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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Awakening and Selected Short Stories, by Kate Chopin
-
-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
-www.gutenberg.org. 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.
-
-Title: The Awakening and Selected Short Stories
-
-Author: Kate Chopin
-
-Release Date: August, 1994 [eBook #160]
-[Most recently updated: February 28, 2021]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-Produced by: Judith Boss and David Widger
-
-*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING AND SELECTED SHORT STORIES ***
-
-
-
-
-The Awakening
-and Selected Short Stories
-
-by Kate Chopin
-
-
-Contents
-
- THE AWAKENING
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- VIII
- IX
- X
- XI
- XII
- XIII
- XIV
- XV
- XVI
- XVII
- XVIII
- XIX
- XX
- XXI
- XXII
- XXIII
- XXIV
- XXV
- XXVI
- XXVII
- XXVIII
- XXIX
- XXX
- XXXI
- XXXII
- XXXIII
- XXXIV
- XXXV
- XXXVI
- XXXVII
- XXXVIII
- XXXIX
-
- BEYOND THE BAYOU
-
- MA’AME PÉLAGIE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
-
- DÉSIRÉE’S BABY
-
- A RESPECTABLE WOMAN
-
- THE KISS
-
- A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS
-
- THE LOCKET
- I
- II
-
- A REFLECTION
-
-
-
-
-THE AWAKENING
-
-
-I
-
-A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept
-repeating over and over:
-
-“_Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_ That’s all right!”
-
-He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody
-understood, unless it was the mocking-bird that hung on the other side
-of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with
-maddening persistence.
-
-Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of
-comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust.
-
-He walked down the gallery and across the narrow “bridges” which
-connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated
-before the door of the main house. The parrot and the 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.
-
-He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one
-from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a
-wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task
-of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old.
-The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already
-acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the
-editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before
-quitting New Orleans the day before.
-
-Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium
-height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was
-brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and
-closely trimmed.
-
-Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked
-about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main
-building was called “the house,” to distinguish it from the cottages.
-The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls,
-the Farival twins, were playing a duet from “Zampa” upon the piano.
-Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a
-yard-boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an
-equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside.
-She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves.
-Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before
-one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down,
-telling her beads. A good many persons of the _pension_ had gone over
-to the _Chênière Caminada_ 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.
-
-Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the
-paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade
-that was advancing at snail’s pace from the beach. He could see it
-plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the
-stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily
-into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach
-slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier,
-and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated
-themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the
-porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post.
-
-“What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!” exclaimed Mr.
-Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the
-morning seemed long to him.
-
-“You are burnt beyond recognition,” he added, looking at his wife as
-one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered
-some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed
-them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking
-at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband
-before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he,
-understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them
-into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping
-her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings
-sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.
-
-“What is it?” asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to
-the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the
-water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half
-so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He
-yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind
-to go over to Klein’s hotel and play a game of billiards.
-
-“Come go along, Lebrun,” he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted
-quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs.
-Pontellier.
-
-“Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,” instructed
-her husband as he prepared to leave.
-
-“Here, take the umbrella,” she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He
-accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps
-and walked away.
-
-“Coming back to dinner?” his wife called after him. He halted a moment
-and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a
-ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the
-early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company
-which he found over at Klein’s and the size of “the game.” He did not
-say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him.
-
-Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting
-out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and
-peanuts.
-
-II
-
-Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish
-brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them
-swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward
-maze of contemplation or thought.
-
-Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and
-almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather
-handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a
-certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of
-features. Her manner was engaging.
-
-Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not
-afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr.
-Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his
-after-dinner smoke.
-
-This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was
-not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more
-pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of
-care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the
-light and languor of the summer day.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch
-and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light
-puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things
-around them; their amusing adventure out in the water—it had again
-assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people
-who had gone to the _Chênière;_ about the children playing croquet
-under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the
-overture to “The Poet and the Peasant.”
-
-Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not
-know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the
-same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke
-of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited
-him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got
-there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile
-house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French
-and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent.
-
-He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother
-at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, “the
-house” had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its
-dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive
-visitors from the “_Quartier Français_,” it enabled Madame Lebrun to
-maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her
-birthright.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father’s Mississippi plantation and
-her girlhood home in the old Kentucky 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.
-
-When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for
-the early dinner.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-III
-
-It was eleven o’clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from
-Klein’s hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very
-talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep
-when he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her
-anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the
-day. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes
-and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau
-indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else
-happened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and
-answered him with little half utterances.
-
-He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object
-of his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned
-him, and valued so little his conversation.
-
-Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys.
-Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining
-room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they
-were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from
-satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of
-them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.
-
-Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had
-a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and
-sat near the open door to smoke it.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed
-perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr.
-Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken.
-He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room.
-
-He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of
-the children. If it was not a mother’s place to look after children,
-whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage
-business. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for
-his family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm
-befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon
-came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the
-pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he
-questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in
-half a minute he was fast asleep.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a
-little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her _peignoir_. Blowing out
-the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare
-feet into a pair of satin _mules_ at the foot of the bed and went out
-on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock
-gently to and fro.
-
-It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint
-light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound
-abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and
-the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft
-hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.
-
-The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes that the damp sleeve
-of her _peignoir_ no longer served to dry them. She was holding the
-back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to
-the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face,
-steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying
-there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She
-could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the
-foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never
-before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband’s
-kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and
-self-understood.
-
-An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some
-unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a
-vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her
-soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She
-did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate,
-which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She
-was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry
-over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.
-
-The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which
-might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer.
-
-The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the
-rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was
-returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again
-at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure,
-which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was
-eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet
-Street.
-
-Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought
-away from Klein’s hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as
-most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction.
-
-“It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!” she
-exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.
-
-“Oh! we’ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,” he laughed,
-as he prepared to kiss her good-by.
-
-The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that
-numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great
-favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand
-to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys
-shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.
-
-A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It
-was from her husband. It was filled with _friandises_, with luscious
-and toothsome bits—the finest of fruits, _patés_, a rare bottle or two,
-delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a
-box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The
-_patés_ 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.
-
-IV
-
-It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to
-his own satisfaction or any one else’s wherein his wife failed in her
-duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than
-perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret
-and ample atonement.
-
-If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he
-was not apt to rush crying to his mother’s arms for comfort; he would
-more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the
-sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they
-pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled
-fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other
-mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance,
-only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair;
-since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and
-brushed.
-
-In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women
-seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them,
-fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or
-imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who
-idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a
-holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as
-ministering angels.
-
-Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment
-of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he
-was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was 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.
-
-Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took
-her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was
-sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New
-Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged
-in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers.
-
-She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut
-out—a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby’s body so
-effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment,
-like an Eskimo’s. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous
-drafts came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found
-their way through key-holes.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier’s mind was quite at rest concerning the present
-material needs of her children, and she could not see the use of
-anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer
-meditations. But she did not want to appear unamiable and uninterested,
-so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of
-the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle’s directions she had cut a
-pattern of the impervious garment.
-
-Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs.
-Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning
-listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she
-held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.
-
-That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled
-upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich; whether it
-could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been married seven
-years. About every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three
-babies, and was beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always
-talking about her “condition.” Her “condition” was in no way apparent,
-and no one would have known a thing about it but for her persistence in
-making it the subject of conversation.
-
-Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who
-had subsisted upon nougat during the entire—but seeing the color mount
-into Mrs. Pontellier’s face he checked himself and changed the subject.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not thoroughly at
-home in the society of Creoles; never before had she been thrown so
-intimately among them. There were only Creoles that summer at Lebrun’s.
-They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom
-existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic which
-distinguished them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly
-was their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at
-first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in
-reconciling it with a lofty chastity which in the Creole woman seems to
-be inborn and unmistakable.
-
-Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she heard
-Madame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing story
-of one of her _accouchements_, withholding no intimate detail. She was
-growing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting
-color back from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had
-interrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some
-amused group of married women.
-
-A book had gone the rounds of the _pension_. When it came her turn to
-read it, she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read
-the book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done
-so,—to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was
-openly criticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave
-over being astonished, and concluded that wonders would never cease.
-
-V
-
-They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer
-afternoon—Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a
-story or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands;
-Robert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words,
-glances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy
-and _camaraderie_.
-
-He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought
-anything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to
-Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was
-eleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted
-himself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it
-was a young girl, again a widow; but as often as not it was some
-interesting married woman.
-
-For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Mademoiselle
-Duvigne’s presence. But she died between summers; then Robert posed as
-an inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle
-for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to
-vouchsafe.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she
-might look upon a faultless Madonna.
-
-“Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior?” murmured
-Robert. “She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It
-was ‘Robert, come; go; stand up; sit down; do this; do that; see if the
-baby sleeps; my thimble, please, that I left God knows where. Come and
-read Daudet to me while I sew.’”
-
-“_Par exemple!_ I never had to ask. You were always there under my
-feet, like a troublesome cat.”
-
-“You mean like an adoring dog. And just as soon as Ratignolle appeared
-on the scene, then it _was_ like a dog. ‘_Passez! Adieu! Allez
-vous-en!_’”
-
-“Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,” she interjoined, with
-excessive 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.
-
-Meanwhile Robert, addressing Mrs Pontellier, continued to tell of his
-one time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle; of sleepless nights,
-of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily
-plunge. While the lady at the needle kept up a little running,
-contemptuous comment:
-
-“_Blagueur—farceur—gros bête, va!_”
-
-He never assumed this seriocomic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier.
-She never knew precisely what to make of it; at that moment it was
-impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion
-was earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love
-to Madame Ratignolle, without any thought of being taken seriously.
-Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward
-herself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials, which she
-sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the
-dabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which no other
-employment afforded her.
-
-She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that
-lady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment, seated there
-like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching
-her splendid color.
-
-Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs.
-Pontellier, that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with
-a certain ease and freedom which came, not from long and close
-acquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed
-her work with close attention, giving forth little ejaculatory
-expressions of appreciation in French, which he addressed to Madame
-Ratignolle.
-
-“_Mais ce n’est pas mal! Elle s’y connait, elle a de la force, oui._”
-
-During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against
-Mrs. Pontellier’s arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he
-repeated the offense. She could not but believe it to be
-thoughtlessness on his part; yet that was no reason she should submit
-to it. She did not remonstrate, except again to repulse him quietly but
-firmly. He offered no apology. The picture completed bore no
-resemblance to Madame Ratignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find
-that it did not look like her. But it was a fair enough piece of work,
-and in many respects satisfying.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch
-critically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface, and
-crumpled the paper between her hands.
-
-The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadroon following at
-the respectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs.
-Pontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house. She
-sought to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they
-were greatly in earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents
-of the bonbon box. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to
-give them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like, in the vain
-hope that they might be filled; and then away they went.
-
-The sun was low in the west, and the breeze soft and languorous that
-came up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea.
