, and congratulating them upon their happy +find of the little pigs. +</p> + +<p> +She answered her husband with friendly evasiveness,—not with any fixed +design to mislead him, only because all sense of reality had gone out of her +life; she had abandoned herself to Fate, and awaited the consequences with +indifference. +</p> + +<p> +To Arobin’s note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine’s +stove-lid. +</p> + +<p> +Edna worked several hours with much spirit. She saw no one but a picture +dealer, who asked her if it were true that she was going abroad to study in +Paris. +</p> + +<p> +She said possibly she might, and he negotiated with her for some Parisian +studies to reach him in time for the holiday trade in December. +</p> + +<p> +Robert did not come that day. She was keenly disappointed. He did not come the +following day, nor the next. Each morning she awoke with hope, and each night +she was a prey to despondency. She was tempted to seek him out. But far from +yielding to the impulse, she avoided any occasion which might throw her in his +way. She did not go to Mademoiselle Reisz’s nor pass by Madame +Lebrun’s, as she might have done if he had still been in Mexico. +</p> + +<p> +When Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she went—out to the +lake, on the Shell Road. His horses were full of mettle, and even a little +unmanageable. She liked the rapid gait at which they spun along, and the quick, +sharp sound of the horses’ hoofs on the hard road. They did not stop +anywhere to eat or to drink. Arobin was not needlessly imprudent. But they ate +and they drank when they regained Edna’s little dining-room—which +was comparatively early in the evening. +</p> + +<p> +It was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passing whim +with Arobin to see her and be with her. He had detected the latent sensuality, +which unfolded under his delicate sense of her nature’s requirements like +a torpid, torrid, sensitive blossom. +</p> + +<p> +There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there hope +when she awoke in the morning. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"></a>XXXVI</h3> + +<p> +There was a garden out in the suburbs; a small, leafy corner, with a few green +tables under the orange trees. An old cat slept all day on the stone step in +the sun, and an old <i>mulatresse</i> slept her idle hours away in her chair at +the open window, till some one happened to knock on one of the green tables. +She had milk and cream cheese to sell, and bread and butter. There was no one +who could make such excellent coffee or fry a chicken so golden brown as she. +</p> + +<p> +The place was too modest to attract the attention of people of fashion, and so +quiet as to have escaped the notice of those in search of pleasure and +dissipation. Edna had discovered it accidentally one day when the high-board +gate stood ajar. She caught sight of a little green table, blotched with the +checkered sunlight that filtered through the quivering leaves overhead. Within +she had found the slumbering <i>mulatresse</i>, the drowsy cat, and a glass of +milk which reminded her of the milk she had tasted in Iberville. +</p> + +<p> +She often stopped there during her perambulations; sometimes taking a book with +her, and sitting an hour or two under the trees when she found the place +deserted. Once or twice she took a quiet dinner there alone, having instructed +Celestine beforehand to prepare no dinner at home. It was the last place in the +city where she would have expected to meet any one she knew. +</p> + +<p> +Still she was not astonished when, as she was partaking of a modest dinner late +in the afternoon, looking into an open book, stroking the cat, which had made +friends with her—she was not greatly astonished to see Robert come in at +the tall garden gate. +</p> + +<p> +“I am destined to see you only by accident,” she said, shoving the +cat off the chair beside her. He was surprised, ill at ease, almost embarrassed +at meeting her thus so unexpectedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you come here often?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I almost live here,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche’s good coffee. +This is the first time since I came back.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll bring you a plate, and you will share my dinner. +There’s always enough for two—even three.” Edna had intended +to be indifferent and as reserved as he when she met him; she had reached the +determination by a laborious train of reasoning, incident to one of her +despondent moods. But her resolve melted when she saw him before designing +Providence had led him into her path. +</p> + +<p> +“Why have you kept away from me, Robert?” she asked, closing the +book that lay open upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Why are you so personal, Mrs. Pontellier? Why do you force me to idiotic +subterfuges?” he exclaimed with sudden warmth. “I suppose +there’s no use telling you I’ve been very busy, or that I’ve +been sick, or that I’ve been to see you and not found you at home. Please +let me off with any one of these excuses.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are the embodiment of selfishness,” she said. “You save +yourself something—I don’t know what—but there is some +selfish motive, and in sparing yourself you never consider for a moment what I +think, or how I feel your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you +would call unwomanly; but I have got into a habit of expressing myself. It +doesn’t matter to me, and you may think me unwomanly if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I only think you cruel, as I said the other day. Maybe not +intentionally cruel; but you seem to be forcing me into disclosures which can +result in nothing; as if you would have me bare a wound for the pleasure of +looking at it, without the intention or power of healing it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You +haven’t eaten a morsel.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only came in for a cup of coffee.” His sensitive face was all +disfigured with excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t this a delightful place?” she remarked. “I am so +glad it has never actually been discovered. It is so quiet, so sweet, here. Do +you notice there is scarcely a sound to be heard? It’s so out of the way; +and a good walk from the car. However, I don’t mind walking. I always +feel so sorry for women who don’t like to walk; they miss so +much—so many rare little glimpses of life; and we women learn so little +of life on the whole. +</p> + +<p> +“Catiche’s coffee is always hot. I don’t know how she manages +it, here in the open air. Celestine’s coffee gets cold bringing it from +the kitchen to the dining-room. Three lumps! How can you drink it so sweet? +Take some of the cress with your chop; it’s so biting and crisp. Then +there’s the advantage of being able to smoke with your coffee out here. +Now, in the city—aren’t you going to smoke?” +</p> + +<p> +“After a while,” he said, laying a cigar on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Who gave it to you?” she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I bought it. I suppose I’m getting reckless; I bought a whole +box.” She was determined not to be personal again and make him +uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +The cat made friends with him, and climbed into his lap when he smoked his +cigar. He stroked her silky fur, and talked a little about her. He looked at +Edna’s book, which he had read; and he told her the end, to save her the +trouble of wading through it, he said. +</p> + +<p> +Again he accompanied her back to her home; and it was after dusk when they +reached the little “pigeon-house.” She did not ask him to remain, +which he was grateful for, as it permitted him to stay without the discomfort +of blundering through an excuse which he had no intention of considering. He +helped her to light the lamp; then she went into her room to take off her hat +and to bathe her face and hands. +</p> + +<p> +When she came back Robert was not examining the pictures and magazines as +before; he sat off in the shadow, leaning his head back on the chair as if in a +reverie. Edna lingered a moment beside the table, arranging the books there. +Then she went across the room to where he sat. She bent over the arm of his +chair and called his name. +</p> + +<p> +“Robert,” she said, “are you asleep?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he answered, looking up at her. +</p> + +<p> +She leaned over and kissed him—a soft, cool, delicate kiss, whose +voluptuous sting penetrated his whole being—then she moved away from him. +He followed, and took her in his arms, just holding her close to him. She put +her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek against her own. The action was +full of love and tenderness. He sought her lips again. Then he drew her down +upon the sofa beside him and held her hand in both of his. +</p> + +<p> +“Now you know,” he said, “now you know what I have been +fighting against since last summer at Grand Isle; what drove me away and drove +me back again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why have you been fighting against it?” she asked. Her face glowed +with soft lights. +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Because you were not free; you were Léonce Pontellier’s wife. +I couldn’t help loving you if you were ten times his wife; but so long as +I went away from you and kept away I could help telling you so.” She put +her free hand up to his shoulder, and then against his cheek, rubbing it +softly. He kissed her again. His face was warm and flushed. +</p> + +<p> +“There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not writing to me,” she interrupted. +</p> + +<p> +“Something put into my head that you cared for me; and I lost my senses. +I forgot everything but a wild dream of your some way becoming my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your wife!” +</p> + +<p> +“Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must have forgotten that I was Léonce Pontellier’s +wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men +who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we have heard of such things.” +</p> + +<p> +“I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got +here—” +</p> + +<p> +“When you got here you never came near me!” She was still caressing +his cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had +been willing.” +</p> + +<p> +She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never +withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, +and the lips. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of +impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no +longer one of Mr. Pontellier’s possessions to dispose of or not. I give +myself where I choose. If he were to say, ‘Here, Robert, take her and be +happy; she is yours,’ I should laugh at you both.” +</p> + +<p> +His face grew a little white. “What do you mean?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +There was a knock at the door. Old Celestine came in to say that Madame +Ratignolle’s servant had come around the back way with a message that +Madame had been taken sick and begged Mrs. Pontellier to go to her immediately. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes,” said Edna, rising; “I promised. Tell her +yes—to wait for me. I’ll go back with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me walk over with you,” offered Robert. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said; “I will go with the servant.” She went +into her room to put on her hat, and when she came in again she sat once more +upon the sofa beside him. He had not stirred. She put her arms about his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by.” He kissed her with a +degree of passion which had not before entered into his caress, and strained +her to him. +</p> + +<p> +“I love you,” she whispered, “only you; no one but you. It +was you who awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have +made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! Now +you are here we shall love each other, my Robert. We shall be everything to +each other. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence. I must go to my +friend; but you will wait for me? No matter how late; you will wait for me, +Robert?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go; don’t go! Oh! Edna, stay with me,” he +pleaded. “Why should you go? Stay with me, stay with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall come back as soon as I can; I shall find you here.” She +buried her face in his neck, and said good-by again. Her seductive voice, +together with his great love for her, had enthralled his senses, had deprived +him of every impulse but the longing to hold her and keep her. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"></a>XXXVII</h3> + +<p> +Edna looked in at the drug store. Monsieur Ratignolle was putting up a mixture +himself, very carefully, dropping a red liquid into a tiny glass. He was +grateful to Edna for having come; her presence would be a comfort to his wife. +Madame Ratignolle’s sister, who had always been with her at such trying +times, had not been able to come up from the plantation, and Adèle had been +inconsolable until Mrs. Pontellier so kindly promised to come to her. The nurse +had been with them at night for the past week, as she lived a great distance +away. And Dr. Mandelet had been coming and going all the afternoon. They were +then looking for him any moment. +</p> + +<p> +Edna hastened upstairs by a private stairway that led from the rear of the +store to the apartments above. The children were all sleeping in a back room. +Madame Ratignolle was in the salon, whither she had strayed in her suffering +impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample white <i>peignoir</i>, +holding a handkerchief tight in her hand with a nervous clutch. Her face was +drawn and pinched, her sweet blue eyes haggard and unnatural. All her beautiful +hair had been drawn back and plaited. It lay in a long braid on the sofa +pillow, coiled like a golden serpent. The nurse, a comfortable looking Griffe +woman in white apron and cap, was urging her to return to her bedroom. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no use, there is no use,” she said at once to Edna. +“We must get rid of Mandelet; he is getting too old and careless. He said +he would be here at half-past seven; now it must be eight. See what time it is, +Joséphine.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman was possessed of a cheerful nature, and refused to take any situation +too seriously, especially a situation with which she was so familiar. She urged +Madame to have courage and patience. But Madame only set her teeth hard into +her under lip, and Edna saw the sweat gather in beads on her white forehead. +After a moment or two she uttered a profound sigh and wiped her face with the +handkerchief rolled in a ball. She appeared exhausted. The nurse gave her a +fresh handkerchief, sprinkled with cologne water. +</p> + +<p> +“This is too much!” she cried. “Mandelet ought to be killed! +Where is Alphonse? Is it possible I am to be abandoned like +this—neglected by every one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Neglected, indeed!” exclaimed the nurse. Wasn’t she there? +And here was Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to +devote to her? And wasn’t Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant +through the hall? And Joséphine was quite sure she had heard Doctor +Mandelet’s coupé. Yes, there it was, down at the door. +</p> + +<p> +Adèle consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little low +couch next to her bed. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle’s upbraidings. He +was accustomed to them at such times, and was too well convinced of her loyalty +to doubt it. +</p> + +<p> +He was glad to see Edna, and wanted her to go with him into the salon and +entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle would not consent that Edna should leave +her for an instant. Between agonizing moments, she chatted a little, and said +it took her mind off her sufferings. +</p> + +<p> +Edna began to feel uneasy. She was seized with a vague dread. Her own like +experiences seemed far away, unreal, and only half remembered. She recalled +faintly an ecstasy of pain, the heavy odor of chloroform, a stupor which had +deadened sensation, and an awakening to find a little new life to which she had +given being, added to the great unnumbered multitude of souls that come and go. +</p> + +<p> +She began to wish she had not come; her presence was not necessary. She might +have invented a pretext for staying away; she might even invent a pretext now +for going. But Edna did not go. With an inward agony, with a flaming, outspoken +revolt against the ways of Nature, she witnessed the scene of torture. +</p> + +<p> +She was still stunned and speechless with emotion when later she leaned over +her friend to kiss her and softly say good-by. Adèle, pressing her cheek, +whispered in an exhausted voice: “Think of the children, Edna. Oh think +of the children! Remember them!” +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"></a>XXXVIII</h3> + +<p> +Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The Doctor’s +coupé had returned for him and stood before the <i>porte cochère</i>. She did +not wish to enter the coupé, and told Doctor Mandelet she would walk; she was +not afraid, and would go alone. He directed his carriage to meet him at Mrs. +Pontellier’s, and he started to walk home with her. +</p> + +<p> +Up—away up, over the narrow street between the tall houses, the stars +were blazing. The air was mild and caressing, but cool with the breath of +spring and the night. They walked slowly, the Doctor with a heavy, measured +tread and his hands behind him; Edna, in an absent-minded way, as she had +walked one night at Grand Isle, as if her thoughts had gone ahead of her and +she was striving to overtake them. +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t have been there, Mrs. Pontellier,” he said. +“That was no place for you. Adèle is full of whims at such times. There +were a dozen women she might have had with her, unimpressionable women. I felt +that it was cruel, cruel. You shouldn’t have gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” she answered, indifferently. “I don’t know +that it matters after all. One has to think of the children some time or other; +the sooner the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“When is Léonce coming back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite soon. Some time in March.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are going abroad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps—no, I am not going. I’m not going to be forced into +doing things. I don’t want to go abroad. I want to be let alone. Nobody +has any right—except children, perhaps—and even then, it seems to +me—or it did seem—” She felt that her speech was voicing the +incoherency of her thoughts, and stopped abruptly. +</p> + +<p> +“The trouble is,” sighed the Doctor, grasping her meaning +intuitively, “that youth is given up to illusions. It seems to be a +provision of Nature; a decoy to secure mothers for the race. And Nature takes +no account of moral consequences, of arbitrary conditions which we create, and +which we feel obliged to maintain at any cost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. “The years that are gone seem like +dreams—if one might go on sleeping and dreaming—but to wake up and +find—oh! well! perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, +rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me, my dear child,” said the Doctor at parting, +holding her hand, “you seem to me to be in trouble. I am not going to ask +for your confidence. I will only say that if ever you feel moved to give it to +me, perhaps I might help you. I know I would understand. And I tell you there +are not many who would—not many, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Some way I don’t feel moved to speak of things that trouble me. +Don’t think I am ungrateful or that I don’t appreciate your +sympathy. There are periods of despondency and suffering which take possession +of me. But I don’t want anything but my own way. That is wanting a good +deal, of course, when you have to trample upon the lives, the hearts, the +prejudices of others—but no matter—still, I shouldn’t want to +trample upon the little lives. Oh! I don’t know what I’m saying, +Doctor. Good night. Don’t blame me for anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will blame you if you don’t come and see me soon. We will +talk of things you never have dreamt of talking about before. It will do us +both good. I don’t want you to blame yourself, whatever comes. Good +night, my child.” +</p> + +<p> +She let herself in at the gate, but instead of entering she sat upon the step +of the porch. The night was quiet and soothing. All the tearing emotion of the +last few hours seemed to fall away from her like a somber, uncomfortable +garment, which she had but to loosen to be rid of. She went back to that hour +before Adèle had sent for her; and her senses kindled afresh in thinking of +Robert’s words, the pressure of his arms, and the feeling of his lips +upon her own. She could picture at that moment no greater bliss on earth than +possession of the beloved one. His expression of love had already given him to +her in part. When she thought that he was there at hand, waiting for her, she +grew numb with the intoxication of expectancy. It was so late; he would be +asleep perhaps. She would awaken him with a kiss. She hoped he would be asleep +that she might arouse him with her caresses. +</p> + +<p> +Still, she remembered Adèle’s voice whispering, “Think of the +children; think of them.” She meant to think of them; that determination +had driven into her soul like a death wound—but not to-night. To-morrow +would be time to think of everything. +</p> + +<p> +Robert was not waiting for her in the little parlor. He was nowhere at hand. +The house was empty. But he had scrawled on a piece of paper that lay in the +lamplight: +</p> + +<p> +“I love you. Good-by—because I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +Edna grew faint when she read the words. She went and sat on the sofa. Then she +stretched herself out there, never uttering a sound. She did not sleep. She did +not go to bed. The lamp sputtered and went out. She was still awake in the +morning, when Celestine unlocked the kitchen door and came in to light the +fire. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"></a>XXXIX</h3> + +<p> +Victor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching a corner of +one of the galleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling her legs, watching him +work, and handing him nails from the tool-box. The sun was beating down upon +them. The girl had covered her head with her apron folded into a square pad. +They had been talking for an hour or more. She was never tired of hearing +Victor describe the dinner at Mrs. Pontellier’s. He exaggerated every +detail, making it appear a veritable Lucullean feast. The flowers were in tubs, +he said. The champagne was quaffed from huge golden goblets. Venus rising from +the foam could have presented no more entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. +Pontellier, blazing with beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while +the other women were all of them youthful houris, possessed of incomparable +charms. She got it into her head that Victor was in love with Mrs. Pontellier, +and he gave her evasive answers, framed so as to confirm her belief. She grew +sullen and cried a little, threatening to go off and leave him to his fine +ladies. There were a dozen men crazy about her at the <i>Chênière;</i> and +since it was the fashion to be in love with married people, why, she could run +away any time she liked to New Orleans with Célina’s husband. +</p> + +<p> +Célina’s husband was a fool, a coward, and a pig, and to prove it to her, +Victor intended to hammer his head into a jelly the next time he encountered +him. This assurance was very consoling to Mariequita. She dried her eyes, and +grew cheerful at the prospect. +</p> + +<p> +They were still talking of the dinner and the allurements of city life when +Mrs. Pontellier herself slipped around the corner of the house. The two +youngsters stayed dumb with amazement before what they considered to be an +apparition. But it was really she in flesh and blood, looking tired and a +little travel-stained. +</p> + +<p> +“I walked up from the wharf,” she said, “and heard the +hammering. I supposed it was you, mending the porch. It’s a good thing. I +was always tripping over those loose planks last summer. How dreary and +deserted everything looks!” +</p> + +<p> +It took Victor some little time to comprehend that she had come in +Beaudelet’s lugger, that she had come alone, and for no purpose but to +rest. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing fixed up yet, you see. I’ll give you my +room; it’s the only place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Any corner will do,” she assured him. +</p> + +<p> +“And if you can stand Philomel’s cooking,” he went on, +“though I might try to get her mother while you are here. Do you think +she would come?” turning to Mariequita. +</p> + +<p> +Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel’s mother might come for a few +days, and money enough. +</p> + +<p> +Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once suspected a +lovers’ rendezvous. But Victor’s astonishment was so genuine, and +Mrs. Pontellier’s indifference so apparent, that the disturbing notion +did not lodge long in her brain. She contemplated with the greatest interest +this woman who gave the most sumptuous dinners in America, and who had all the +men in New Orleans at her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“What time will you have dinner?” asked Edna. “I’m very +hungry; but don’t get anything extra.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll have it ready in little or no time,” he said, bustling +and packing away his tools. “You may go to my room to brush up and rest +yourself. Mariequita will show you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” said Edna. “But, do you know, I have a notion to +go down to the beach and take a good wash and even a little swim, before +dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“The water is too cold!” they both exclaimed. “Don’t +think of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I might go down and try—dip my toes in. Why, it seems to me +the sun is hot enough to have warmed the very depths of the ocean. Could you +get me a couple of towels? I’d better go right away, so as to be back in +time. It would be a little too chilly if I waited till this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +Mariequita ran over to Victor’s room, and returned with some towels, +which she gave to Edna. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you have fish for dinner,” said Edna, as she started to +walk away; “but don’t do anything extra if you +haven’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Run and find Philomel’s mother,” Victor instructed the girl. +“I’ll go to the kitchen and see what I can do. By Gimminy! Women +have no consideration! She might have sent me word.” +</p> + +<p> +Edna walked on down to the beach rather mechanically, not noticing anything +special except that the sun was hot. She was not dwelling upon any particular +train of thought. She had done all the thinking which was necessary after +Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa till morning. +</p> + +<p> +She had said over and over to herself: “To-day it is Arobin; to-morrow it +will be some one else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn’t matter +about Léonce Pontellier—but Raoul and Etienne!” She understood now +clearly what she had meant long ago when she said to Adèle Ratignolle that she +would give up the unessential, but she would never sacrifice herself for her +children. +</p> + +<p> +Despondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had never lifted. +There was no one thing in the world that she desired. There was no human being +whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she even realized that the day +would come when he, too, and the thought of him would melt out of her +existence, leaving her alone. The children appeared before her like antagonists +who had overcome her; who had overpowered and sought to drag her into the +soul’s slavery for the rest of her days. But she knew a way to elude +them. She was not thinking of these things when she walked down to the beach. +</p> + +<p> +The water of the Gulf stretched out before her, gleaming with the million +lights of the sun. The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, +whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of +solitude. All along the white beach, up and down, there was no living thing in +sight. A bird with a broken wing was beating the air above, reeling, +fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the water. +</p> + +<p> +Edna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its accustomed +peg. +</p> + +<p> +She put it on, leaving her clothing in the bath-house. But when she was there +beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant, pricking garments +from her, and for the first time in her life she stood naked in the open air, +at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beat upon her, and the waves that +invited her. +</p> + +<p> +How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how delicious! +She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in a familiar world that +it had never known. +</p> + +<p> +The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpents about +her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she walked on. The water +was deep, but she lifted her white body and reached out with a long, sweeping +stroke. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close +embrace. +</p> + +<p> +She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and recalled the +terror that seized her at the fear of being unable to regain the shore. She did +not look back now, but went on and on, thinking of the blue-grass meadow that +she had traversed when a little child, believing that it had no beginning and +no end. +</p> + +<p> +Her arms and legs were growing tired. +</p> + +<p> +She thought of Léonce and the children. They were a part of her life. But they +need not have thought that they could possess her, body and soul. How +Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed, perhaps sneered, if she knew! “And +you call yourself an artist! What pretensions, Madame! The artist must possess +the courageous soul that dares and defies.” +</p> + +<p> +Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by—because I love you.” He did not know; he did not +understand. He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet would have +understood if she had seen him—but it was too late; the shore was far +behind her, and her strength was gone. +</p> + +<p> +She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then +sank again. Edna heard her father’s voice and her sister +Margaret’s. She heard the barking of an old dog that was chained to the +sycamore tree. The spurs of the cavalry officer clanged as he walked across the +porch. There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"></a>BEYOND THE BAYOU</h2> + +<p> +The bayou curved like a crescent around the point of land on which La +Folle’s cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned +field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with water +enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions the woman had +drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never stepped. This was the +form of her only mania. +</p> + +<p> +She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name was +Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle, because in +childhood she had been frightened literally “out of her senses,” +and had never wholly regained them. +</p> + +<p> +It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the woods. +Evening was near when P’tit Maître, black with powder and crimson with +blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline’s mother, his pursuers +close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason. +</p> + +<p> +She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had long +since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more physical +strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn and tobacco like +the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou she had long known nothing, +save what her morbid fancy conceived. +</p> + +<p> +People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thought +nothing of it. Even when “Old Mis’” died, they did not wonder +that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it, +wailing and lamenting. +</p> + +<p> +P’tit Maître was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man, +with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom La Folle +loved as if he had been her own. She called him Chéri, and so did every one +else because she did. +</p> + +<p> +None of the girls had ever been to her what Chéri was. They had each and all +loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of things that +always happened “yonda, beyon’ de bayou.” +</p> + +<p> +But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Chéri did, nor rested +their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep in her arms as +he used to do. For Chéri hardly did such things now, since he had become the +proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curls cut off. +</p> + +<p> +That summer—the summer Chéri gave La Folle two black curls tied with a +knot of red ribbon—the water ran so low in the bayou that even the little +children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the cattle were sent +to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when they were gone, for she +loved these dumb companions well, and liked to feel that they were there, and +to hear them browsing by night up to her own enclosure. +</p> + +<p> +It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had flocked +to a neighboring village to do their week’s trading, and the women were +occupied with household affairs,—La Folle as well as the others. It was +then she mended and washed her handful of clothes, scoured her house, and did +her baking. +</p> + +<p> +In this last employment she never forgot Chéri. To-day she had fashioned +croquignoles of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for him. So when she saw +the boy come trudging across the old field with his gleaming little new rifle +on his shoulder, she called out gayly to him, “Chéri! Chéri!” +</p> + +<p> +But Chéri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to her. His +pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange that he had +secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been given that day up at +his father’s house. +</p> + +<p> +He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets, La +Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her apron, and +smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes in his hand, he +crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and disappeared into the wood. +</p> + +<p> +He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there. +</p> + +<p> +“You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?” he had +inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Non, non!</i>” the woman laughed. “Don’t you look +fo’ no deer, Chéri. Dat’s too big. But you bring La Folle one good +fat squirrel fo’ her dinner to-morrow, an’ she goin’ be +satisfi’.” +</p> + +<p> +“One squirrel ain’t a bite. I’ll bring you mo’ +’an one, La Folle,” he had boasted pompously as he went away. +</p> + +<p> +When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy’s rifle close +to the wood’s edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a sharp cry +of distress had not followed the sound. +</p> + +<p> +She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been plunged, +dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling limbs would bear +her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had come. +</p> + +<p> +It was as she feared. There she found Chéri stretched upon the ground, with his +rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:— +</p> + +<p> +“I’m dead, La Folle! I’m dead! I’m gone!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Non, non!</i>” she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside +him. “Put you’ arm ’roun’ La Folle’s nake, Chéri. +Dat’s nuttin’; dat goin’ be nuttin’.” She lifted +him in her powerful arms. +</p> + +<p> +Chéri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled,—he did not +know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in his leg, and he +thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon the woman’s +shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can’ stan’ it, La +Folle!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry, <i>mon bébé, mon bébé, mon Chéri!</i>” the woman +spoke soothingly as she covered the ground with long strides. “La Folle +goin’ mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin’ come make <i>mon Chéri</i> +well agin.” +</p> + +<p> +She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her precious +burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to side. A terrible fear +was upon her,—the fear of the world beyond the bayou, the morbid and +insane dread she had been under since childhood. +</p> + +<p> +When she was at the bayou’s edge she stood there, and shouted for help as +if a life depended upon it:— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, P’tit Maître! P’tit Maître! Venez donc! Au secours! Au +secours!” +</p> + +<p> +No voice responded. Chéri’s hot tears were scalding her neck. She called +for each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came. +</p> + +<p> +She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or unheeded, no +reply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Chéri moaned and wept and +entreated to be taken home to his mother. +</p> + +<p> +La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was upon her. +She clasped the child close against her breast, where he could feel her heart +beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ran suddenly down the +shallow bank of the bayou, and never stopped till she had climbed the opposite +shore. +</p> + +<p> +She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she plunged +into the footpath through the trees. +</p> + +<p> +She spoke no more to Chéri, but muttered constantly, “Bon Dieu, ayez +pitié La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitié moi!” +</p> + +<p> +Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth enough +before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sight of that unknown +and terrifying world. +</p> + +<p> +A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the quarters. +The little one uttered a cry of dismay. +</p> + +<p> +“La Folle!” she screamed, in her piercing treble. “La Folle +done cross de bayer!” +</p> + +<p> +Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins. +</p> + +<p> +“Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!” +</p> + +<p> +Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms, flocked to +doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Most of them shuddered +with superstitious dread of what it might portend. “She totin’ +Chéri!” some of them shouted. +</p> + +<p> +Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels, only to +fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face upon them. Her +eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a white foam on her black +lips. +</p> + +<p> +Some one had run ahead of her to where P’tit Maître sat with his family +and guests upon the gallery. +</p> + +<p> +“P’tit Maître! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her +yonda totin’ Chéri!” This startling intimation was the first which +they had of the woman’s approach. +</p> + +<p> +She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were fixed +desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox. +</p> + +<p> +At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid the boy +in his father’s arms. Then the world that had looked red to La Folle +suddenly turned black,—like that day she had seen powder and blood. +</p> + +<p> +She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she fell +heavily to the ground. +</p> + +<p> +When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own cabin +and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the open door and +windows, gave what light was needed to the old black mammy who stood at the +table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It was very late. +</p> + +<p> +Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone again. +P’tit Maître had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, who said that +La Folle might die. +</p> + +<p> +But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with which she +spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I +b’lieve I’m goin’ sleep, me.” +</p> + +<p> +And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without +compunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields to her +own cabin in the new quarters. +</p> + +<p> +The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose, calmly, as +if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered that this +was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong black coffee, and +drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walked across the old familiar +field to the bayou’s edge again. +</p> + +<p> +She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with a long, +steady stride as if she had done this all her life. +</p> + +<p> +When she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwood-trees that +lined the opposite bank, she found herself upon the border of a field where the +white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed for acres and acres like +frosted silver in the early dawn. +</p> + +<p> +La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She walked +slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, looking about her as she +went. +</p> + +<p> +The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her, were +quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds that darted here +and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins. +</p> + +<p> +When La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surrounded the +house, she moved slowly and with delight over the springy turf, that was +delicious beneath her tread. +</p> + +<p> +She stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing her senses +with memories from a time far gone. +</p> + +<p> +There they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets that peeped +out from green, luxuriant beds. There they were, showering down from the big +waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and from the jessamine clumps +around her. +</p> + +<p> +There were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spread in broad +and graceful curves. It all looked like enchantment beneath the sparkling sheen +of dew. +</p> + +<p> +When La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that led up to +the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent she had made. Then +she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow at the foot of +Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul. +</p> + +<p> +La Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Chéri’s mother soon +cautiously opened it. