 A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over. Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, ça pristit, that's all right." He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mockingbird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence. Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. He walked down the gallery and across the narrow bridges which connected the Lebrun cottages, one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society, when they ceased to be entertaining. He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building, and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday. The paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before. Mr. Pontellier wore eyeglasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height, and rather slender build. He stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed. Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called The House, to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Faraval twins, were playing a duet from Zampa upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining-room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the pension had gone over to the Chinière Caminada, in Borrelay's Lugger, to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier's two children were there, sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadruined nurse followed them about with a faraway meditative air. Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at Snail's pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow chamomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post. What folly to bade at such an hour in such heat! exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him. "'You are burnt beyond recognition,' he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers, then, clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile. "'What is it?' asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense, some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein's hotel and play a game of billiards. "'Come go along, Lebrun,' he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier. "'Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,' instructed her husband as he prepared to leave. "'Here, take the umbrella,' she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away. "'Coming back to dinner?' his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket. There was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know. Perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein's and the size of the game. He did not say this, but she understood it and laughed, nodding good-bye to him. Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts. CHAPTER II Mrs. Pontellier's eyes were quick and bright. They were a yellowish-brown about the colour of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object, and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasising the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by a reason of a certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging. Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke. This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In colouring he was not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and langer of the summer day. Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly about the things around them, their amusing adventure out in the water. It had again assumed its entertaining aspect. About the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the chénier, about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the Faroval twins who were now performing the overture to the poet and the peasant. Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young and did not know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the same reason. Which was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where Fortune awaited him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there. Meanwhile, he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French, and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent. He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, the house had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now flanked by its dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the Quartier Françaises, it enabled Madame Le Rune to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright. Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father's Mississippi plantation and her girlhood home in the old Kentucky bluegrass country. She was an American woman with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the east, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead. When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the early dinner. I see Leance isn't coming back, she said, with a glance in the direction whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was not, as there were a good many New Orleans clubmen over at Cline's. When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended the steps and strolled over toward the croquet-players, where, during the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the little Pontellier children, who were very fond of him, and of Chapter II, Chapter III. It was eleven o'clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Cline's hotel. He was in an excellent humour, in high spirits, and very talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep when he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the day. From his trousers' pockets he took a fistful of crumpled banknotes, and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else happened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and answered him with little half-utterences. He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object of his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned him, and valued so little his conversation. Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room where they slept to take a look at them, and make sure that they were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of them began to kick, and talk about a basket full of crabs. Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever, and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar, and went and sat near the open door to smoke it. Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room. He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, who's on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business. He could not be in two places at once, making a living for his family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way. Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep. Mrs. Pontellier was, by that time, thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her penoir. Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed, and went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair, and began to rock gently to and fro. It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night. The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier's eyes that the damp sleeve of her penoir no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand. Her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, streaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband's kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood. An indescribable oppression which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul's summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar. It was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer. The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rock away which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street. Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein's hotel the evening before. She liked money, as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction. It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet, she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one. Oh, we'll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear," he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-bye. The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favourite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-bye to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road. A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with Frandese's, with luscious and toothsome bits. The finest of fruits, pâtés, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance. Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box. She was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The pâtés and fruit were brought to the dining-room. The bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers, and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better. CHAPTER IV It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction, or any one else's, wherein his wife failed in her duty toward their children. It was something which he felt, rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and ample atonement. If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to his mother's arms for comfort. He would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother tots. The quadruined nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up wastes and panties, and to brush and part hair, since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and brushed. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother woman. The mother women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolised their children, worshipped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals, and grow wings as ministering angels. Many of them were delicious in the role. One of them was the embodiment of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adèle Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms. Her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent, the spun gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain, the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires, two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her white neck a might less full or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little night-drawer's or fashioned a bodice or a bib. Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from New Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawer's. She had brought the pattern of the drawer's for Mrs. Pontellier to cut out. A marvel of construction fastened to enclose a baby's body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like an Eskimos. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous draughts came down chimneys, and insidious currents of deadly cold found their way through keyholes. Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the present material needs of her children, and she could not see the use of anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of her summer meditations. But she did not want to appear unaniable and uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Ratagnolle's directions she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment. Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper step, leaning listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of bonbons, which she held out at intervals to Madame Ratagnolle. That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally settled upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich, whether it could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratagnolle had been married seven years. About every two years she had a baby. At that time she had three babies, and was beginning to think of a fourth one. She was always talking about her condition. Her condition was in no way apparent, and no one would have known a thing about it, but for her persistence in making it the subject of conversation. Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a lady who had subsisted upon nougat during the entire—but seeing the colour mount into Mrs. Pontellier's face he checked himself, and changed the subject. Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a creole, was not thoroughly at home in the society of creoles. Never before had she been thrown so intimately among them. There were only creoles that summer at Le Bruns. They all knew each other, and felt like one large family, among whom existed the most amicable relations. A characteristic which distinguished them, and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most forcibly, was their entire absence of prudery. Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her, though she had no difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty chastity, which in the creole woman seems to be inborn and unmistakable. Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she had heard Madame Ratignolle relating to old M. Fareval, the harrowing story of one of her accouchements, withholding no intimate detail. She was growing accustomed to like shocks, but she could not keep the mounting colour back from her cheeks. Oftener than once her coming had interrupted the droll story with which Robert was entertaining some amused group of married women. A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came her turn to read it she did so with profound astonishment. She felt moved to read the book in secret and solitude, though none of the others had done so, to hide it from view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It was openly criticised and freely discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being astonished and concluded that wonders would never cease. CHAPTER V They formed a congenial group sitting there that summer afternoon. Madame Ratignolle sewing away, often stopping to relate a story or incident with much expressive gesture of her perfect hands. Robert and