-Children freshly befurbelowed, were gathering for their games under the
-oaks. Their voices were high and penetrating.
-
-Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and
-thread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She
-complained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and
-a fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle’s face with cologne, while Robert
-plied the fan with unnecessary vigor.
-
-The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering
-if there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for
-the rose tint had never faded from her friend’s face.
-
-She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries
-with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to
-possess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her
-white skirts, the third she took from its nurse and with a thousand
-endearments bore it along in her own fond, encircling arms. Though, as
-everybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a
-pin!
-
-“Are you going bathing?” asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so
-much a question as a reminder.
-
-“Oh, no,” she answered, with a tone of indecision. “I’m tired; I think
-not.” Her glance wandered from his face away toward the Gulf, whose
-sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty.
-
-“Oh, come!” he insisted. “You mustn’t miss your bath. Come on. The
-water must be delicious; it will not hurt you. Come.”
-
-He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside
-the door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked
-away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west and the
-breeze was soft and warm.
-
-VI
-
-Edna Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach
-with Robert, she should in the first place have declined, and in the
-second place have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory
-impulses which impelled her.
-
-A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her,—the light
-which, showing the way, forbids it.
-
-At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to
-dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome
-her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears.
-
-In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the
-universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an
-individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a
-ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of
-twenty-eight—perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased
-to vouchsafe to any woman.
-
-But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily
-vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever
-emerge from such beginning! How many souls perish in its tumult!
-
-The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering,
-clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in
-abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation.
-
-The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is
-sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
-
-VII
-
-Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic
-hitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her own
-small life all within herself. At a very early period she had
-apprehended instinctively the dual life—that outward existence which
-conforms, the inward life which questions.
-
-That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of
-reserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been—there must
-have been—influences, both subtle and apparent, working in their
-several ways to induce her to do this; but the most obvious was the
-influence of 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.
-
-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.
-
-The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did
-of a long, sandy path, upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that
-bordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There
-were acres of yellow camomile reaching out on either hand. Further away
-still, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of
-orange or lemon trees intervening. The dark green clusters glistened
-from afar in the sun.
-
-The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratignolle possessing the
-more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier’s
-physique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long,
-clean and symmetrical; it was a body which occasionally fell into
-splendid poses; there was no suggestion of the trim, stereotyped
-fashion-plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in
-passing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure. But with more
-feeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of
-its modeling, and the graceful severity of poise and movement, which
-made Edna Pontellier different from the crowd.
-
-She wore a cool muslin that morning—white, with a waving vertical line
-of brown running through it; also a white linen collar and the big
-straw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat
-rested any way on her yellow-brown hair, that waved a little, was
-heavy, and clung close to her head.
-
-Madame Ratignolle, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze
-veil about her head. She wore dogskin gloves, with gauntlets that
-protected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white, with a fluffiness
-of ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which
-she wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of
-line could not have done.
-
-There were a number of bath-houses along the beach, of rough but solid
-construction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water.
-Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Lebrun’s
-possessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential
-paraphernalia of the bath and whatever other conveniences the owners
-might desire. The two women had no intention of bathing; they had just
-strolled down to the beach for a walk and to be alone and near the
-water. The Pontellier and Ratignolle compartments adjoined one another
-under the same roof.
-
-Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit.
-Unlocking the door of her bath-room she went inside, and soon emerged,
-bringing a rug, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two
-huge hair pillows covered with crash, which she placed against the
-front of the building.
-
-The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by
-side, with their backs against the pillows and their feet extended.
-Madame Ratignolle removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather
-delicate handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always
-carried suspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon.
-Edna removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took
-the fan from Madame Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her
-companion. It was very warm, and for a while they did nothing but
-exchange remarks about the heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a
-breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind that whipped the water into froth.
-It fluttered the skirts of the two women and kept them for a while
-engaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, securing hair-pins and
-hat-pins. A few persons were sporting some distance away in the water.
-The beach was very still of human sound at that hour. The lady in black
-was reading her morning devotions on the porch of a neighboring
-bath-house. Two young lovers were exchanging their hearts’ yearnings
-beneath the children’s tent, which they had found unoccupied.
-
-Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest
-upon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the
-blue sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the
-horizon. A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and
-others to the south seemed almost motionless in the far distance.
-
-“Of whom—of what are you thinking?” asked 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.
-
-“Nothing,” returned Mrs. Pontellier, with a start, adding at once: “How
-stupid! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to
-such a question. Let me see,” she went on, throwing back her head and
-narrowing her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light.
-“Let me see. I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; but
-perhaps I can retrace my thoughts.”
-
-“Oh! never mind!” laughed Madame Ratignolle. “I am not quite so
-exacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think,
-especially to think about thinking.”
-
-“But for the fun of it,” persisted Edna. “First of all, the sight of
-the water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the
-blue sky, made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look
-at. The hot wind beating in my face made me think—without any
-connection that I can trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow
-that seemed as big as the ocean to the very little girl walking through
-the grass, which was higher than her waist. She threw out her arms as
-if swimming when she walked, beating the tall grass as one strikes out
-in the water. Oh, I see the connection now!”
-
-“Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the grass?”
-
-“I don’t remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big
-field. My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch
-of green before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without
-coming to the end of it. I don’t remember whether I was frightened or
-pleased. I must have been entertained.
-
-“Likely as not it was Sunday,” she laughed; “and I was running away
-from prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom
-by my father that chills me yet to think of.”
-
-“And have you been running away from prayers ever since, _ma chère?_”
-asked Madame Ratignolle, amused.
-
-“No! oh, no!” Edna hastened to say. “I was a little unthinking child in
-those days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On
-the contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold
-upon me; after I was twelve and until—until—why, I suppose until now,
-though I never thought much about it—just driven along by habit. But do
-you know,” she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle
-and leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to
-that of her companion, “sometimes I feel this summer as if I were
-walking through the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and
-unguided.”
-
-Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which was
-near her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it firmly
-and warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other hand,
-murmuring in an undertone, “_Pauvre chérie_.”
-
-The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent
-herself readily to the Creole’s gentle caress. She was not accustomed
-to an outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or
-in others. She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal
-through force of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, was
-matronly and dignified, probably from having assumed matronly and
-housewifely responsibilities too early in life, their mother having
-died when they were quite young. Margaret was not effusive; she was
-practical. Edna had had an occasional girl friend, but whether
-accidentally or not, they seemed to have been all of one type—the
-self-contained. She never realized that the reserve of her own
-character had much, perhaps everything, to do with this. Her most
-intimate friend at school had been one of rather exceptional
-intellectual gifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired
-and strove to imitate; and with her she talked and glowed over the
-English classics, and sometimes held religious and political
-controversies.
-
-Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly
-disturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her
-part. At a very early age—perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean
-of waving grass—she remembered that she had been passionately enamored
-of a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in
-Kentucky. She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor
-remove her eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon’s,
-with a lock of black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry
-officer melted imperceptibly out of her existence.
-
-At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman
-who visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they went
-to Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the
-young lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of
-afternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her
-teens; and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing,
-nothing to the engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But
-he, too, went the way of dreams.
-
-She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed
-to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a
-great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The
-persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The
-hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.
-
-The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one may
-possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or
-comment. (This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the
-presence of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as
-she handed the photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the
-likeness. When alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold
-glass passionately.
-
-Her marriage to 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.
-
-The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian,
-was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who
-worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity
-in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon
-the realm of romance and dreams.
-
-But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry
-officer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found
-herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband,
-realizing with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion
-or excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby
-threatening its dissolution.
-
-She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would
-sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes
-forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with
-their grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding
-their happiness and welfare, she did not miss them except with an
-occasional intense longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though
-she did not admit this, even to herself. It seemed to free her of a
-responsibility which she had blindly assumed and for which Fate had not
-fitted her.
-
-Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that
-summer day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part
-of it escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle’s
-shoulder. She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her
-own voice and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like
-wine, or like a first breath of freedom.
-
-There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded by
-a troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers
-were with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle’s little girl in his
-arms. There were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed,
-looking disagreeable and resigned.
-
-The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and relax
-their muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the
-bath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they
-stood there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still
-exchanging their vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent
-protest, and walked slowly away somewhere else.
-
-The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went
-over to join them.
-
-Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she
-complained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She
-leaned draggingly upon his arm as they walked.
-
-VIII
-
-“Do me a favor, Robert,” spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as
-soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked
-up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the
-umbrella which he had lifted.
-
-“Granted; as many as you like,” he returned, glancing down into her
-eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation.
-
-“I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.”
-
-“_Tiens!_” he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. “_Voilà que
-Madame Ratignolle est jalouse!_”
-
-“Nonsense! I’m in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier
-alone.”
-
-“Why?” he asked; himself growing serious at his companion’s
-solicitation.
-
-“She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the
-unfortunate blunder of taking you seriously.”
-
-His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began
-to beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. “Why shouldn’t she
-take me seriously?” he demanded sharply. “Am I a comedian, a clown, a
-jack-in-the-box? Why shouldn’t she? You Creoles! I have no patience
-with you! Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing
-programme? I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she
-has discernment enough to find in me something besides the _blagueur_.
-If I thought there was any doubt—”
-
-“Oh, enough, Robert!” she broke into his heated outburst. “You are not
-thinking of what you are saying. You speak with about as little
-reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there
-playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were
-ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be
-the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to
-associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you.”
-
-Madame Ratignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the
-gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
-
-“Oh! well! That isn’t it,” slamming his hat down vehemently upon his
-head. “You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to
-a fellow.”
-
-“Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments?
-_Ma foi!_”
-
-“It isn’t pleasant to have a woman tell you—” he went on, unheedingly,
-but breaking off suddenly: “Now if I were like Arobin—you remember
-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.
-
-Madame Ratignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take
-the hour’s rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her,
-Robert begged her pardon for the impatience—he called it rudeness—with
-which he had received her well-meant caution.
-
-“You made one mistake, 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. _Au revoir_. But you look tired,” he added, solicitously.
-“Would you like a cup of bouillon? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix
-you a toddy with a drop of Angostura.”
-
-She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and
-acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart
-from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house. And he himself
-brought her the golden-brown bouillon, in a dainty Sèvres cup, with a
-flaky cracker or two on the saucer.
-
-She thrust a bare, white arm from the curtain which shielded her open
-door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a _bon
-garçon_, and she meant it. Robert thanked her and turned away toward
-“the house.”
-
-The lovers were just entering the grounds of the _pension_. They were
-leaning toward each other as the 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.
-
-Madame Lebrun was busily engaged at the sewing-machine. A little black
-girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the
-machine. The Creole woman does not take any chances which may be
-avoided of imperiling her health.
-
-Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the
-dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically
-to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned
-the leaves. The sewing-machine made a resounding clatter in the room;
-it was of a ponderous, by-gone make. In the lulls, Robert and his
-mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation.