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled the astonishment she +felt at seeing La Folle. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Oui</i>, madame. I come ax how my po’ li’le Chéri do, +’s mo’nin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will be +nothing serious. He’s sleeping now. Will you come back when he +awakes?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Non</i>, madame. I’m goin’ wait yair tell Chéri wake +up.” La Folle seated herself upon the topmost step of the veranda. +</p> + +<p> +A look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched for the +first time the sun rise upon the new, the beautiful world beyond the bayou. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"></a>MA’AME PÉLAGIE</h2> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"></a>I</h3> + +<p> +When the war began, there stood on Côte Joyeuse an imposing mansion of red +brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks surrounded it. +</p> + +<p> +Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull red brick +showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging vines. The huge +round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the stone flagging of hall and +portico. There had been no home so stately along the whole stretch of Côte +Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they knew it had cost Philippe Valmêt sixty +thousand dollars to build, away back in 1840. No one was in danger of +forgetting that fact, so long as his daughter Pélagie survived. She was a +queenly, white-haired woman of fifty. “Ma’ame Pélagie,” they +called her, though she was unmarried, as was her sister Pauline, a child in +Ma’ame Pélagie’s eyes; a child of thirty-five. +</p> + +<p> +The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow of the +ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma’ame Pélagie’s dream, which was +to rebuild the old home. +</p> + +<p> +It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish this end; +how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the picayunes hoarded; and +yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma’ame Pélagie felt sure of twenty +years of life before her, and counted upon as many more for her sister. And +what could not come to pass in twenty—in forty—years? +</p> + +<p> +Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee, seated +upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of Louisiana. They +loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other and the sheeny, prying +lizards for company, talking of the old times and planning for the new; while +light breezes stirred the tattered vines high up among the columns, where owls +nested. +</p> + +<p> +“We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,” +Ma’ame Pélagie would say; “perhaps the marble pillars of the salon +will have to be replaced by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. +Should you be willing, Pauline?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.” It was always, “Yes, +Sesoeur,” or “No, Sesoeur,” “Just as you please, +Sesoeur,” with poor little Mam’selle Pauline. For what did she +remember of that old life and that old spendor? Only a faint gleam here and +there; the half-consciousness of a young, uneventful existence; and then a +great crash. That meant the nearness of war; the revolt of slaves; confusion +ending in fire and flame through which she was borne safely in the strong arms +of Pélagie, and carried to the log cabin which was still their home. Their +brother, Léandre, had known more of it all than Pauline, and not so much as +Pélagie. He had left the management of the big plantation with all its memories +and traditions to his older sister, and had gone away to dwell in cities. That +was many years ago. Now, Léandre’s business called him frequently and +upon long journeys from home, and his motherless daughter was coming to stay +with her aunts at Côte Joyeuse. +</p> + +<p> +They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. +Mam’selle Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into her +pale, nervous face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and out +incessantly. +</p> + +<p> +“But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her? +How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!” +</p> + +<p> +“She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,” responded +Ma’ame Pélagie, “and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why +we live; her father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it +if we chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true +Valmêt.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Ma’ame Pélagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle her +horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the fields; and +Mam’selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled grasses +toward the cabin. +</p> + +<p> +The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent atmosphere of +an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these two, living their +dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt Pélagie, with dark eyes that +reflected joy as a still pool reflects the light of stars; and her rounded +cheek was tinged like the pink crèpe myrtle. Mam’selle Pauline kissed her +and trembled. Ma’ame Pélagie looked into her eyes with a searching gaze, +which seemed to seek a likeness of the past in the living present. +</p> + +<p> +And they made room between them for this young life. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"></a>II</h3> + +<p> +La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange, narrow +existence which she knew awaited her at Côte Joyeuse. It went well enough at +first. Sometimes she followed Ma’ame Pélagie into the fields to note how +the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count the ears of corn upon the +hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her aunt Pauline, assisting in household +offices, chattering of her brief past, or walking with the older woman +arm-in-arm under the trailing moss of the giant oaks. +</p> + +<p> +Mam’selle Pauline’s steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her +eyes were sometimes as bright as a bird’s, unless La Petite were away +from her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy +expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her +endearingly Tan’tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very +quiet,—not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then her +cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes of the white +crèpe myrtle that grew in the ruin. +</p> + +<p> +One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a hand of +each, she said: “Tante Pélagie, I must tell you something, you and +Tan’tante.” She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. “I love +you both,—please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from +you. I can’t live any longer here at Côte Joyeuse.” +</p> + +<p> +A spasm passed through Mam’selle Pauline’s delicate frame. La +Petite could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined +with her own. Ma’ame Pélagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human +eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul felt. She +said: “What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you to us, and I am +sure it is his wish that you remain.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father loves me, tante Pélagie, and such will not be his wish when he +knows. Oh!” she continued with a restless movement, “it is as +though a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the +life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day to day +over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my books, my +companions. If I had known no other life but this one of privation, I suppose +it would be different. If I had to live this life, I should make the best of +it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante Pélagie, you do not need to. It +seems to me,” she added in a whisper, “that it is a sin against +myself. Ah, Tan’tante!—what is the matter with +Tan’tante?” +</p> + +<p> +It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon pass. She +entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some water and fanned +her with a palmetto leaf. +</p> + +<p> +But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam’selle Pauline sobbed +and would not be comforted. Ma’ame Pélagie took her in her arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Pauline, my little sister Pauline,” she entreated, “I never +have seen you like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been +happy together, you and I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, Sesoeur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it because La Petite is going away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sesoeur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then she is dearer to you than I!” spoke Ma’ame Pélagie with +sharp resentment. “Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day +you were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could +cherish you. Pauline, don’t tell me that.” +</p> + +<p> +Mam’selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don’t understand it +myself. I love you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite +goes away I shall die. I can’t understand,—help me, Sesoeur. She +seems—she seems like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the +hand and was leading me somewhere—somewhere I want to go.” +</p> + +<p> +Ma’ame Pélagie had been sitting beside the bed in her <i>peignoir</i> and +slippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed down the +woman’s soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence was broken +only by Mam’selle Pauline’s continued sobs. Once Ma’ame +Pélagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to her +sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child. Almost an +hour passed before Ma’ame Pélagie spoke again. Then she said:— +</p> + +<p> +“Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make +yourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you understand? +She will stay, I promise you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mam’selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith +in the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of +Ma’ame Pélagie’s strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"></a>III</h3> + +<p> +Ma’ame Pélagie, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly and +stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not linger there, +but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she crossed the distance that +divided her cabin from the ruin. +</p> + +<p> +The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon resplendent. +But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma’ame Pélagie. It was +not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at night-time, when the +whole plantation slept; but she never before had been there with a heart so +nearly broken. She was going there for the last time to dream her dreams; to +see the visions that hitherto had crowded her days and nights, and to bid them +farewell. +</p> + +<p> +There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robust old +white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late. There are guests to +be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from the city and from the near +plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She had been abroad with Félix, and +they did not notice how the time was speeding. Félix is there; he will explain +it all. He is there beside her, but she does not want to hear what he will tell +her father. +</p> + +<p> +Ma’ame Pélagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so often +came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of the window at +her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with the moonlight, for that +is faint beside the other one—the sparkle from the crystal candelabra, +which negroes, moving noiselessly and respectfully about, are lighting, one +after the other. How the gleam of them reflects and glances from the polished +marble pillars! +</p> + +<p> +The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien Santien, +leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something which Monsieur +Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. His son Jules is with +him—Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. She wonders if Félix has +told her father yet. There is young Jérôme Lafirme playing at checkers upon the +sofa with Léandre. Little Pauline stands annoying them and disturbing the game. +Léandre reproves her. She begins to cry, and old black Clementine, her nurse, +who is not far off, limps across the room to pick her up and carry her away. +How sensitive the little one is! But she trots about and takes care of herself +better than she did a year or two ago, when she fell upon the stone hall floor +and raised a great “bo-bo” on her forehead. Pélagie was hurt and +angry enough about it; and she ordered rugs and buffalo robes to be brought and +laid thick upon the tiles, till the little one’s steps were surer. +</p> + +<p> +“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” She was saying it +aloud—“faire mal a Pauline.” +</p> + +<p> +But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where the white +crèpe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has struck +Ma’ame Pélagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is beyond +there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group of friends over +their wine. As usual they are talking politics. How tiresome! She has heard +them say “la guerre” oftener than once. La guerre. Bah! She and +Félix have something pleasanter to talk about, out under the oaks, or back in +the shadow of the oleanders. +</p> + +<p> +But they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled across +the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the whole stretch of Côte +Joyeuse. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Pélagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before her with +bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and of brazen +impudence. Pélagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not believe. Not till +Félix comes to her in the chamber above the dining hall—there where that +trumpet vine hangs—comes to say good-by to her. The hurt which the big +brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed into the tender flesh of her +bosom has never left it. She sits upon the sofa, and he beside her, both +speechless with pain. That room would not have been altered. Even the sofa +would have been there in the same spot, and Ma’ame Pélagie had meant all +along, for thirty years, all along, to lie there upon it some day when the time +came to die. +</p> + +<p> +But there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has been no +barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking the wines, +shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits. +</p> + +<p> +One of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She slaps his +face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his blanched cheek! +</p> + +<p> +Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her motionless +figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisiana can perish before +her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her knees in an agony of terror. +Little Pauline must be saved. +</p> + +<p> +“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” Again she is saying it +aloud—“faire mal à Pauline.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The night was nearly spent; Ma’ame Pélagie had glided from the bench upon +which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stone flagging, +motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to walk like one in a +dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after the other, she reached her +arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips upon the senseless brick. +</p> + +<p> +“Adieu, adieu!” whispered Ma’ame Pélagie. +</p> + +<p> +There was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar pathway to +the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that swung low in the +east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about the ruin. Even the +mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the old mulberry-tree had sung +himself asleep. That darkest hour before the day was mantling the earth. +Ma’ame Pélagie hurried through the wet, clinging grass, beating aside the +heavy moss that swept across her face, walking on toward the cabin—toward +Pauline. Not once did she look back upon the ruin that brooded like a huge +monster—a black spot in the darkness that enveloped it. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"></a>IV</h3> + +<p> +Little more than a year later the transformation which the old Valmêt place had +undergone was the talk and wonder of Côte Joyeuse. One would have looked in +vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was the log cabin. But out +in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and the breezes blew about it, was a +shapely structure fashioned from woods that the forests of the State had +furnished. It rested upon a solid foundation of brick. +</p> + +<p> +Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Léandre smoking his afternoon cigar, +and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be his <i>pied à +terre</i> now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt. The laughter +of young people was heard out under the trees, and within the house where La +Petite was playing upon the piano. With the enthusiasm of a young artist she +drew from the keys strains that seemed marvelously beautiful to Mam’selle +Pauline, who stood enraptured near her. Mam’selle Pauline had been +touched by the re-creation of Valmêt. Her cheek was as full and almost as +flushed as La Petite’s. The years were falling away from her. +</p> + +<p> +Ma’ame Pélagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends. Then +she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the music which La +Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went on around the curve +of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She stayed there, erect, holding +to the banister rail and looking out calmly in the distance across the fields. +</p> + +<p> +She was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore folded across +her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver diadem from her brow. In +her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of fires that would never flame. She +had grown very old. Years instead of months seemed to have passed over her +since the night she bade farewell to her visions. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Ma’ame Pélagie! How could it be different! While the outward +pressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps into the +light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"></a>DÉSIRÉE’S BABY</h2> + +<p> +As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L’Abri to see +Désirée and the baby. +</p> + +<p> +It made her laugh to think of Désirée with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday +that Désirée was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding +through the gateway of Valmondé had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the +big stone pillar. +</p> + +<p> +The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for “Dada.” That +was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed +there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief +was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered +wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Maïs kept, just below +the plantation. In time Madame Valmondé abandoned every speculation but the one +that Désirée had been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of +her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl +grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,—the idol of +Valmondé. +</p> + +<p> +It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose +shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding +by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the +Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he +had not loved her before; for he had known her since his father brought him +home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that +awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an +avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over +all obstacles. +</p> + +<p> +Monsieur Valmondé grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, +the girl’s obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. +He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he +could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the +<i>corbeille</i> from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could +until it arrived; then they were married. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Valmondé had not seen Désirée and the baby for four weeks. When she +reached L’Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. +It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle +presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife +in France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The +roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide +galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close +to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. +Young Aubigny’s rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had +forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master’s +easy-going and indulgent lifetime. +</p> + +<p> +The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white +muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where +he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window +fanning herself. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Valmondé bent her portly figure over Désirée and kissed her, holding her +an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child. +</p> + +<p> +“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones. French +was the language spoken at Valmondé in those days. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you would be astonished,” laughed Désirée, “at the +way he has grown. The little <i>cochon de lait!</i> Look at his legs, mamma, +and his hands and finger-nails,—real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut +them this morning. Isn’t it true, Zandrine?” +</p> + +<p> +The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, “Mais si, Madame.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the way he cries,” went on Désirée, “is deafening. +Armand heard him the other day as far away as La Blanche’s cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +Madame Valmondé had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and +walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby +narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze +across the fields. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the child has grown, has changed,” said Madame Valmondé, +slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. “What does Armand +say?” +</p> + +<p> +Désirée’s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly +because it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not,—that he would +have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn’t true. I know he says that +to please me. And mamma,” she added, drawing Madame Valmondé’s head +down to her, and speaking in a whisper, “he hasn’t punished one of +them—not one of them—since baby is born. Even Négrillon, who +pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work—he only +laughed, and said Négrillon was a great scamp. Oh, mamma, I’m so happy; +it frightens me.” +</p> + +<p> +What Désirée said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had +softened Armand Aubigny’s imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was +what made the gentle Désirée so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he +frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater +blessing of God. But Armand’s dark, handsome face had not often been +disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her. +</p> + +<p> +When the baby was about three months old, Désirée awoke one day to the +conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at +first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of +mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could +hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her +husband’s manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. When he spoke +to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old love-light seemed to have +gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence +and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed +suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Désirée was +miserable enough to die. +</p> + +<p> +She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her <i>peignoir</i>, listlessly +drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung +about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great +mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined +half-canopy. One of La Blanche’s little quadroon boys—half naked +too—stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. +Désirée’s eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she +was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. +She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over +and over. “Ah!” It was a cry that she could not help; which she was +not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a +clammy moisture gathered upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at +first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was +pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole +away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes. +</p> + +<p> +She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the +picture of fright. +</p> + +<p> +Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a +table and began to search among some papers which covered it. +</p> + +<p> +“Armand,” she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed +him, if he was human. But he did not notice. “Armand,” she said +again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. “Armand,” she panted +once more, clutching his arm, “look at our child. What does it mean? tell +me.” +</p> + +<p> +He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the +hand away from him. “Tell me what it means!” she cried +despairingly. +</p> + +<p> +“It means,” he answered lightly, “that the child is not +white; it means that you are not white.” +</p> + +<p> +A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with +unwonted courage to deny it. “It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! +Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are +gray. And my skin is fair,” seizing his wrist. “Look at my hand; +whiter than yours, Armand,” she laughed hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +“As white as La Blanche’s,” he returned cruelly; and went +away leaving her alone with their child. +</p> + +<p> +When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame +Valmondé. +</p> + +<p> +“My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not +white. For God’s sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not +true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live.” +</p> + +<p> +The answer that came was brief: +</p> + +<p> +“My own Désirée: Come home to Valmondé; back to your mother who loves +you. Come with your child.” +</p> + +<p> +When the letter reached Désirée she went with it to her husband’s study, +and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: +silent, white, motionless after she placed it there. +</p> + +<p> +In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words. +</p> + +<p> +He said nothing. “Shall I go, Armand?” she asked in tones sharp +with agonized suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want me to go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I want you to go.” +</p> + +<p> +He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt, +somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his +wife’s soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious +injury she had brought upon his home and his name. +</p> + +<p> +She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, +hoping he would call her back. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by, Armand,” she moaned. +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. +</p> + +<p> +Désirée went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery +with it. She took the little one from the nurse’s arms with no word of +explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak +branches. +</p> + +<p> +It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields +the negroes were picking cotton. +</p> + +<p> +Désirée had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. +Her hair was uncovered and the sun’s rays brought a golden gleam from its +brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off +plantation of Valmondé. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble +bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. +</p> + +<p> +She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of +the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L’Abri. In the +centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat +in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who +dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze. +</p> + +<p> +A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the +pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless +<i>layette</i>. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to +these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the +<i>corbeille</i> had been of rare quality. +</p> + +<p> +The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings +that Désirée had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the +remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not +Désirée’s; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He +read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband’s +love:— +</p> + +<p> +“But above all,” she wrote, “night and day, I thank the good +God for having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that +his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand +of slavery.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"></a>A RESPECTABLE WOMAN</h2> + +<p> +Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected his +friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation. +</p> + +<p> +They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time had also +been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation. She was +looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, and undisturbed tête-à-tête +with her husband, when he informed her that Gouvernail was coming up to stay a +week or two. +</p> + +<p> +This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her +husband’s college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a society +man or “a man about town,” which were, perhaps, some of the reasons +she had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an image of him in her +mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with eye-glasses, and his hands in +his pockets; and she did not like him. Gouvernail was slim enough, but he +wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; neither did he wear eyeglasses nor +carry his hands in his pockets. And she rather liked him when he first +presented himself. +</p> + +<p> +But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself when she +partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of those brilliant +and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, had often assured her that he +possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather mute and receptive before her chatty +eagerness to make him feel at home and in face of Gaston’s frank and +wordy hospitality. His manner was as courteous toward her as the most exacting +woman could require; but he made no direct appeal to her approval or even +esteem. +</p> + +<p> +Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide portico +in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his cigar lazily and +listening attentively to Gaston’s experience as a sugar planter. +</p> + +<p> +“This is what I call living,” he would utter with deep +satisfaction, as the air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with +its warm and scented velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar +terms with the big dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably +against his legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness to go out +and kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so. +</p> + +<p> +Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, +he was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she could +understand him no better than at first, she gave over being puzzled and +remained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her guest, for the most +part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took no manner of exception +to her action, she imposed her society upon him, accompanying him in his idle +strolls to the mill and walks along the batture. She persistently sought to +penetrate the reserve in which he had unconsciously enveloped himself. +</p> + +<p> +“When is he going—your friend?” she one day asked her +husband. “For my part, he tires me frightfully.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no +trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, and +I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.” +</p> + +<p> +Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly +and laughingly into her troubled eyes. +</p> + +<p> +They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s +dressing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“You are full of surprises, ma belle,” he said to her. “Even +I can never count upon how you are going to act under given conditions.” +He kissed her and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror. +</p> + +<p> +“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor Gouvernail seriously +and making a commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or +expect.” +</p> + +<p> +“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say +such a thing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.” +</p> + +<p> +“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s +why I asked him here to take a rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“You used to say he was a man of ideas,” she retorted, +unconciliated. “I expected him to be interesting, at least. I’m +going to the city in the morning to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know +when Mr. Gouvernail is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.” +</p> + +<p> +That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a live oak +tree at the edge of the gravel walk. +</p> + +<p> +She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. She could +gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct necessity to quit her +home in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in the +darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew it was +Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to remain unnoticed, but +her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away his cigar and seated himself +upon the bench beside her; without a suspicion that she might object to his +presence. +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,” he said, +handing her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her head +and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of thanks, and let +it lie in her lap. +</p> + +<p> +He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the night air +at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness, he murmured, +half to himself: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!<br /> +Still nodding night—’” +</p> + +<p> +She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was not +addressed to her. +</p> + +<p> +Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a self-conscious +one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional, but the result of moods. +Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silence melted for the time. +</p> + +<p> +He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not +unpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and Gaston had +been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and blind ambitions and +large intentions. Now there was left with him, at least, a philosophic +acquiescence to the existing order—only a desire to be permitted to +exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine life, such as he was +breathing now. +</p> + +<p> +Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being was for +the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, only drinking in the +tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in the darkness and touch +him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon the face or the lips. She +wanted to draw close to him and whisper against his cheek—she did not +care what—as she might have done if she had not been a respectable woman. +</p> + +<p> +The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, in fact, +did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without an appearance of +too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone. +</p> + +<p> +Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and ended +his apostrophe to the night. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband—who was +also her friend—of this folly that had seized her. But she did not yield +to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a very sensible +one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a human being must fight +alone. +</p> + +<p> +When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She had taken +an early morning train to the city. She did not return till Gouvernail was gone +from under her roof. +</p> + +<p> +There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. That +is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his wife’s +strenuous opposition. +</p> + +<p> +However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to have +Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and delighted with the +suggestion coming from her. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad, chère amie, to know that you have finally overcome your +dislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss +upon his lips, “I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I +shall be very nice to him.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"></a>THE KISS</h2> + +<p> +It was still quite light out of doors, but inside with the curtains drawn and +the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was full of +deep shadows. +</p> + +<p> +Brantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he did not mind. +The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eyes fastened as ardently as he +liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight. +</p> + +<p> +She was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongs to the +healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idly stroked the satiny coat +of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and she occasionally sent a slow glance +into the shadow where her companion sat. They were talking low, of indifferent +things which plainly were not the things that occupied their thoughts. She knew +that he loved her—a frank, blustering fellow without guile enough to +conceal his feelings, and no desire to do so. For two weeks past he had sought +her society eagerly and persistently. She was confidently waiting for him to +declare himself and she meant to accept him. The rather insignificant and +unattractive Brantain was enormously rich; and she liked and required the +entourage which wealth could give her. +</p> + +<p> +During one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the next +reception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain knew quite +well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two brought him to her +side, and bending over her chair—before she could suspect his intention, +for she did not realize that he had not seen her visitor—he pressed an +ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +Brantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and the newcomer +stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance struggling with the +confusion in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe,” stammered Brantain, “I see that I have stayed +too long. I—I had no idea—that is, I must wish you good-by.” +He was clutching his hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that +she was extending her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completely +deserted her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it’s deuced +awkward for you. But I hope you’ll forgive me this once—this very +first break. Why, what’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch me; don’t come near me,” she returned +angrily. “What do you mean by entering the house without ringing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I came in with your brother, as I often do,” he answered coldly, +in self-justification. “We came in the side way. He went upstairs and I +came in here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough and ought to +satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say that you forgive +me, Nathalie,” he entreated, softening. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive you! You don’t know what you are talking about. Let me +pass. It depends upon—a good deal whether I ever forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +At that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about she +approached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when she saw him +there. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?” she +asked with an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy; but +when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a retired corner, a ray +of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of his expression. She was +apparently very outspoken. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain; +but—but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable since that +little encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you might have +misinterpreted it, and believed things”—hope was plainly gaining +the ascendancy over misery in Brantain’s round, guileless +face—“Of course, I know it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I +do want you to understand that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long +standing. Why, we have always been like cousins—like brother and sister, +I may say. He is my brother’s most intimate associate and often fancies +that he is entitled to the same privileges as the family. Oh, I know it is +absurd, uncalled for, to tell you this; undignified even,” she was almost +weeping, “but it makes so much difference to me what you think +of—of me.” Her voice had grown very low and agitated. The misery +had all disappeared from Brantain’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call you Miss +Nathalie?” They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on either +side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very end of it. When +they turned to retrace their steps Brantain’s face was radiant and hers +was triumphant. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Harvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a rare +moment when she stood alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband,” he said, smiling, “has sent me over to kiss +you.” +</p> + +<p> +A quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. “I suppose +it’s natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of this +kind. He tells me he doesn’t want his marriage to interrupt wholly that +pleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don’t know what +you’ve been telling him,” with an insolent smile, “but he has +sent me here to kiss you.” +</p> + +<p> +She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, sees +the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and tender with a +smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked hungry for the kiss +which they invited. +</p> + +<p> +“But, you know,” he went on quietly, “I didn’t tell him +so, it would have seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I’ve stopped +kissing women; it’s dangerous.” +</p> + +<p> +Well, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can’t have +everything in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to expect it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"></a>A PAIR OF SILK +STOCKINGS</h2> + +<p> +Little Mrs. Sommers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of fifteen +dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the way in which it +stuffed and bulged her worn old <i>porte-monnaie</i> gave her a feeling of +importance such as she had not enjoyed for years. +</p> + +<p> +The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day or two +she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really absorbed in +speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act hastily, to do anything +she might afterward regret. But it was during the still hours of the night when +she lay awake revolving plans in her mind that she seemed to see her way +clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money. +</p> + +<p> +A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie’s +shoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than they +usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new shirt waists +for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make the old ones do by +skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had seen some beautiful +patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And still there would be left +enough for new stockings—two pairs apiece—and what darning that +would save for a while! She would get caps for the boys and sailor-hats for the +girls. The vision of her little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once +in their lives excited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +The neighbors sometimes talked of certain “better days” that little +Mrs. Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Sommers. She +herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time—no +second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbed her +every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monster sometimes +appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could stand for hours +making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was selling below +cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had learned to clutch a piece of +goods and hold it and stick to it with persistence and determination till her +turn came to be served, no matter when it came. +</p> + +<p> +But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light +luncheon—no! when she came to think of it, between getting the children +fed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she had +actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all! +</p> + +<p> +She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was comparatively +deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge through an eager +multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting and figured lawn. An +all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she rested her hand aimlessly upon +the counter. She wore no gloves. By degrees she grew aware that her hand had +encountered something very soothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to +see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard near by +announced that they had been reduced in price from two dollars and fifty cents +to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl who stood behind the +counter asked her if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. She +smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds with the +ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, sheeny +luxurious things—with both hands now, holding them up to see them +glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through her fingers. +</p> + +<p> +Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at the +girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?” +</p> + +<p> +There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more of that +size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some lavender, some +all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. Sommers selected a black +pair and looked at them very long and closely. She pretended to be examining +their texture, which the clerk assured her was excellent. +</p> + +<p> +“A dollar and ninety-eight cents,” she mused aloud. “Well, +I’ll take this pair.” She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and +waited for her change and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It +seemed lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping-bag. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain counter. +She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into the region of +the ladies’ waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged her +cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had just bought. She was not +going through any acute mental process or reasoning with herself, nor was she +striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive of her action. She was not +thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be taking a rest from that +laborious and fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some +mechanical impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility. +</p> + +<p> +How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying back +in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. She did +for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton stockings +together and thrust them into her bag. After doing this she crossed straight +over to the shoe department and took her seat to be fitted. +</p> + +<p> +She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not reconcile +her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily pleased. She held back +her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she glanced +down at the polished, pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked very +pretty. She could not realize that they belonged to her and were a part of +herself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who +served her, and she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the +price so long as she got what she desired. +</p> + +<p> +It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On rare +occasions when she had bought a pair they were always “bargains,” +so cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have expected +them to be fitted to the hand. +</p> + +<p> +Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a pretty, +pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a long-wristed +“kid” over Mrs. Sommers’s hand. She smoothed it down over the +wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second or two in +admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. But there were +other places where money might be spent. +</p> + +<p> +There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few paces +down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines such as she had +been accustomed to read in the days when she had been accustomed to other +pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she +lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her stockings and boots and well fitting +gloves had worked marvels in her bearing—had given her a feeling of +assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed multitude. +</p> + +<p> +She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings for food +until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed herself a cup of tea +and taken a snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was +guiding her would not suffer her to entertain any such thought. +</p> + +<p> +There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; from the +outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask and shining +crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion. +</p> + +<p> +When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, as she +had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table alone, and an +attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She did not want a +profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite—a half dozen blue-points, a +plump chop with cress, a something sweet—a crème-frappée, for instance; a +glass of Rhine wine, and after all a small cup of black coffee. +</p> + +<p> +While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid them +beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, cutting the +pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. The damask was +even more spotless than it had seemed through the window, and the crystal more +sparkling. There were quiet ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, +lunching at the small tables like her own. A soft, pleasing strain of music +could be heard, and a gentle breeze was blowing through the window. She tasted +a bite, and she read a word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled +her toes in the silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted +the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he +bowed before her as before a princess of royal blood. +</p> + +<p> +There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented itself in +the shape of a matinee poster. +</p> + +<p> +It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun and the +house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here and there, +and into one of them she was ushered, between brilliantly dressed women who had +gone there to kill time and eat candy and display their gaudy attire. There +were many others who were there solely for the play and acting. It is safe to +say there was no one present who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Sommers did +to her surroundings. She gathered in the whole—stage and players and +people in one wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at +the comedy and wept—she and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the +tragedy. And they talked a little together over it. And the gaudy woman wiped +her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and passed +little Mrs. Sommers her box of candy. +</p> + +<p> +The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a dream +ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to the corner and +waited for the cable car. +</p> + +<p> +A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study of her +small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In truth, he +saw nothing—unless he were wizard enough to detect a poignant wish, a +powerful longing that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on +with her forever. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"></a>THE LOCKET</h2> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"></a>I</h3> + +<p> +One night in autumn a few men were gathered about a fire on the slope of a +hill. They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces and were +awaiting orders to march. Their gray uniforms were worn beyond the point of +shabbiness. One of the men was heating something in a tin cup over the embers. +Two were lying at full length a little distance away, while a fourth was trying +to decipher a letter and had drawn close to the light. He had unfastened his +collar and a good bit of his flannel shirt front. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that you got around your neck, Ned?” asked one of the +men lying in the obscurity. +</p> + +<p> +Ned—or Edmond—mechanically fastened another button of his shirt and +did not reply. He went on reading his letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it your sweet heart’s picture?” +</p> + +<p> +“’Taint no gal’s picture,” offered the man at the fire. +He had removed his tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with +a small stick. “That’s a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that +one o’ them priests gave him to keep him out o’ trouble. I know +them Cath’lics. That’s how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a +scratch sence he’s been in the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?” +Edmond looked up absently from his letter. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Aint that a charm you got round your neck?” +</p> + +<p> +“It must be, Nick,” returned Edmond with a smile. “I +don’t know how I could have gone through this year and a half without +it.” +</p> + +<p> +The letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick. He stretched himself on +his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars. But he was not thinking +of them nor of anything but a certain spring day when the bees were humming in +the clematis; when a girl was saying good bye to him. He could see her as she +unclasped from her neck the locket which she fastened about his own. It was an +old fashioned golden locket bearing miniatures of her father and mother with +their names and the date of their marriage. It was her most precious earthly +possession. Edmond could feel again the folds of the girl’s soft white +gown, and see the droop of the angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about +his neck. Her sweet face, appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain of +parting, appeared before him as vividly as life. He turned over, burying his +face in his arm and there he lay, still and motionless. +</p> + +<p> +The profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance of peace +settled upon the camp. He dreamed that the fair Octavie brought him a letter. +He had no chair to offer her and was pained and embarrassed at the condition of +his garments. He was ashamed of the poor food which comprised the dinner at +which he begged her to join them. +</p> + +<p> +He dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove to grasp +it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch. Then his dream was clamor. +</p> + +<p> +“Git your duds! you! Frenchy!” Nick was bellowing in his face. +There was what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulated +movement. The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with sudden +up-springing lights among the pines. In the east the dawn was unfolding out of +the darkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s it all about?” wondered a big black bird perched in +the top of the tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was +not wise enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he kept +blinking and wondering. +</p> + +<p> +The noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke the +little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curled up toward +the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds thought it was going to +rain; but the wise one knew better. +</p> + +<p> +“They are children playing a game,” thought he. “I shall know +more about it if I watch long enough.” +</p> + +<p> +At the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and smoke. +Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had understood! With a flap +of his great, black wings he shot downward, circling toward the plain. +</p> + +<p> +A man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in the garb of a +clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations of religion to any of +the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger a spark of life. A negro +accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and a flask of wine. +</p> + +<p> +There were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreat had been +hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would have to look to the +dead. +</p> + +<p> +There was a soldier—a mere boy—lying with his face to the sky. His +hands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were stuffed +with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his despairing grasp upon +life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and his face and clothing were +begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain and locket. The priest, bending +over him, unclasped the chain and removed it from the dead soldier’s +neck. He had grown used to the terrors of war and could face them +unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always brought the tears to his old, +dim eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro knelt and +murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for the dead. +</p> + +<h3><a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"></a>II</h3> + +<p> +The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like a +benediction. Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow, tortuous stream in +central Louisiana, rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet, much the worse for hard +and rough usage over country roads and lanes. The fat, black horses went in a +slow, measured trot, notwithstanding constant urging on the part of the fat, +black coachman. Within the vehicle were seated the fair Octavie and her old +friend and neighbor, Judge Pillier, who had come to take her for a morning +drive. +</p> + +<p> +Octavie wore a plain black dress, severe in its simplicity. A narrow belt held +it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into close fitting wristbands. +She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared not unlike a nun. Beneath the +folds of her bodice nestled the old locket. She never displayed it now. It had +returned to her sanctified in her eyes; made precious as material things +sometimes are by being forever identified with a significant moment of +one’s existence. +</p> + +<p> +A hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket had come +back to her. No later than that morning she had again pored over it. As she sat +beside the window, smoothing the letter out upon her knee, heavy and spiced +odors stole in to her with the songs of birds and the humming of insects in the +air. +</p> + +<p> +She was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over her a +sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest’s letter. He +told of that autumn day drawing to its close, with the gold and the red fading +out of the west, and the night gathering its shadows to cover the faces of the +dead. Oh! She could not believe that one of those dead was her own! with visage +uplifted to the gray sky in an agony of supplication. A spasm of resistance and +rebellion seized and swept over her. Why was the spring here with its flowers +and its seductive breath if he was dead! Why was she here! What further had she +to do with life and the living! +</p> + +<p> +Octavie had experienced many such moments of despair, but a blessed resignation +had never failed to follow, and it fell then upon her like a mantle and +enveloped her. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie,” she +murmured to herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary. +Already she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie. She walked +with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Tavie whom some +youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation while leaving her in +possession of youth’s illusions. +</p> + +<p> +As she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover, again +there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had assailed her so +often before. The soul of her youth clamored for its rights; for a share in the +world’s glory and exultation. She leaned back and drew her veil a little +closer about her face. It was an old black veil of her Aunt Tavie’s. A +whiff of dust from the road had blown in and she wiped her cheeks and her eyes +with her soft, white handkerchief, a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one +of her old fine muslin petticoats. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you do me the favor, Octavie,” requested the judge in the +courteous tone which he never abandoned, “to remove that veil which you +wear. It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of the +day.” +</p> + +<p> +The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion’s wish and +unpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it neatly and +laid it upon the seat in front of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that is better; far better!” he said in a tone expressing +unbounded relief. “Never put it on again, dear.” Octavie felt a +little hurt; as if he wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden +of affliction which had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew forth the +old muslin handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had formerly +been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and there, gorgeous +in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off in the distance in spots +where the grass was tall and luscious. At the far end of the meadow was the +towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane that led to Judge Pillier’s +house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms met them like a soft and tender +embrace of welcome. +</p> + +<p> +As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the +girl’s shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: “Do you +not think that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole earth +is vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that heaven might for +once relent and give us back our dead?” He spoke very low, advisedly, and +impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which was not habitual and there +was agitation in every line of his visage. She gazed at him with eyes that were +full of supplication and a certain terror of joy. +</p> + +<p> +They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on one side and +the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat quickened their lazy +pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to the house, a whole choir of +feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of melodious greeting from their +leafy hiding places. +</p> + +<p> +Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was like a +dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old gray house with its +sloping eaves. Amid the blur of green, and dimly, she saw familiar faces and +heard voices as if they came from far across the fields, and Edmond was holding +her. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond, and she felt the beating of his heart +against her and the agonizing rapture of his kisses striving to awake her. It +was as if the spirit of life and the awakening spring had given back the soul +to her youth and bade her rejoice. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom and looked +at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance. +</p> + +<p> +“It was the night before an engagement,” he said. “In the +hurry of the encounter, and the retreat next day, I never missed it till the +fight was over. I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the struggle, +but it was stolen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stolen,” she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his +face uplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication. +</p> + +<p> +Edmond said nothing; but he thought of his messmate; the one who had lain far +back in the shadow; the one who had said nothing. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"></a>A REFLECTION</h2> + +<p> +Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy. It not only enables +them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish in their own +personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace. They are fortunate +beings. They do not need to apprehend the significance of things. They do not +grow weary nor miss step, nor do they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside +to be left contemplating the moving procession. +</p> + +<p> +Ah! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its fantastic +colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the undulating waters. +What matter if souls and bodies are falling beneath the feet of the +ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic rhythm of the spheres. Its +discordant clashes sweep upward in one harmonious tone that blends with the +music of other worlds—to complete God’s orchestra. +</p> + +<p> +It is greater than the stars—that moving procession of human energy; +greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! I could +weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the clouds and a few +dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of these symbols of +life’s immutability. In the procession I should feel the crushing feet, +the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could not hear +the rhythm of the march. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Salve!</i> ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 160-h.htm or 160-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/160/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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