Mrs. Pontellier sitting idle, exchanging occasional words, glances or smiles which indicated a certain advanced stage of intimacy and camaraderie. He had lived in her shadow during the past month. No one thought anything of it. Many had predicted that Robert would devote himself to Mrs. Pontellier when he arrived. Since the age of fifteen, which was eleven years before, Robert each summer at Grand Isle had constituted himself the devoted attendant of some fair dame or damsel. Sometimes it was a young girl, again a widow. But as often as not it was some interesting married woman. For two consecutive seasons he lived in the sunlight of Madame Waselle Duveen's presence. But she died between summers. Then Robert posed, as an inconsolable, prostrating himself at the feet of Madame Ratignolle for whatever crumbs of sympathy and comfort she might be pleased to vouchsafe. Mrs. Pontellier liked to sit and gaze at her fair companion as she might look upon a faultless Madonna. Could any one fathom the cruelty beneath that fair exterior? murmured Robert. She knew that I adored her once, and she let me adore her. It was— Robert! Come! Go! Stand up! Sit down! Do this! Do that! See if the baby sleeps! My thimble, please! That I left God knows where. Come and read Daudet to me while I sew. Our example I never had to ask. You were always there under my feet like a troublesome cat. You mean like an adoring dog, and just as soon as Ratignolle appeared on the scene, then it was like a dog. Posse, adieu! Allez-vous-en! Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous, she interjoined, with excessive naiveté. That made them all laugh. The right hand jealous of the left, the heart jealous of the soul. But for that matter the creole husband is never jealous. With him the gangrene passion is one which has become dwarfed by disuse. Meanwhile, Robert, addressing Mrs. Pontellier, continued to tell of his one-time hopeless passion for Madame Ratignolle. Of sleepless nights. Of consuming flames till the very sea sizzled when he took his daily plunge. While the lady at the needle kept up a little running contemptuous comment. Blageur, faussure, gross bête va. He never assumed this serious comic tone when alone with Mrs. Pontellier. She never knew precisely what to make of it. At that moment it was impossible for her to guess how much of it was jest and what proportion was earnest. It was understood that he had often spoken words of love to Madame Ratignolle without any thought of being taken seriously. Mrs. Pontellier was glad he had not assumed a similar role toward herself. It would have been unacceptable and annoying. Mrs. Pontellier had brought her sketching materials which she sometimes dabbled with in an unprofessional way. She liked the dabbling. She felt in it satisfaction of a kind which no other employment afforded her. She had long wished to try herself on Madame Ratignolle. Never had that lady seemed a more tempting subject than at that moment seated there like some sensuous Madonna with the gleam of the fading day enriching her splendid colour. Robert crossed over and seated himself upon the step below Mrs. Pontellier that he might watch her work. She handled her brushes with a certain ease and freedom which came not from long and close acquaintance with them, but from a natural aptitude. Robert followed her work with close attention giving forth little ejaculatory expressions of appreciation in French which he addressed to Madame Ratignolle. Mais c'est n'est pas mal, elle s'y connaît, elle a de la force, oui. During his oblivious attention he once quietly rested his head against Mrs. Pontellier's arm. As gently she repulsed him. Once again he repeated the offence. She could not but believe it to be thoughtlessness on his part, yet that was no reason she should submit to it. She did not remonstrate except again to repulse him quietly but firmly. He offered no apology. The picture complete had borne no resemblance to Madame Ratignolle. She was greatly disappointed to find that it did not look like her. But it was a fair enough piece of work and in many respects satisfying. Mrs. Pontellier evidently did not think so. After surveying the sketch critically she drew a broad smudge of paint across its surface and crumpled the paper between her hands. The youngsters came tumbling up the steps, the quadrune following at the respectful distance which they required her to observe. Mrs. Pontellier made them carry her paints and things into the house. She sought to detain them for a little talk and some pleasantry. But they were greatly in earnest. They had only come to investigate the contents of the bonbon box. They accepted without murmuring what she chose to give them, each holding out two chubby hands scoop-like in the vain hope that they might be filled, and then away they went. The sun was low in the west, and the breeze, soft and languorous, that came up from the south, charged with the seductive odor of the sea. Modern freshly befurbelowed were gathering for their games under the oaks. Their voices were high and penetrating. Madame Ratignolle folded her sewing, placing thimble, scissors, and thread all neatly together in the roll, which she pinned securely. She complained of faintness. Mrs. Pontellier flew for the cologne water and a fan. She bathed Madame Ratignolle's face with cologne while Robert plied the fan with unnecessary vigor. The spell was soon over, and Mrs. Pontellier could not help wondering if there were not a little imagination responsible for its origin, for the rose-tint had never faded from her friend's face. She stood watching the fair woman walk down the long line of galleries with the grace and majesty which queens are sometimes supposed to possess. Her little ones ran to meet her. Two of them clung about her white skirts, the third she took from its nurse, and with a thousand endearments bore it along in her own fond and circling arms. Though, as everybody well knew, the doctor had forbidden her to lift so much as a pin. "'Are you going bathing?' asked Robert of Mrs. Pontellier. It was not so much a question as a reminder." "'Oh, no,' she answered, with a tone of indecision. "'I'm tired. I think not.' Her glance wandered from his face away toward the gulf, whose sonorous murmur reached her like a loving but imperative entreaty. "'Oh, come!' he insisted. You mustn't miss your bath. Come on. The water must be delicious. It will not hurt you. Come!' He reached up for her big, rough straw hat that hung on a peg outside the door, and put it on her head. They descended the steps, and walked away together toward the beach. The sun was low in the west, and the breeze was soft and warm. End of Chapter 5 Read by Kara Schellenberg, www.kray.org, on May 29, 2006, in Oceanside, California. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anita Roy Dobbs, San Francisco, August 2006. The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. Chapter 6-10 Edne Pontellier could not have told why, wishing to go to the beach with Robert. She should in the first place have declined, and in the second place to have followed in obedience to one of the two contradictory impulses which impelled her. A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her, the light which, showing the way, forbids it. At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twenty-eight. Perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouch safe to any woman. But the beginning of things, of a world especially, is necessarily vague, tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. How few of us ever emerge from such beginning, how many souls perish in its tumult. The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude, to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul, the touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. CHAPTER VII Mrs. Pontellier was not a woman given to confidences, a characteristic hitherto contrary to her nature. Even as a child she had lived her own small life all within herself. At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life, that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions. That summer at Grand Isle she began to loosen a little the mantle of reserve that had always enveloped her. There may have been, there must have been, influences both subtle and apparent, working in their several ways to induce her to do this. But the most obvious was the influence of Adel-Ratenyol, the excessive physical charm of the Creole had first attracted her, for Edna had a sensuous susceptibility to beauty. Then the candor of the woman's whole existence which everyone might read and which formed so striking a contrast to her own habitual reserve, this might have furnished a link. Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond, which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love? The two women went away one morning to the beach together, arm in arm, under the huge white sunshade. Edna had prevailed upon Madame Ratenyol to leave the children behind, though she could not induce her to relinquish a diminutive role of needlework, which Adel begged to be allowed to slip into the depths of her pocket. In some unaccountable way, they had escaped from Robert. The walk to the beach was no inconsiderable one, consisting as it did of a long, sandy path upon which a sporadic and tangled growth that bordered it on either side made frequent and unexpected inroads. There were acres of yellow chamomile reaching out on either hand. Further away still, vegetable gardens abounded, with frequent small plantations of orange or lemon trees intervening, the dark green clusters glistened from afar in the sun. The women were both of goodly height, Madame Ratenyol possessing the more feminine and matronly figure. The charm of Edna Pontellier's physique stole insensibly upon you. The lines of her body were long, clean, and symmetrical. It was a body which occasionally fell into splendid poses. There was no suggestion of the trim, stereotyped fashion plate about it. A casual and indiscriminating observer, in passing, might not cast a second glance upon the figure, but with more feeling and discernment he would have recognized the noble beauty of its modelling and the graceful severity of poise and movement which made Edna Pontellier different from the crowd. She wore a cool Muslim that morning, white with a waving vertical line of brown running through it, also a white linen collar and the big straw hat which she had taken from the peg outside the door. The hat rested any way on her yellow-brown hair that waved a little, was heavy, and clung close to her head. Madame Ratenyol, more careful of her complexion, had twined a gauze veil about her head. She wore dogskin gloves with gauntlets that protected her wrists. She was dressed in pure white with the fluffiness of ruffles that became her. The draperies and fluttering things which she wore suited her rich, luxuriant beauty as a greater severity of line could not have done. There were a number of bathhouses along the beach, of rough but solid construction, built with small, protecting galleries facing the water. Each house consisted of two compartments, and each family at Le Bruns, possessed a compartment for itself, fitted out with all the essential paraphernalia of the bath, and whatever other conveniences the owners might desire. The two women had no intention of bathing. They had just strolled down to the beach for a walk, and to be alone, and near the water. The Pontellier and Ratenyol compartments adjoined one another under the same roof. Mrs. Pontellier had brought down her key through force of habit. Unlocking the door of her bath-house she went inside and soon emerged, bringing a rug which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, and two huge hair pillows covered with crash which she placed against the front of the building. The two seated themselves there in the shade of the porch, side by side, with their backs against the pillows and their feet extended. Madame Ratenyol removed her veil, wiped her face with a rather delicate handkerchief, and fanned herself with the fan which she always carried suspended somewhere about her person by a long, narrow ribbon. She now removed her collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fan from Madame Ratenyol 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, re-adjusting, tucking in, securing hairpins and hatpins. 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 neighbouring 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 gays 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 Adele 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! What 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 Rattignon. 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, 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 son Bonnet obscured the view I could only see the stretch of grain 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. She is 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, my cher? Asked Madame Roitignol, 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 Roitignol, 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 Roitignol 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, Prove, Achérie. The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent herself readily to the crail'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 girlfriend, 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 falling 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 in frame upon her desk. 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 ardour 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 worshipped her, she felt she could 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 or fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby threatening its disillusion. 