-
-“Where is Mrs. Pontellier?”
-
-“Down at the beach with the children.”
-
-“I promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don’t forget to take it down when
-you go; it’s there on the bookshelf over the small table.” Clatter,
-clatter, clatter, bang! for the next five or eight minutes.
-
-“Where is Victor going with the rockaway?”
-
-“The rockaway? Victor?”
-
-“Yes; down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away
-somewhere.”
-
-“Call him.” Clatter, clatter!
-
-Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard
-back at the wharf.
-
-“He won’t look up.”
-
-Madame Lebrun flew to the window. She called “Victor!” She waved a
-handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the
-vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop.
-
-Madame Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor
-was the younger son and brother—a _tête montée_, with a temper which
-invited violence and a will which no ax could break.
-
-“Whenever you say the word I’m ready to thrash any amount of reason
-into him that he’s able to hold.”
-
-“If your father had only lived!” Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter,
-bang! It was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun that the conduct of the
-universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly
-of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur Lebrun been
-removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life.
-
-“What do you hear from Montel?” Montel was a middle-aged gentleman
-whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to
-fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun’s taking off had left in the Lebrun
-household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter!
-
-“I have a letter somewhere,” looking in the machine drawer and finding
-the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. “He says to tell you he
-will be in Vera Cruz the beginning of next month,”—clatter,
-clatter!—“and if you still have the intention of joining him”—bang!
-clatter, clatter, bang!
-
-“Why didn’t you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted—” Clatter,
-clatter, clatter!
-
-“Do you see Mrs. Pontellier starting back with the children? She will
-be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for
-luncheon till the last minute.” Clatter, clatter! “Where are you
-going?”
-
-“Where did you say the Goncourt was?”
-
-IX
-
-Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it
-could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The
-lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole
-room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these
-fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches
-stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped
-the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious
-will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.
-
-It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held
-between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An
-unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay
-over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their
-families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables
-had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged
-about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say
-and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now
-an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences
-and give a more general tone to the conversation.
-
-Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual
-bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor
-looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier
-had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do
-so, and making their authority felt.
-
-Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments
-furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about
-the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.
-
-At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon
-to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the
-Virgin’s colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed
-Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from “Zampa,” and at the
-earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture
-to “The Poet and the Peasant.”
-
-“_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_” shrieked the parrot outside the door. He
-was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit
-that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first
-time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew
-indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird
-removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected;
-and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot
-fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the
-whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and
-hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst.
-
-Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one
-present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the
-city.
-
-A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The
-mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her
-daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have
-had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had
-been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk
-tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially
-crimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses
-were full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they
-shot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were
-bewildering.
-
-But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame
-Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the
-others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing
-an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was
-keeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she
-and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and
-making it attractive.
-
-Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to
-separate during the brief period when one or the other should be
-whirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced
-together, but they did not think of it.
-
-The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with
-shrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted
-to sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit of
-human indulgence.
-
-The ice-cream was passed around with cake—gold and silver cake arranged
-on platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during the
-afternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the supervision
-of Victor. It was pronounced a great success—excellent if it had only
-contained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been
-frozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of
-portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about
-recommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess.
-
-After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with
-Robert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and
-swayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the
-gallery and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded
-a view of all that went on in the hall and could look out toward the
-Gulf. There was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up,
-and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant,
-restless water.
-
-“Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?” asked Robert, coming
-out on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear
-Mademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat
-her.
-
-“I’ll ask her,” he said. “I’ll tell her that you want to hear her. She
-likes you. She will come.” He turned and hurried away to one of the far
-cottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging
-a chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the
-crying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was
-endeavoring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no
-longer young, who had quarreled with almost every one, owing to a
-temper which was self-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the
-rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great
-difficulty.
-
-She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an
-awkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman,
-with a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had
-absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with
-a bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.
-
-“Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,” she
-requested of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not
-touching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the
-window. A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon
-every one as they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and
-a prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle
-embarrassed at being thus signaled out for the imperious little woman’s
-favor. She would not dare to choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz
-would please herself in her selections.
-
-Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains,
-well rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes
-liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or
-practiced. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled
-“Solitude.” It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the
-piece was something else, but she called it “Solitude.” When she heard
-it there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing
-beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was
-one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging
-its flight away from him.
-
-Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire
-gown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue
-between tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play,
-and still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat.
-
-The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano
-sent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier’s spinal column. It was not the
-first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the
-first time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered
-to take an impress of the abiding truth.
-
-She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and
-blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures
-of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions
-themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the
-waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking,
-and the tears blinded her.
-
-Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow,
-she went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed
-along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder.
-
-“Well, how did you like my music?” she asked. The young woman was
-unable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively.
-Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She
-patted her again upon the shoulder as she said:
-
-“You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!” and she
-went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room.
-
-But she was mistaken about “those others.” Her playing had aroused a
-fever of enthusiasm. “What passion!” “What an artist!” “I have always
-said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!” “That last
-prelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!”
-
-It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband.
-But some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic
-hour and under that mystic moon.
-
-X
-
-At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice.
-There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did
-not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered
-behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and
-hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious
-or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself.
-
-The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon
-the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert’s voice behind them,
-and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join
-them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from
-her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the
-next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him
-the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as
-one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about
-the sun when it was shining.
-
-The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and
-laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein’s
-hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance.
-There were strange, rare odors abroad—a tangle of the sea smell and of
-weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a
-field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon
-the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no
-shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the
-mystery and the softness of sleep.
-
-Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The
-sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into
-one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy
-crests that coiled back like slow, white serpents.
-
-Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received
-instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the
-children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he
-was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of
-his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the
-water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and
-reassure her.
-
-But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching
-child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first
-time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for
-joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted
-her body to the surface of the water.
-
-A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant
-import had been given her to control the working of her body and her
-soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She
-wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.
-
-Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and
-admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings
-had accomplished this desired end.
-
-“How easy it is!” she thought. “It is nothing,” she said aloud; “why
-did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have
-lost splashing about like a baby!” She would not join the groups in
-their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power,
-she swam out alone.
-
-She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and
-solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the
-moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to
-be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.
-
-Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had
-left there. She had not gone any great distance—that is, what would
-have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her
-unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect
-of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to
-overcome.
-
-A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time
-appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her
-staggering faculties and managed to regain the land.
-
-She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of
-terror, except to say to her husband, “I thought I should have perished
-out there alone.”
-
-“You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,” he told her.
-
-Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes
-and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She
-started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her.
-She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to
-their renewed cries which sought to detain her.
-
-“Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious,”
-said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that
-Edna’s abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure.
-
-“I know she is,” assented Mr. Pontellier; “sometimes, not often.”
-
-Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before
-she was overtaken by Robert.
-
-“Did you think I was afraid?” she asked him, without a shade of
-annoyance.
-
-“No; I knew you weren’t afraid.”
-
-“Then why did you come? Why didn’t you stay out there with the others?”
-
-“I never thought of it.”
-
-“Thought of what?”
-
-“Of anything. What difference does it make?”
-
-“I’m very tired,” she uttered, complainingly.
-
-“I know you are.”
-
-“You don’t know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so
-exhausted in my life. But it isn’t unpleasant. A thousand emotions have
-swept through me to-night. I don’t comprehend half of them. Don’t mind
-what I’m saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be
-stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz’s playing moved me to-night. I
-wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is
-like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny,
-half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night.”
-
-“There are,” whispered Robert, “Didn’t you know this was the
-twenty-eighth of August?”
-
-“The twenty-eighth of August?”
-
-“Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if
-the moon is shining—the moon must be shining—a spirit that has haunted
-these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating
-vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company,
-worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the
-semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he
-has sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs.
-Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell.
-Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk
-in the shadow of her divine presence.”
-
-“Don’t banter me,” she said, wounded at what appeared to be his
-flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate
-note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not
-tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said
-nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was
-exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp,
-letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm,
-but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as
-though her thoughts were elsewhere—somewhere in advance of her body,
-and she was striving to overtake them.
-
-Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before
-her door out to the trunk of a tree.
-
-“Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?” he asked.
-
-“I’ll stay out here. Good-night.”
-
-“Shall I get you a pillow?”
-
-“There’s one here,” she said, feeling about, for they were in the
-shadow.
-
-“It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.”
-
-“No matter.” And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath
-her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of
-relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not
-much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with
-no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose
-which seemed to invade her whole body.
-
-“Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?” asked Robert,
-seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold
-of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post.
-
-“If you wish. Don’t swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl
-which I left on the window-sill over at the house?”
-
-“Are you chilly?”
-
-“No; but I shall be presently.”
-
-“Presently?” he laughed. “Do you know what time it is? How long are you
-going to stay out here?”
-
-“I don’t know. Will you get the shawl?”
-
-“Of course I will,” he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking
-along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips
-of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet.
-
-When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand.
-She did not put it around her.
-
-“Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?”
-
-“I said you might if you wished to.”
-
-He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in
-silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could
-have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more
-pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire.
-
-When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said
-good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again
-she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he
-walked away.
-
-XI
-
-“What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in
-bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had
-walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did
-not reply.
-
-“Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her.
-
-“No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as
-they looked into his.
-
-“Do you know it is past one o’clock? Come on,” and he mounted the steps
-and went into their room.
-
-“Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone
-by.
-
-“Don’t wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through the door.
-
-“You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What folly is
-this? Why don’t you come in?”
-
-“It isn’t cold; I have my shawl.”
-
-“The mosquitoes will devour you.”
-
-“There are no mosquitoes.”
-
-She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience
-and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She
-would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of
-submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as
-we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life
-which has been portioned out to us.
-
-“Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time
-fondly, with a note of entreaty.
-
-“No; I am going to stay out here.”
-
-“This is more than folly,” he blurted out. “I can’t permit you to stay
-out there all night. You must come in the house instantly.”
-
-With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the
-hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and
-resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and
-resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that
-before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she
-remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she
-should have yielded, feeling as she then did.
-
-“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.”
-
-Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra
-garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and
-select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and
-went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not
-wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the
-rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he
-went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again
-declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier
-once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable
-interval of time smoked some more cigars.
-
-Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a
-delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities
-pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake
-her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her
-helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.
-
-The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the
-world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from
-silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and
-the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.
-
-Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She
-tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into
-the house.
-
-“Are you coming in, Léonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her
-husband.
-
-“Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of
-smoke. “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.”
-
-XII
-
-She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours,
-disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving
-only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something
-unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning.
-The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However,
-she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either
-external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse
-moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction,
-and freed her soul of responsibility.
-
-Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A
-few, who intended to go over to the _Chênière_ for mass, were moving
-about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were
-already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday
-prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was
-following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and
-was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He
-put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the
-hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.
-
-The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun’s sewing-machine was
-sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom.
-Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.
