The Awakening, and Selected Short Stories
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