The Awakening, and Selected Short Stories
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