-
-“Tell him I am going to the _Chênière_. The boat is ready; tell him to
-hurry.”
-
-He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had
-never asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did
-not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding
-his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything
-extraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet
-glow when he met her.
-
-They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no
-time to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window
-and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and
-ate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good.
-
-She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often
-noticed that she lacked forethought.
-
-“Wasn’t it enough to think of going to the _Chênière_ 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.”
-
-They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see
-the curious procession moving toward the wharf—the lovers, shoulder to
-shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old
-Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted
-Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm,
-bringing up the rear.
-
-Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one
-present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a
-round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small,
-and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were
-broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her
-feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.
-
-Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much
-room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who
-considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not
-quarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with
-Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to
-Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making
-“eyes” at Robert and making “mouths” at Beaudelet.
-
-The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The
-lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur
-Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and
-of what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject.
-
-Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly
-brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again.
-
-“Why does she look at me like that?” inquired the girl of Robert.
-
-“Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?”
-
-“No. Is she your sweetheart?”
-
-“She’s a married lady, and has two children.”
-
-“Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano’s wife, who had four
-children. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his
-boat.”
-
-“Shut up!”
-
-“Does she understand?”
-
-“Oh, hush!”
-
-“Are those two married over there—leaning on each other?”
-
-“Of course not,” laughed Robert.
-
-“Of course not,” echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of
-the head.
-
-The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to
-Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands.
-Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise
-through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and
-overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at
-something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man
-under his breath.
-
-Sailing across the bay to the _Chênière Caminada_, Edna felt as if she
-were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast,
-whose chains had been loosening—had snapped the night before when the
-mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she
-chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer
-noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They
-were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and
-muttered to herself sullenly.
-
-“Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?” said Robert in a low voice.
-
-“What shall we do there?”
-
-“Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling
-gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.”
-
-She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be
-alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean’s roar and
-watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old
-fort.
-
-“And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,” he went
-on.
-
-“What shall we do there?”
-
-“Anything—cast bait for fish.”
-
-“No; we’ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.”
-
-“We’ll go wherever you like,” he said. “I’ll have Tonie come over and
-help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any
-one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?”
-
-“Oh, no.”
-
-“Then I’ll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines.
-Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands
-the treasures are hidden—direct you to the very spot, perhaps.”
-
-“And in a day we should be rich!” she laughed. “I’d give it all to you,
-the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you
-would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn’t a thing to be hoarded or
-utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for
-the fun of seeing the golden specks fly.”
-
-“We’d share it, and scatter it together,” he said. His face flushed.
-
-They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our
-Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun’s
-glare.
-
-Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita
-walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill
-humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye.
-
-XIII
-
-A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the
-service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed
-before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain
-her composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere
-of the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert’s
-feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious,
-stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he
-sank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in
-black, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon
-the pages of her velvet prayer-book.
-
-“I felt giddy and almost overcome,” Edna said, lifting her hands
-instinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her
-forehead. “I couldn’t have stayed through the service.” They were
-outside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude.
-
-“It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone
-staying. Come over to Madame Antoine’s; you can rest there.” He took
-her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into
-her face.
-
-How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the
-reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray,
-weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It
-must always have been God’s day on that low, drowsy island, Edna
-thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift,
-to ask for water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from
-the cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening
-on one side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to
-them in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated
-face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her.
-
-Madame Antoine’s cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed
-them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door
-to let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily
-across the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her
-understand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to
-rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of
-her comfortably.
-
-The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed,
-snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which
-looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was
-a disabled boat lying keel upward.
-
-Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she
-supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and
-wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame
-Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She
-was boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.
-
-Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes,
-removing the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and
-arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her
-shoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the
-high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange,
-quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the
-sheets and mattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a
-little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She
-looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them
-one after the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw
-for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh.
-She clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell
-asleep.
-
-She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the
-things about her. She could hear Madame Antoine’s heavy, scraping tread
-as she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were
-clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the
-grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking
-under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and
-heavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on—Tonie’s slow, Acadian
-drawl, Robert’s quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French
-imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of
-the other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses.
-
-When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and
-soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine’s step
-was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had
-gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over
-her; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar.
-Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of
-the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon
-was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the
-shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading
-from a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become
-of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as
-she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows.
-
-Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had
-placed a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the
-powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the
-little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her
-eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed.
-
-When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room.
-She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread
-upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for
-one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate.
-Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white
-teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down.
-Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the
-low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she
-was awake and up.
-
-An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined
-her under the orange tree.
-
-“How many years have I slept?” she inquired. “The whole island seems
-changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and
-me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die?
-and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?”
-
-He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder.
-
-“You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard
-your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed
-reading a book. The only evil I couldn’t prevent was to keep a broiled
-fowl from drying up.”
-
-“If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,” said Edna, moving
-with him into the house. “But really, what has become of Monsieur
-Farival and the others?”
-
-“Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it
-best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn’t have let them. What was I
-here for?”
-
-“I wonder if Léonce will be uneasy!” she speculated, as she seated
-herself at table.
-
-“Of course not; he knows you are with me,” Robert replied, as he busied
-himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left
-standing on the hearth.
-
-“Where are Madame Antoine and her son?” asked Edna.
-
-“Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take
-you back in Tonie’s boat whenever you are ready to go.”
-
-He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle
-afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and
-sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the
-mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was
-childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish
-with which she ate the food which he had procured for her.
-
-“Shall we go right away?” she asked, after draining her glass and
-brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.
-
-“The sun isn’t as low as it will be in two hours,” he answered.
-
-“The sun will be gone in two hours.”
-
-“Well, let it go; who cares!”
-
-They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine
-came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her
-absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not
-willingly face any woman except his mother.
-
-It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the
-sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper
-and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque
-monsters across the grass.
-
-Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground—that is, he lay upon the
-ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown.
-
-Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench
-beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound
-herself up to the storytelling pitch.
-
-And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the
-_Chênière Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she
-had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of
-the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to
-lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the
-click of muffled gold.
-
-When she and Robert stepped into Tonie’s boat, with the red lateen
-sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the
-reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover.
-
-XIV
-
-The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle
-said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been
-unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken
-charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in
-bed and asleep for two hours.
-
-The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him
-up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other
-chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill
-humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker,
-began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names,
-soothing him to sleep.
-
-It was not more than nine o’clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the
-children.
-
-Léonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had
-wanted to start at once for the _Chênière_. But Monsieur Farival had
-assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue,
-that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had
-thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein’s,
-looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to
-securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame
-Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away
-late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She
-carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to
-remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested
-above all things to be left alone.
-
-When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and
-Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child
-comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged
-from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night.
-
-“Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert—since
-early this morning?” she said at parting.
-
-“All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Good-night.”
-
-He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He did
-not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf.
-
-Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband’s return. She had no desire
-to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the
-Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices
-reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her
-mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover
-wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer
-of her life. She could only realize that she herself—her present
-self—was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing
-with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in
-herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet
-suspect.
-
-She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur to
-her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong
-day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted
-that he had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he
-was not absolutely required to leave her.
-
-As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert
-had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with “Ah! _si tu savais_,”
-and every verse ended with “_si tu savais_.”
-
-Robert’s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice,
-the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory.
-
-XV
-
-When Edna entered the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her
-habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on.
-Several persons were talking at once, and Victor’s voice was
-predominating, even over that of his mother. Edna had returned late
-from her bath, had dressed in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her
-head, set off by her dainty white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom.
-She took her seat at table between old Monsieur Farival and Madame
-Ratignolle.
-
-As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had
-been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her
-simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down
-and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her
-all the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico.
-She had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say
-he was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought
-nothing of, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in
-the afternoon, when she went down to the beach.
-
-She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who
-presided. Edna’s face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she
-never thought of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of
-a smile as he returned her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy.
-“When is he going?” she asked of everybody in general, as if Robert
-were not there to answer for himself.
-
-“To-night!” “This very evening!” “Did you ever!” “What possesses him!”
-were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French
-and English.
-
-“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “How can a person start off from Grand
-Isle to Mexico at a moment’s notice, as if he were going over to
-Klein’s or to the wharf or down to the beach?”
-
-“I said all along I was going to Mexico; I’ve been saying so for
-years!” cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of
-a man defending himself against a swarm of stinging insects.
-
-Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle.
-
-“Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going
-to-night,” she called out. “Really, this table is getting to be more
-and more like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once.
-Sometimes—I hope God will forgive me—but positively, sometimes I wish
-Victor would lose the power of speech.”
-
-Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish,
-of which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might
-afford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself.
-
-Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in
-mid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would
-be more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim
-for making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a
-trifle hysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names.
-
-“There’s nothing much to explain, mother,” he said; though he
-explained, nevertheless—looking chiefly at Edna—that he could only meet
-the gentleman whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and
-such a steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet
-was going out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave
-him an opportunity of reaching the city and making his vessel in time.
-
-“But when did you make up your mind to all this?” demanded Monsieur
-Farival.
-
-“This afternoon,” returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance.
-
-“At what time this afternoon?” persisted the old gentleman, with
-nagging determination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a
-court of justice.
-
-“At four o’clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival,” Robert replied, in
-a high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some
-gentleman on the stage.
-
-She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking
-the flaky bits of a _court bouillon_ with her fork.
-
-The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to
-speak in whispers of matters which they rightly considered were
-interesting to no one but themselves. The lady in black had once
-received a pair of prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico,
-with very special indulgence attached to them, but she had never been
-able to ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican
-border. Father Fochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but
-he had not done so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert
-would interest himself, and discover, if possible, whether she was
-entitled to the indulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican
-prayer-beads.
-
-Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution in
-dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous
-people, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no
-injustice in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally
-but one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she
-would have trusted implicitly, so soft-spoken was he. One day he was
-arrested for stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been
-hanged or not.
-
-Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote
-about a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in
-Dauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival,
-who went into convulsions over the droll story.
-
-Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring at
-that rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or
-the Mexicans.
-
-“At what time do you leave?” she asked Robert.
-
-“At ten,” he told her. “Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon.”
-
-“Are you all ready to go?”
-
-“Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in
-the city.”
-
-He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and Edna,
-having finished her black coffee, left the table.
-
-She went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy
-after leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to be
-a hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began
-to set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the
-quadroon, who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed.
-She gathered together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of
-chairs, and put each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She
-changed her gown for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She
-rearranged her hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then
-she went in and assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed.
-
-They were very playful and inclined to talk—to do anything but lie
-quiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and
-told her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children a
-story. Instead of soothing it excited them, and added to their
-wakefulness. She left them in heated argument, speculating about the
-conclusion of the tale which their mother promised to finish the
-following night.
-
-The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to
-have Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr.
-Robert went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed,
-that she did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the
-house later. She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to
-remove her _peignoir_. But changing her mind once more she resumed the
-_peignoir_, and went outside and sat down before her door. She was
-overheated and irritable, and fanned herself energetically for a while.
