 7 The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Part 7. CHAPTERS XXXI–XXXV. XXXXI. Well—questioned Arabin, 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 a shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arabin 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. Arabin 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 way to 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 in 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 home-like. 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. Aroban had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna's absence. Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage was 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." XXXXII 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 He hoped she had not acted upon her rash impulse, and he begged her to consider, first and foremost 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 noise about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced to conduct their menage on a humbler scale than here to fore. 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 and 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 had 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 Glooglu, fishing back in the lake with their Uncle Jasper, picking pecans with Liddy's black brood, and hauling ships in their express wagon. It was a thousand times more fun to haul real ships 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 in the cook? But above all, they were fired with the 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 protects 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. 33 It happened sometimes when Edna went to see Mademoiselle rise 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 rise'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 Ratagnolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the two 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 Ratagnolle 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 Ratagnolle 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 someone come, and stay with you? Wouldn't Mademoiselle Reyes 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. Someone was talking about, say, Aroban visiting you. Of course it wouldn't matter if Mr. Aroban had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratagnolle 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 Ratagnolle. "'And don't mind what I said about Aroban, or having someone to stay with you.' "'Of course not,' Edna laughed. "'You may say anything you like to me.' They kissed each other good-bye. Madame Ratagnolle had not far to go, and Edna stood on the porch awhile 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 vantayin one evening at Mrs. Merriman's. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and Mr. Merriman or Mr. Aroban 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 Madame Ozil Rise, 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 housetops 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-pins. Once she thought she heard Madame Ozil Rise 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 wrap at the door. She vaguely wondered what these people did when they found Madame Ozil'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 the 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 Madame Ozil Rise 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 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 colour of hers, waved back from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more burned than it had been at ground deal. 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, whether 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 in the piano-stool, saying, I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence. It's a wonder man was I'll rise did not tell me, and you're 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 Diehl next summer. It won't seem— Do you see much of Man was I'll rise? 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 hatpin through the heavy coil of hair with some deliberation. Are you not going to wait for Man was I'll rise? 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 is 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 Pontelier 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 round the corner, and it seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he fallered 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 that 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 re-entered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a photograph and exclaimed, Al-Sayaraba, 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. It must have packed it up with my drawing materials. I should think you would have given it back to him if you had 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 in the white beach of Grandile, the quiet grassy street of the chanier, the old fort at Grandaire. 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 in the white beach of Grandile, the quiet grassy street of the chanier Caminada, the old sunny fort at Grandaire. 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. 34. 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 tignonne 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 neighbouring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, and when he came back, he found that Celestine had served the black coffee in the parlour. 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 Diehl in which we grew accustomed to each other, and used to being together. I have forgotten nothing at Grand Diehl. 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 very cruise-girl. They are very generous. He replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette. They are very handsome, I suppose, these Mexican women, very picturesque, with their black eyes and their lace scarfs. Some are. Others are hideous, just as you'll 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 her 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. Aroban 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, Aroban? 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 Araban and went away. Fine fellow, that Lebrun, said Araban, 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. Merrimans, she said. If you see her, tell her so. But perhaps I'd 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 Araban. I don't blame you, stupid lot. Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to write the note. Araban let 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 Manassell Rise's door. She recalled his looks, his words, how few and meager they had been for her hungry heart. A vision, a transcendently seductive vision of a Mexican girl rose 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. 35 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 that they had found that morning ten tiny white pigs all lying in a row beside Liddy'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 now felt 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 Araban, 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 Araban's note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine Stovlid. 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 Rises nor pass by Madame Lebrun's, as she might have done if he had still been in Mexico. When Araban one night urged her to drive with him, she went, out to the lake on the Shell Road. His horses were full of metal, 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 drink. Araban was not needlessly imprudent, but they ate and 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 Araban 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. 36 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 mulatress slept her idle hours away in her chair at the open window, till someone 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 gates took a jar. 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 mulatress, 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 Celesteine 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 Katisha'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 on 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 you're neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you would call unwomanly, but I have gotten to 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 bear 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. Catechia'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 his 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 under 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 she 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 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 Diehl, 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. Then in Mexico— 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 someway 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. How 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 Ratagnoll's servant had come round 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-bye, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-bye. 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 lifelong stupid dream. Oh, you have made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh, I have suffered, suffered. Now you are here, and 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 will you 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-bye 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. 37 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 Adele 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. Mandalay 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, with her she had strayed in her suffering and patience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample white penoir, holding a handkerchief tied 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 grief woman in a 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 Mandalay. 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, Josephine. 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. Mandalay 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 is Mrs. Pontellier, leaving no doubt a pleasant evening at home to devote to her? It wasn't Monsieur Ratagnolle coming that very instant through the hall, and Josephine was quite sure she had heard Dr. Mandalay's coop. 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. Dr. Mandalay paid no attention to Madame Ratagnolle's upbradings. He was accustomed to them at such times, and 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 to entertain him. But Madame Ratagnolle 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 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-bye. Adele, pressing her cheek, whispered in an exhausted voice, Think of the children, Edna. Oh, think of the children. Remember them. 38. Edna still felt dazed when she got outside in the open air. The doctor's coupe had returned for him and stood before the portico-chair. She did not wish to enter the coupe, and told Dr. Mandalay 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, a way 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 Diehl, 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. That was no place for you. Adele 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 Lyons coming back? Quite soon. Some time in March. And you are going abroad? Perhaps. No. I am not going. I am 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, 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 you for your confidence. I will only say that if you ever 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 heart, 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 am 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 have never 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 Adele 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 Adele'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. Tomorrow 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 lamp-light. I love you. Goodbye. 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. 39 Victor, with hammer and nails and scraps of scantling, was patching a corner of one of the galleries. Maria Kita sat nearby, dangling her legs, watching him work, and handing him nails from the toolbox. 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 lechulean 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 in trancing as spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing with beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while the other women were all of them youthful ouri, possessed of an 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 chanier, and since it was the fashion to be in love with married people, why, she could run away any time she liked in New Orleans with Selena's husband. Selena'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 Maria Kitta. 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 Baudelaise 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 Philamel'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 Maria Kitta. Maria Kitta thought that perhaps Philamel's mother might come for a few days, and money enough. Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once suspected a lover's 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. Maria Kitta 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. Maria Kitta 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 Philamel's mother, Victor instructed the girl. I'll go to the kitchen and see what I can do. By Jiminy, 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, Today it is Arabah, to-morrow it will be someone else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn't matter about Léon Spontelier, but Raoul and Etienne. She understood now clearly what she had meant long ago, when she said to Adèle Ratignoll 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 newborn 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, and folding the body in its soft, close embrace. She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and recalled the tear 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 bluegrass 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 lay-ons 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 Manwazel Ries 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-bye, because I love you. He did not know. He did not understand. He would never understand. Perhaps Dr. Mandalay 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. Adna 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.