The Awakening, and Selected Short Stories
“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