-Madame Ratignolle came down to discover what was the matter.
-
-“All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me,” replied
-Edna, “and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert
-starting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if it
-were a matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all
-morning when he was with me.”
-
-“Yes,” agreed Madame Ratignolle. “I think it was showing us all—you
-especially—very little consideration. It wouldn’t have surprised me in
-any of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must
-say I should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not
-coming down? Come on, dear; it doesn’t look friendly.”
-
-“No,” said Edna, a little sullenly. “I can’t go to the trouble of
-dressing again; I don’t feel like it.”
-
-“You needn’t dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your
-waist. Just look at me!”
-
-“No,” persisted Edna; “but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended
-if we both stayed away.”
-
-Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in truth
-rather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation
-which was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans.
-
-Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag.
-
-“Aren’t you feeling well?” he asked.
-
-“Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?”
-
-He lit a match and looked at his watch. “In twenty minutes,” he said.
-The sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a
-while. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the
-porch.
-
-“Get a chair,” said Edna.
-
-“This will do,” he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took
-it off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of
-the heat.
-
-“Take the fan,” said Edna, offering it to him.
-
-“Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some
-time, and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward.”
-
-“That’s one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never
-known one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone?”
-
-“Forever, perhaps. I don’t know. It depends upon a good many things.”
-
-“Well, in case it shouldn’t be forever, how long will it be?”
-
-“I don’t know.”
-
-“This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don’t like
-it. I don’t understand your motive for silence and mystery, never
-saying a word to me about it this morning.” He remained silent, not
-offering to defend himself. He only said, after a moment:
-
-“Don’t part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of
-patience with me before.”
-
-“I don’t want to part in any ill humor,” she said. “But can’t you
-understand? I’ve grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all
-the time, and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don’t even
-offer an excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of
-how pleasant it would be to see you in the city next winter.”
-
-“So was I,” he blurted. “Perhaps that’s the—” He stood up suddenly and
-held out his hand. “Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You
-won’t—I hope you won’t completely forget me.” She clung to his hand,
-striving to detain him.
-
-“Write to me when you get there, won’t you, Robert?” she entreated.
-
-“I will, thank you. Good-by.”
-
-How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something
-more emphatic than “I will, thank you; good-by,” to such a request.
-
-He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house,
-for he descended the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out
-there with an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked
-away in the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet’s voice; Robert had
-apparently not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion.
-
-Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to
-hide, even from herself as she would have hidden from another, the
-emotion which was troubling—tearing—her. Her eyes were brimming with
-tears.
-
-For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which she
-had felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and
-later as a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the
-poignancy of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of
-instability. The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she
-was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted
-to penetrate. The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture
-her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that she had lost
-that which she had held, that she had been denied that which her
-impassioned, newly awakened being demanded.
-
-XVI
-
-“Do you miss your friend greatly?” asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning
-as she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on
-her way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she
-had acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle
-drew near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to
-a diversion which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that
-she knew. When Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the
-shoulder and spoke to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which
-was ever in Edna’s mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly
-possessed her.
-
-Robert’s going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the
-meaning out of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way
-changed, but her whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which
-seems to be no longer worth wearing. She sought him everywhere—in
-others whom she induced to talk about him. She went up in the mornings
-to Madame Lebrun’s room, braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine.
-She sat there and chatted at intervals as Robert had done. She gazed
-around the room at the pictures and photographs hanging upon the wall,
-and discovered in some corner an old family album, which she examined
-with the keenest interest, appealing to Madame Lebrun for enlightenment
-concerning the many figures and faces which she discovered between its
-pages.
-
-There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in
-her lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone
-in the baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the
-age of five, wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made
-Edna laugh, and she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long
-trousers; while another interested her, taken when he left for college,
-looking thin, long-faced, with eyes full of fire, ambition and great
-intentions. But there was no recent picture, none which suggested the
-Robert who had gone away five days ago, leaving a void and wilderness
-behind him.
-
-“Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for
-them himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says,” explained
-Madame Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New
-Orleans. Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to
-look for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on
-the mantelpiece.
-
-The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and
-attraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark,
-the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before
-opening it. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would
-leave the city that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good
-shape, that he was well, and sent her his love and begged to be
-affectionately remembered to all. There was no special message to Edna
-except a postscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish
-the book which he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in
-his room, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang
-of jealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her.
-
-Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her
-husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert’s departure,
-expressed regret that he had gone.
-
-“How do you get on without him, Edna?” he asked.
-
-“It’s very dull without him,” she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen
-Robert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where
-had they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone “in”
-and had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about?
-Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought
-were promising. How did he look? How did he seem—grave, or gay, or how?
-Quite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which
-Mr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek
-fortune and adventure in a strange, queer country.
-
-Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children
-persisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She
-went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not
-being more attentive.
-
-It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be
-making of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to
-speak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way
-resembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or
-ever expected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to
-harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had
-never taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her
-own, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them
-and that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame
-Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or
-for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women
-did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same
-language. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain.
-
-“I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give
-my life for my children; but I wouldn’t give myself. I can’t make it
-more clear; it’s only something which I am beginning to comprehend,
-which is revealing itself to me.”
-
-“I don’t know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by
-the unessential,” said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; “but a woman who
-would give her life for her children could do no more than that—your
-Bible tells you so. I’m sure I couldn’t do more than that.”
-
-“Oh, yes you could!” laughed Edna.
-
-She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz’s question the morning that
-lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked
-if she did not greatly miss her young friend.
-
-“Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss
-Robert. Are you going down to bathe?”
-
-“Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I
-haven’t been in the surf all summer,” replied the woman, disagreeably.
-
-“I beg your pardon,” offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she
-should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz’s avoidance of the water
-had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it
-was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets
-wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water
-sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle
-offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her
-pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually
-ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much
-nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation,
-as Madame Lebrun’s table was utterly impossible; and no one save so
-impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food
-to people and requiring them to pay for it.
-
-“She must feel very lonely without her son,” said Edna, desiring to
-change the subject. “Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite
-hard to let him go.”
-
-Mademoiselle laughed maliciously.
-
-“Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale
-upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has
-spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the
-ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the
-money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for
-himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear.
-I liked to see him and to hear him about the place—the only Lebrun who
-is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like
-to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It’s a
-wonder Robert hasn’t beaten him to death long ago.”
-
-“I thought he had great patience with his brother,” offered Edna, glad
-to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said.
-
-“Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago,” said Mademoiselle.
-“It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some
-sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or
-walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket—I don’t
-remember what;—and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave
-him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order
-for a good while. It’s about time he was getting another.”
-
-“Was her name Mariequita?” asked Edna.
-
-“Mariequita—yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she’s a
-sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!”
-
-Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have
-listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed,
-almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she
-donned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the
-shade of the children’s tent. The water was growing cooler as the
-season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that
-thrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water,
-half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her.
-
-But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and
-raved much over Edna’s appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about
-music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote
-her address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she
-found in her pocket.
-
-“When do you leave?” asked Edna.
-
-“Next Monday; and you?”
-
-“The following week,” answered Edna, adding, “It has been a pleasant
-summer, hasn’t it, Mademoiselle?”
-
-“Well,” agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, “rather pleasant, if
-it hadn’t been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins.”
-
-XVII
-
-The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in
-New Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front
-veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The
-house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies,
-were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers
-and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana.
-Within doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type.
-The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful
-draperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected
-with judgment and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the
-silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table were the
-envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr.
-Pontellier.
-
-Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its
-various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He
-greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and
-derived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a
-rare lace curtain—no matter what—after he had bought it and placed it
-among his household gods.
-
-On Tuesday afternoons—Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier’s reception
-day—there was a constant stream of callers—women who came in carriages
-or in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance
-permitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a
-diminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A
-maid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or
-chocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome
-reception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon
-receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their
-wives.
-
-This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously
-followed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during
-the week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play.
-
-Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten
-o’clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the
-evening—dinner being served at half-past seven.
-
-He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few
-weeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The
-boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet
-could be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the
-quadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not
-wear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress.
-Mr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he
-served the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting.
-
-“Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?” he asked. He tasted
-his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar,
-mustard—everything within reach.
-
-“There were a good many,” replied Edna, who was eating her soup with
-evident satisfaction. “I found their cards when I got home; I was out.”
-
-“Out!” exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation
-in his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her
-through his glasses. “Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday?
-What did you have to do?”
-
-“Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.”
-
-“Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,” said her husband,
-somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.
-
-“No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.”
-
-“Why, my dear, I should think you’d understand by this time that people
-don’t do such things; we’ve got to observe _les convenances_ if we ever
-expect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you
-had to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable
-explanation for your absence.
-
-“This soup is really impossible; it’s strange that woman hasn’t learned
-yet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better
-one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?”
-
-“Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don’t remember who was here.”
-
-The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver
-tray, which was covered with ladies’ visiting cards. He handed it to
-Mrs. Pontellier.
-
-“Give it to Mr. Pontellier,” she said.
-
-Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.
-
-Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife’s callers, reading some of
-them aloud, with comments as he read.
-
-“‘The Misses Delasidas.’ I worked a big deal in futures for their
-father this morning; nice girls; it’s time they were getting married.
-‘Mrs. Belthrop.’ I tell you what it is, Edna; you can’t afford to snub
-Mrs. Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His
-business is worth a good, round sum to me. You’d better write her a
-note. ‘Mrs. James Highcamp.’ Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs.
-Highcamp, the better. ‘Madame Laforcé.’ Came all the way from
-Carrolton, too, poor old soul. ‘Miss Wiggs,’ ‘Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.’”
-He pushed the cards aside.
-
-“Mercy!” exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. “Why are you taking the
-thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?”
-
-“I’m not making any fuss over it. But it’s just such seeming trifles
-that we’ve got to take seriously; such things count.”
-
-The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she
-did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to
-his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were
-served.
-
-“It seems to me,” he said, “we spend money enough in this house to
-procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his
-self-respect.”
-
-“You used to think the cook was a treasure,” returned Edna,
-indifferently.
-
-“Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They
-need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ.
-Suppose I didn’t look after the clerks in my office, just let them run
-things their own way; they’d soon make a nice mess of me and my
-business.”
-
-“Where are you going?” asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from
-table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the
-highly-seasoned soup.
-
-“I’m going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.” He went into the
-hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house.
-
-She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her
-very unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely
-deprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone
-into the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she
-went to her room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening,
-finally writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a
-feeling that, after all, she had accomplished no good that was worth
-the name.
-
-But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced
-deliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward
-fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her
-room, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was
-indisposed.
-
-It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim
-light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open
-window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the
-mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid
-the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and
-foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such
-sweet, half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not
-soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the
-stars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid
-even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and
-fro down its whole length without stopping, without resting. She
-carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons,
-rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking
-off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying
-there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her
-small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little
-glittering circlet.
-
-In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung
-it upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The
-crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.
-
-A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to
-discover what was the matter.
-
-“A vase fell upon the hearth,” said Edna. “Never mind; leave it till
-morning.”
-
-“Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma’am,” insisted the
-young woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered
-upon the carpet. “And here’s your ring, ma’am, under the chair.”
-
-Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her
-finger.
-
-XVIII
-
-The following morning Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office,
-asked Edna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some
-new fixtures for the library.
-
-“I hardly think we need new fixtures, Léonce. Don’t let us get anything
-new; you are too extravagant. I don’t believe you ever think of saving
-or putting by.”
-
-“The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save
-it,” he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with
-him and select new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she
-was not looking well and must take care of herself. She was unusually
-pale and very quiet.
-
-She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently
-picked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She
-inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her
-white morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small
-“express wagon,” which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The
-quadroon was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a
-fictitious animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was
-crying his wares in the street.
-
-Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon
-her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the
-children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes,
-were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become
-antagonistic.
-
-She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook
-concerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had
-saved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly
-fitted. Mr. Pontellier’s arguments were usually convincing with those
-whom he employed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna
-would sit down that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to
-a dinner deserving of the name.
-
-Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. She
-could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her
-eyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor.
-Finally she gathered together a few of the sketches—those which she
-considered the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when,
-a little later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and
-distinguished in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her
-face, and her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath her
-heavy, yellow-brown hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a
-small, dark mole near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hidden
-in her hair.
-
-As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was
-still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him,
-realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like
-an obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt
-upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or
-peculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which
-dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the
-mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled
-her with an incomprehensible longing.
-
-Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle’s. Their intimacy, begun at
-Grand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some
-frequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no
-great distance from Edna’s home, on the corner of a side street, where
-Monsieur Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a
-steady and prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before
-him, and Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an
-enviable reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family lived
-in commodious apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side
-within the _porte cochère_. 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 _soirée
-musicale_, sometimes diversified by card-playing. There was a friend
-who played upon the cello. One brought his flute and another his
-violin, while there were some who sang and a number who performed upon
-the piano with various degrees of taste and agility. The Ratignolles’
-_soirées musicales_ were widely known, and it was considered a
-privilege to be invited to them.
-
-Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had
-returned that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned her
-occupation upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into
-her presence.
-
-“’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.
-
-Then placing an arm around Edna’s waist, she led her to the front of
-the house, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of
-great roses that stood upon the hearth in jars.
-
-Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in a
-negligé which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich,
-melting curves of her white throat.
-
-“Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,” said Edna
-with a smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches
-and started to unfold them. “I believe I ought to work again. I feel as
-if I wanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you
-think it worth while to take it up again and study some more? I might
-study for a while with Laidpore.”
-
-She knew that Madame Ratignolle’s opinion in such a matter would be
-next to valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but
-determined; but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that
-would help her to put heart into her venture.
-
-“Your talent is immense, dear!”
-
-“Nonsense!” protested Edna, well pleased.
-
-“Immense, I tell you,” persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the
-sketches one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm’s length,
-narrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. “Surely, this
-Bavarian peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never
-have I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to
-reach out a hand and take one.”
-
-Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at her
-friend’s praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She
-retained a few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame
-Ratignolle, who appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly
-exhibited the pictures to her husband when he came up from the store a
-little later for his midday dinner.
-
-Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the
-earth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his
-goodness of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife
-spoke English with an accent which was only discernible through its
-un-English emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna’s
-husband spoke English with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles
-understood each other perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings
-into one has been accomplished on this sphere it was surely in their
-union.
-
-As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, “Better a dinner
-of herbs,” though it did not take her long to discover that it was no
-dinner of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every
-way satisfying.
-
-Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her
-looking not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked
-a good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and
-neighborhood gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that
-gave an exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife
-was keenly interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the
-better to listen, chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth.
-
-Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little
-glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no
-regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her,
-and she could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was
-moved by a kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,—a pity for that
-colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the
-region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited
-her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life’s delirium.
-Edna vaguely wondered what she meant by “life’s delirium.” It had
-crossed her thought like some unsought, extraneous impression.
-
-XIX
-
-Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish,
-to have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon
-the tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such
-futile expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she
-liked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not
-return the visits of those who had called upon her. She made no
-ineffectual efforts to conduct her household _en bonne ménagère_, going
-and coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending
-herself to any passing caprice.
-
-Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a
-certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected
-line of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her
-absolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr.
-Pontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to
-take another step backward.
-
-“It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a
-household, and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days
-which would be better employed contriving for the comfort of her
-family.”
-
-“I feel like painting,” answered Edna. “Perhaps I shan’t always feel
-like it.”
-
-“Then in God’s name paint! but don’t let the family go to the devil.
-There’s Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn’t
-let everything else go to chaos. And she’s more of a musician than you
-are a painter.”
-
-“She isn’t a musician, and I’m not a painter. It isn’t on account of
-painting that I let things go.”
-
-“On account of what, then?”
-
-“Oh! I don’t know. Let me alone; you bother me.”
-
-It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier’s mind to wonder if his wife were
-not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she
-was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming
-herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume
-like a garment with which to appear before the world.
-
-Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his
-office. Edna went up to her atelier—a bright room in the top of the
-house. She was working with great energy and interest, without
-accomplishing anything, however, which satisfied her even in the
-smallest degree. For a time she had the whole household enrolled in the
-service of art. The boys posed for her. They thought it amusing at
-first, but the occupation soon lost its attractiveness when they
-discovered that it was not a game arranged especially for their
-entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna’s palette,
-patient as a savage, while the house-maid took charge of the children,
-and the drawing-room went undusted. But the 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, “_Ah! si tu savais!_”
-
-It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the
-water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the
-bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A
-subtle current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold
-upon the brushes and making her eyes burn.
-
-There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was
-happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one
-with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some
-perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and
-unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner,
-fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone
-and unmolested.
-
-There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,—when it did
-not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when
-life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like
-worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not
-work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her
-blood.
-
-XX
-
-It was during such a mood that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. She
-had not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by
-their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see
-her—above all, to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early
-in the afternoon she started upon her quest for the pianist.
-Unfortunately she had mislaid or lost Mademoiselle Reisz’s card, and
-looking up her address in the city directory, she found that the woman
-lived on Bienville Street, some distance away. The directory which fell
-into her hands was a year or more old, however, and upon reaching the
-number indicated, Edna discovered that the house was occupied by a
-respectable family of mulattoes who had _chambres garnies_ to let. They
-had been living there for six months, and knew absolutely nothing of a
-Mademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew nothing of any of their
-neighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest distinction,
-they assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions
-with Madame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring grocery store,
-feeling sure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the
-proprietor.
-
-He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to know
-her, he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know her
-at all, or anything concerning her—the most disagreeable and unpopular
-woman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she had
-left the neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know
-where she had gone.
-
-Edna’s desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since
-these unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering
-who could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly
-occurred to her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do
-so. She knew it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the
-most distant terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing
-concerning her. She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing
-herself upon the subject as the corner grocer.
-
-Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the
-middle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, on
-Chartres Street.
-
-Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before
-the door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old
-_régime_, and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side
-was a high fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the
-street was locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and
-stood upon the banquette, waiting to be admitted.
-
-It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her
-hands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Edna
-could hear them in altercation, the woman—plainly an anomaly—claiming
-the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to
-answer the bell.
-
-Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made
-no attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a
-dark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling his
-mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black
-woman to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier
-desired to see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty
-when she had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to her
-interrupted task of weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administered a
-rebuke in the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity
-and incoherence, was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was,
-the rebuke was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went
-mumbling into the house.
-
-Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side
-porch, where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She
-seated herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to
-rock gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew
-up his chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman’s
-offensive conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not
-there to take her in hand. He had only come up from the island the
-morning before, and expected to return next day. He stayed all winter
-at the island; he lived there, and kept the place in order and got
-things ready for the summer visitors.
-
-But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier,
-and every now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the
-city. My! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn’t
-want his mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was
-scintillant with recollections. Of course, he couldn’t think of telling
-Mrs. Pontellier all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending
-such things. But it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him
-through the shutters as he passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty!
-Certainly he smiled back, and went up and talked to her. Mrs.
-Pontellier did not know him if she supposed he was one to let an
-opportunity like that escape him. Despite herself, the youngster amused
-her. She must have betrayed in her look some degree of interest or
-entertainment. The boy grew more daring, and Mrs. Pontellier might have
-found herself, in a little while, listening to a highly colored story
-but for the timely appearance of Madame Lebrun.
-
-That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the
-summer. Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier
-go inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been
-there before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet
-children? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November?
-
-Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother’s
-chair, where he commanded a view of Edna’s face. He had taken her
-parasol from her hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and
-twirled it above him as he lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun
-complained that it was _so_ dull coming back to the city; that she saw
-_so_ few people now; that even Victor, when he came up from the island
-for a day or two, had _so_ much to occupy him and engage his time; then
-it was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge and winked
-mischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime,
-and tried to look severe and disapproving.
-
-There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they
-told her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for
-the letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He
-remembered the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when
-put to the test.
-
-One letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City of
-Mexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his
-advancement. So far, the financial situation was no improvement over
-the one he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were
-vastly better. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the
-people and their habits, the conditions of life which he found there.
-He sent his love to the family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and
-hoped she would affectionately remember him to all his friends. That
-was about the substance of the two letters. Edna felt that if there had
-been a message for her, she would have received it. The despondent
-frame of mind in which she had left home began again to overtake her,
-and she remembered that she wished to find Mademoiselle Reisz.
-
-Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna the
-address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the
-remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some
-other day. The afternoon was already well advanced.
-
-Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and
-held it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her
-to bear in mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly
-confidential. She laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too
-late that she should have been dignified and reserved.
-
-“How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!” said Madame Lebrun to her son.
-
-“Ravishing!” he admitted. “The city atmosphere has improved her. Some
-way she doesn’t seem like the same woman.”
-
-XXI
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“So you remembered me at last,” said Mademoiselle. “I had said to
-myself, ‘Ah, bah! she will never come.’”
-
-“Did you want me to come?” asked Edna with a smile.
-
-“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 _la belle dame?_ 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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“I don’t know whether I like you or not,” replied Edna, gazing down at
-the little woman with a quizzical look.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“My friend?”
-
-“Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico.”
-
-“Wrote to _you_?” repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee
-absently.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Let me see it,” requested the young woman, entreatingly.
-
-“No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one
-to whom it is written.”
-
-“Haven’t you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“Let me see the letter.”
-
-“Oh, no.”
-
-“Have you answered it?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Let me see the letter.”
-
-“No, and again, no.”
-
-“Then play the Impromptu for me.”
-
-“It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?”
-
-“Time doesn’t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the
-Impromptu.”
-
-“But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?”
-
-“Painting!” laughed Edna. “I am becoming an artist. Think of it!”
-
-“Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame.”
-
-“Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“What do you mean by the courageous soul?”
-
-“Courageous, _ma foi!_ The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.”
-
-“Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I have
-persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?”
-
-“It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,” replied
-Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings
-are dark; don’t stumble.”
-
-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.
-
-XXII
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor.
-
-“Well, it isn’t easy to explain,” said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself
-back in his chair. “She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.”
-
-“Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We’ve got to
-consider—”
-
-“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.”
-
-The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick
-nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned
-fingertips.
-
-“What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?”
-
-“Doing! _Parbleu!_”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-This was a new aspect for the Doctor. “Nothing hereditary?” he asked,
-seriously. “Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Oh! I couldn’t do that; there’d be no reason for it,” objected Mr.
-Pontellier.
-
-“Then I’ll go around and see her,” said the Doctor. “I’ll drop in to
-dinner some evening _en bon ami_.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“Well, good-by, _à jeudi_,” said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out.
-
-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.
-
-He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while
-meditatively looking out into the garden.
-
-XXIII
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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 _soirée musicale_
-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.
-
-There were one or two men whom she observed at the _soirée musicale;_
-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.
-
-Mr. Pontellier did not attend these _soirées musicales_. He considered
-them _bourgeois_, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame
-Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her _soirées_ 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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks
-with Edna’s memory that night.
-
-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.
-
-“I hope it isn’t Arobin,” he muttered to himself as he walked. “I hope
-to heaven it isn’t Alcée Arobin.”
-
-XXIV
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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 _à point_. The wine tasted good; the
-_marron glacé_ seemed to be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant,
-too, to dine in a comfortable _peignoir_.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-XXV
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do so.
-Arobin also remained and sent away his drag.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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:
-
-“What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel.
-
-“The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,” she
-said. “I shouldn’t have looked at it.”
-
-“I beg your pardon,” he entreated, following her; “it never occurred to
-me that it might be repulsive.”
-
-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.
-
-“Will you go to the races again?” he asked.
-
-“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—”
-
-“Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning
-may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?”
-
-“No!”
-
-“Day after?”
-
-“No, no.”
-
-“Oh, please don’t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might
-help you with a stray suggestion or two.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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?”
-
-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.
-
-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?”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams.
-
-XXVI
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in
-removing Edna’s dripping mackintosh.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.
-
-“Aren’t you astonished?”
-
-“Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your
-father in Mississippi? where?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“That is not your true reason, _ma belle_. 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.
-
-“The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn’t that
-enough reason?”
-
-“They are your husband’s,” returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a
-malicious elevation of the eyebrows.
-
-“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.”
-
-“What does your husband say?”
-
-“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.”
-
-Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. “Your reason is not yet clear to
-me,” she said.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Another! so soon!” she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. “Tell
-me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“Why do you show me his letters, then?”
-
-“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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“That he was coming back? No great news, _ma foi_. I wonder he did not
-come long ago.”
-
-“But when, when?” cried Edna, impatiently. “He does not say when.”
-
-“He says ‘very soon.’ You know as much about it as I do; it is all in
-the letter.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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 _grand esprit;_ 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.”
-
-“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?’
-
-“You are purposely misunderstanding me, _ma reine_. Are you in love
-with Robert?”
-
-“Yes,” said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow
-overspread her face, blotching it with red spots.
-
-“Why?” asked her companion. “Why do you love him when you ought not
-to?”
-
-Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before
-Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands.
-
-“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—”
-
-“Because you do, in short,” laughed Mademoiselle. “What will you do
-when he comes back?” she asked.
-
-“Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-XXVII
-
-“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.
-
-“Don’t you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun
-pretty soon?”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.
-
-“Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is
-captivating. Spare yourself the effort.”
-
-“No; I shan’t tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn’t be
-lying if I did.”
-
-“Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?” she asked irrelevantly.
-
-“The pianist? I know her by sight. I’ve heard her play.”
-
-“She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don’t
-notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.”
-
-“For instance?”
-
-“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.’”
-
-“Whither would you soar?”
-
-“I’m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend
-her.”
-
-“I’ve heard she’s partially demented,” said Arobin.
-
-“She seems to me wonderfully sane,” Edna replied.
-
-“I’m told she’s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you
-introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.
-
-It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really
-responded. It was a flaming torch that kindled desire.
-
-XXVIII
-
-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.
-
-XXIX
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Come down!” he said. “Do you want to kill yourself?” She greeted him
-with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation.
-
-If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging
-in sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised.
-
-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.
-
-“Please come down,” he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at
-her.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather
-duster along the carpet when he came in again.
-
-“Is there anything more you will let me do?” he asked.
-
-“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.
-
-“What about the dinner?” he asked; “the grand event, the _coup
-d’état?_”
-
-“It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the ‘_coup
-d’état?_’ 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.”
-
-“And you ask me why I call it a _coup d’état?_” 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.
-
-“When do you go to the ‘pigeon house?’—with all due acknowledgment to
-Ellen.”
-
-“Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“When shall I see you?” asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid
-having left the room.
-
-“At the dinner, of course. You are invited.”
-
-“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?”
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-XXX
-
-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
-_souffrante_ 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.
-
-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
-_nom de guerre_. 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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a
-garnet gem.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the _mets_,
-the _entre-mets_, 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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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 _bien souffrante_, and
-she was filled with vague dread, which only her husband’s presence
-could allay.
-
-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: “_Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage_.” 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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“_Sapristi!_” exclaimed Arobin.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-    “‘There was a graven image of Desire
-    Painted with red blood on a ground of gold.’”
-
-murmured Gouvernail, under his breath.
-
-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.
-
-“Sing,” entreated Mrs. Highcamp. “Won’t you sing to us?”
-
-“Let him alone,” said Arobin.
-
-“He’s posing,” offered Mr. Merriman; “let him have it out.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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:
-
-    “Ah! si tu savais!”
-
-“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:
-
-    “Ah! si tu savais
-    Ce que tes yeux me disent”—
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-“Come, Victor; you’ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her scarf.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-XXXI
-
-“Well?” questioned Arobin, who had remained with Edna after the others
-had departed.
-
-“Well,” she reiterated, and stood up, stretching her arms, and feeling
-the need to relax her muscles after having been so long seated.
-
-“What next?” he asked.
-
-“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.”
-
-He looked around, and began to turn out some of the lights.
-
-“What about upstairs?” he inquired.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Will you have a spray of jessamine?” he asked, breaking off a few
-blossoms as he passed.
-
-“No; I don’t want anything.”
-
-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.
-
-The “pigeon house” stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow _parterre_
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Edna seated herself with every appearance of discomfort.
-
-“Are you tired?” he asked.
-
-“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.
-
-“You want to rest,” he said, “and to be quiet. I’ll go; I’ll leave you
-and let you rest.”
-
-“Yes,” she replied.
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Yes,” she admitted; “it was stupid.”
-
-“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.
-
-“I thought you were going away,” she said, in an uneven voice.
-
-“I am, after I have said good night.”
-
-“Good night,” she murmured.
-
-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.
-
-XXXII
-
-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 _ménage_ on a
-humbler scale than heretofore. It might do incalculable mischief to his
-business prospects.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-XXXIII
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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 _so_
-early. What had happened after he left? The champagne and grapes which
-Edna sent over were _too_ 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.
-
-“At any time—any time of the day or night, dear,” Edna assured her.
-
-Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said:
-
-“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?”
-
-“No; she wouldn’t wish to come, and I shouldn’t want her always with
-me.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“Does he boast of his successes?” asked Edna, indifferently, squinting
-at her picture.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Mind the step!” cried Edna.
-
-“Don’t neglect me,” entreated Madame Ratignolle; “and don’t mind what I
-said about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you.”
-
-“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.
-
-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 _vingt-et-un_ 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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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!”
-
-He came and clasped her hand, seemingly without knowing what he was
-saying or doing.
-
-“Mrs. Pontellier! How do you happen—oh! how well you look! Is
-Mademoiselle Reisz not here? I never expected to see you.”
-
-“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.
-
-She did so, mechanically, while he seated himself on the stool.
-
-“I returned day before yesterday,” he answered, while he leaned his arm
-on the keys, bringing forth a crash of discordant sound.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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?”
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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:
-
-“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.”
-
-“Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?”
-A flush overspread his whole face.
-
-“I couldn’t believe that my letters would be of any interest to you.”
-
-“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.
-
-“Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?” asked Robert.
-
-“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.
-
-“Won’t you wait for her?” asked Edna.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-“I never knew you in your home,” he remarked.
-
-“I am glad you did not.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-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:
-
-“Alcée Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?”
-
-“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.”
-
-“I should think you would give it back to him if you have finished with
-it.”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.
-
-“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the
-quiet, grassy street of the _Chênière;_ the old fort at Grande Terre.
-I’ve been working like a machine, and feeling like a lost soul. There
-was nothing interesting.”
-
-She leaned her head upon her hand to shade her eyes from the light.
-
-“And what have you been seeing and doing and feeling all these days?”
-he asked.
-
-“I’ve been seeing the waves and the white beach of Grand Isle; the
-quiet, grassy street of the _Chênière Caminada;_ 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.”
-
-“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.
-
-XXXIV
-
-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.
-
-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 _tignon_ 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.
-
-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.
-
-“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come back,” he said. “When you are tired of
-me, tell me to go.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.
-
-“You used to carry your tobacco in a rubber pouch,” said Edna, picking
-up the pouch and examining the needlework.
-
-“Yes; it was lost.”
-
-“Where did you buy this one? In Mexico?”
-
-“It was given to me by a Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,” he
-replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette.
-
-“They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very
-picturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.”
-
-“Some are; others are hideous, just as you find women everywhere.”
-
-“What was she like—the one who gave you the pouch? You must have known
-her very well.”
-
-“She was very ordinary. She wasn’t of the slightest importance. I knew
-her well enough.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the
-imprint of an oar upon the water.”
-
-“Was she such a one?”
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-“How do you do, Arobin?” said Robert, rising from the obscurity.
-
-“Oh! Lebrun. To be sure! I heard yesterday you were back. How did they
-treat you down in Mexique?”
-
-“Fairly well.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“Did they embroider slippers and tobacco pouches and hat-bands and
-things for you?” asked Edna.
-
-“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.”
-
-“You were less fortunate than Robert, then.”
-
-“I am always less fortunate than Robert. Has he been imparting tender
-confidences?”
-
-“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.”
-
-He shook hands with Arobin and went away.
-
-“Fine fellow, that Lebrun,” said Arobin when Robert had gone. “I never
-heard you speak of him.”
-
-“I knew him last summer at Grand Isle,” she replied. “Here is that
-photograph of yours. Don’t you want it?”
-
-“What do I want with it? Throw it away.” She threw it back on the
-table.
-
-“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.”
-
-“It would be a good scheme,” acquiesced Arobin. “I don’t blame you;
-stupid lot!”
-
-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.
-
-“What is the date?” she asked. He told her.
-
-“Will you mail this for me when you go out?”
-
-“Certainly.” He read to her little bits out of the newspaper, while she
-straightened things on the table.
-
-“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.”
-
-“No; I don’t want to do anything but just be quiet. You go away and
-amuse yourself. Don’t stay.”
-
-“I’ll go away if I must; but I shan’t amuse myself. You know that I
-only live when I am near you.”
-
-He stood up to bid her good night.
-
-“Is that one of the things you always say to women?”
-
-“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.
-
-“Good night. I adore you. Sleep well,” he said, and he kissed her hand
-and went away.
-
-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.
-
-XXXV
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-To Arobin’s note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine’s
-stove-lid.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-There was no despondency when she fell asleep that night; nor was there
-hope when she awoke in the morning.
-
-XXXVI
-
-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 _mulatresse_ 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.
-
-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
-_mulatresse_, the drowsy cat, and a glass of milk which reminded her of
-the milk she had tasted in Iberville.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“Do you come here often?” he asked.
-
-“I almost live here,” she said.
-
-“I used to drop in very often for a cup of Catiche’s good coffee. This
-is the first time since I came back.”
-
-“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.
-
-“Why have you kept away from me, Robert?” she asked, closing the book
-that lay open upon the table.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“I’m spoiling your dinner, Robert; never mind what I say. You haven’t
-eaten a morsel.”
-
-“I only came in for a cup of coffee.” His sensitive face was all
-disfigured with excitement.
-
-“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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“After a while,” he said, laying a cigar on the table.
-
-“Who gave it to you?” she laughed.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Robert,” she said, “are you asleep?”
-
-“No,” he answered, looking up at her.
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Why have you been fighting against it?” she asked. Her face glowed
-with soft lights.
-
-“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.
-
-“There in Mexico I was thinking of you all the time, and longing for
-you.”
-
-“But not writing to me,” she interrupted.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Your wife!”
-
-“Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared.”
-
-“Then you must have forgotten that I was Léonce Pontellier’s wife.”
-
-“Oh! I was demented, dreaming of wild, impossible things, recalling men
-who had set their wives free, we have heard of such things.”
-
-“Yes, we have heard of such things.”
-
-“I came back full of vague, mad intentions. And when I got here—”
-
-“When you got here you never came near me!” She was still caressing his
-cheek.
-
-“I realized what a cur I was to dream of such a thing, even if you had
-been willing.”
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-His face grew a little white. “What do you mean?” he asked.
-
-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.
-
-“Yes, yes,” said Edna, rising; “I promised. Tell her yes—to wait for
-me. I’ll go back with her.”
-
-“Let me walk over with you,” offered Robert.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“Don’t go; don’t go! Oh! Edna, stay with me,” he pleaded. “Why should
-you go? Stay with me, stay with me.”
-
-“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.
-
-XXXVII
-
-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.
-
-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 _peignoir_, 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.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“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.
-
-Adèle consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little
-low couch next to her bed.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!”
-
-XXXVIII
-
-Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The
-Doctor’s coupé had returned for him and stood before the _porte
-cochère_. 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.
-
-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.
-
-“You shouldn’t have been there, Mrs. Pontellier,” he said. â��œThat 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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“When is Léonce coming back?”
-
-“Quite soon. Some time in March.”
-
-“And you are going abroad?”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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:
-
-“I love you. Good-by—because I love you.”
-
-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.
-
-XXXIX
-
-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 _Chênière;_ 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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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!”
-
-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.
-
-“There’s nothing fixed up yet, you see. I’ll give you my room; it’s the
-only place.”
-
-“Any corner will do,” she assured him.
-
-“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.
-
-Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel’s mother might come for a few
-days, and money enough.
-
-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.
-
-“What time will you have dinner?” asked Edna. “I’m very hungry; but
-don’t get anything extra.”
-
-“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.”
-
-“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?”
-
-“The water is too cold!” they both exclaimed. “Don’t think of it.”
-
-“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.”
-
-Mariequita ran over to Victor’s room, and returned with some towels,
-which she gave to Edna.
-
-“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.”
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Edna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its
-accustomed peg.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Her arms and legs were growing tired.
-
-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.”
-
-Exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-
-
-
-BEYOND THE BAYOU
-
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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’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.
-
-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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there.
-
-“You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?” he had
-inquired, with the calculating air of an experienced hunter.
-
-“_Non, non!_” 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’.”
-
-“One squirrel ain’t a bite. I’ll bring you mo’ ’an one, La Folle,” he
-had boasted pompously as he went away.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-It was as she feared. There she found Chéri stretched upon the ground,
-with his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:—
-
-“I’m dead, La Folle! I’m dead! I’m gone!”
-
-“_Non, non!_” 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.
-
-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.
-
-“Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can’ stan’ it, La Folle!”
-
-“Don’t cry, _mon bébé, mon bébé, mon Chéri!_” the woman spoke
-soothingly as she covered the ground with long strides. “La Folle goin’
-mine you; Doctor Bonfils goin’ come make _mon Chéri_ well agin.”
-
-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.
-
-When she was at the bayou’s edge she stood there, and shouted for help
-as if a life depended upon it:—
-
-“Oh, P’tit Maître! P’tit Maître! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she
-plunged into the footpath through the trees.
-
-She spoke no more to Chéri, but muttered constantly, “Bon Dieu, ayez
-pitié La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitié moi!”
-
-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.
-
-A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the
-quarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay.
-
-“La Folle!” she screamed, in her piercing treble. “La Folle done cross
-de bayer!”
-
-Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins.
-
-“Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Some one had run ahead of her to where P’tit Maître sat with his family
-and guests upon the gallery.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she
-fell heavily to the ground.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b’lieve
-I’m goin’ sleep, me.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-She stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing her
-senses with memories from a time far gone.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?”
-
-“_Oui_, madame. I come ax how my po’ li’le Chéri do, ’s mo’nin’.”
-
-“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?”
-
-“_Non_, madame. I’m goin’ wait yair tell Chéri wake up.” La Folle
-seated herself upon the topmost step of the veranda.
-
-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.
-
-
-
-
-MA’AME PÉLAGIE
-
-I
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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?
-
-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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-“But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her?
-How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!”
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-And they made room between them for this young life.
-
-II
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.”
-
-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.”
-
-“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?”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“Oh, yes, Sesoeur.”
-
-“Is it because La Petite is going away?”
-
-“Yes, Sesoeur.”
-
-“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.”
-
-Mam’selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs.
-
-“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.”
-
-Ma’ame Pélagie had been sitting beside the bed in her _peignoir_ 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:—
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-III
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!
-
-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.
-
-“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” She was saying it aloud—“faire
-mal a Pauline.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!
-
-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.
-
-“Il ne faut pas faire mal à Pauline.” Again she is saying it
-aloud—“faire mal à Pauline.”
-
-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.
-
-“Adieu, adieu!” whispered Ma’ame Pélagie.
-
-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.
-
-IV
-
-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.
-
-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
-_pied à terre_ 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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-
-
-
-DÉSIRÉE’S BABY
-
-
-As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmondé drove over to L’Abri to see
-Désirée and the baby.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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 _corbeille_ from Paris, and contained himself
-with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was
-the language spoken at Valmondé in those days.
-
-“I knew you would be astonished,” laughed Désirée, “at the way he has
-grown. The little _cochon de lait!_ 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?”
-
-The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, “Mais si, Madame.”
-
-“And the way he cries,” went on Désirée, “is deafening. Armand heard
-him the other day as far away as La Blanche’s cabin.”
-
-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.
-
-“Yes, the child has grown, has changed,” said Madame Valmondé, slowly,
-as she replaced it beside its mother. “What does Armand say?”
-
-Désirée’s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her _peignoir_, 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.
-
-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.
-
-She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face
-the picture of fright.
-
-Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went
-to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-“It means,” he answered lightly, “that the child is not white; it means
-that you are not white.”
-
-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.
-
-“As white as La Blanche’s,” he returned cruelly; and went away leaving
-her alone with their child.
-
-When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to
-Madame Valmondé.
-
-“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.”
-
-The answer that came was brief:
-
-“My own Désirée: Come home to Valmondé; back to your mother who loves
-you. Come with your child.”
-
-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.
-
-In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.
-
-He said nothing. “Shall I go, Armand?” she asked in tones sharp with
-agonized suspense.
-
-“Yes, go.”
-
-“Do you want me to go?”
-
-“Yes, I want you to go.”
-
-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.
-
-She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards
-the door, hoping he would call her back.
-
-“Good-by, Armand,” she moaned.
-
-He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.
-
-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.
-
-It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still
-fields the negroes were picking cotton.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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 _layette_. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin
-ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves;
-for the _corbeille_ had been of rare quality.
-
-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:—
-
-“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.”
-
-
-
-
-A RESPECTABLE WOMAN
-
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-“When is he going—your friend?” she one day asked her husband. “For my
-part, he tires me frightfully.”
-
-“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no
-trouble.”
-
-“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.”
-
-Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked
-tenderly and laughingly into her troubled eyes.
-
-They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s
-dressing-room.
-
-“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.
-
-“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor Gouvernail seriously and
-making a commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect.”
-
-“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say such a
-thing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.”
-
-“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s why
-I asked him here to take a rest.”
-
-“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.”
-
-That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a
-live oak tree at the edge of the gravel walk.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-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:
-
-    “‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!
-    Still nodding night—’”
-
-She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was
-not addressed to her.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and
-ended his apostrophe to the night.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“I am glad, chère amie, to know that you have finally overcome your
-dislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.”
-
-“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.”
-
-
-
-
-THE KISS
-
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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?”
-
-“Don’t touch me; don’t come near me,” she returned angrily. “What do
-you mean by entering the house without ringing?”
-
-“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.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-Harvy was among the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a
-rare moment when she stood alone.
-
-“Your husband,” he said, smiling, “has sent me over to kiss you.”
-
-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.”
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-
-
-
-A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS
-
-
-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 _porte-monnaie_ gave
-her a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!
-
-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.
-
-Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up
-at the girl.
-
-“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?”
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented
-itself in the shape of a matinee poster.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-
-
-
-THE LOCKET
-
-
-I
-
-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.
-
-“What’s that you got around your neck, Ned?” asked one of the men lying
-in the obscurity.
-
-Ned—or Edmond—mechanically fastened another button of his shirt and did
-not reply. He went on reading his letter.
-
-“Is it your sweet heart’s picture?”
-
-“’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.
-
-“What is it?” he asked.
-
-“Aint that a charm you got round your neck?”
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-“They are children playing a game,” thought he. “I shall know more
-about it if I watch long enough.”
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-II
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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!
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-“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.”
-
-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.
-
-“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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-It was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom and
-looked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance.
-
-“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.”
-
-“Stolen,” she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his face
-uplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication.
-
-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.
-
-
-
-
-A REFLECTION
-
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-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.
-
-_Salve!_ ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside.
-
-
-
-
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