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 Rottignolle 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 Rottignolle'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 troupe of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers were with him, and he carried Madame Rottignolle's little girl in his arms. There were other children beside, and two nursemaids 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 Rottignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house. She complained of a cramp in her limbs, and stiffness of the joints. She leaned, draggingly, upon his arm, as they walked. CHAPTER VIII Dumier Fever, 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 Rottignolle j'allouse! Nonsense, I am an 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 crales, I have no patience with you. Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing program? I hope Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she has discernment enough to find in me something besides the blagueur. If I thought there was any doubt, oh, enough, Robert! She broke into his heated outburst. You are not thinking what you are saying. You speak with about as little reflection as we might expect from one of those children down there playing in the sand. If your attentions to any married women here were ever offered with any intention of being convincing, you would not be the gentleman we all know you to be, and you would be unfit to associate with the wives and daughters of the people who trust you. Madame Artignolle had spoken what she believed to be the law and the gospel. The young man shrugged his shoulders impatiently, oh, well, that isn't it, slamming his hat down vehemently upon his head. You ought to feel that such things are not flattering to say to a fellow. Should our whole intercourse consist of an exchange of compliments, ma foie. It isn't pleasant to have a woman tell you, he went on, unheedingly, but breaking off suddenly. Now if I were like Air-Robin, you remember Alcy Air-Robin, and that story of the consul's wife at Baloxy, and he related the story of Alcy Air-Robin and the consul's wife, and another about the tenor of the French opera who received letters which should never have been written, and still other stories, grave and gay, until Mrs. Pontellier and her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently forgotten. Madame Artignolle, when they had regained her cottage, went in to take the hour's rest which she considered helpful. Before leaving her, Robert begged her pardon for the impatience, he called it rudeness, with which he had received her well-meant caution. You make one mistake, Adèle, he said with a light smile. There is no earthly possibility of Mrs. Pontellier ever taking me seriously. You should have warned me against taking myself seriously. Your advice might then have carried some weight and given me subject for some reflection. Au revoir. But you look tired, he added solicitously. Would you like a cup of bouillon? May I stir you a toddy? Let me fix you a toddy, with a drop of Angostura. She acceded to the suggestion of bouillon, which was grateful and acceptable. He went himself to the kitchen, which was a building apart from the cottages and lying to the rear of the house, and he himself brought her the golden brown bouillon in a dainty Sevre cup, with a flaky cracker or two on the saucer. She thrust a bare white arm from the curtain, which shielded her open door, and received the cup from his hands. She told him he was a bon garçon, and she meant it. He thanked her, and turned away toward the house. The lovers were just entering the grounds of the pension. They were leaning toward each other as the water oaks bent from the sea. There was not a particle of earth beneath their feet. Their heads might have been turned upside down, so absolutely did they tread upon blue ether. The lady in black, creeping behind them, looked a trifle paler and more jaded than usual. There was no sign of Mrs. Pontellier and the children. Robert scanned the distance for any such apparition. They would doubtless remain away till the dinner hour. The young man ascended to his mother's room. It was situated at the top of the house, made up of odd angles and a queer sloping ceiling. Two broad dormer windows looked out toward the gulf, and as far across it as a man's eyes might reach. The furnishings of the room were light, cool, and practical. Madame LeBron was busily engaged at the sewing machine. A little black girl sat on the floor, and with her hands worked the treadle of the machine. The creole woman does not take any chances which may be avoided of imperiling her health. Robert went over and seated himself on the broad sill of one of the dormer windows. He took a book from his pocket and began energetically to read it, judging by the precision and frequency with which he turned the leaves. The sewing machine made a resounding clatter in the room. It was of a ponderous bygone make. In the lulls Robert and his mother exchanged bits of desultory conversation. Where is Mrs. Pontellier? Down at the beach with the children. I promise to lend her the concoeur. Don't forget to take it down when you go. It is there on the bookshelf over the small table. Clatter, clatter, clatter, bang for the next five or eight minutes. Where is Victor going with the rockaway? The rockaway? Victor? Yes, down there in front. He seems to be getting ready to drive away somewhere. Call him, clatter, clatter. Robert uttered a shrill, piercing whistle which might have been heard back at the wharf. He won't look up. Madame LeBron flew to the window. She called Victor. She waved a handkerchief and called again. The young fellow below got into the vehicle and started the horse off at a gallop. Madame LeBron went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. Victor was the younger son and brother, a tête montée, with a temper which invited violence and a will which no axe could break. Whenever you say the word, I am ready to thrash any amount of reason into him that he is able to hold. If your father had only lived, clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang. It was the fixed belief of Madame LeBron that the conduct of the universe and all things pertaining thereto would have been manifestly of a more intelligent and higher order had not Monsieur LeBron been removed to other spheres during the early years of their married life. What do you hear from Montel? Montel was a middle-aged gentleman whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to fill the void which Monsieur LeBron's taking off had left in the LeBron household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter. I have a letter somewhere, looking in the machine drawer and finding the letter in the bottom of the workbasket. He says to tell you he will be in Verre Cruz the beginning of next month, clatter, clatter, and if you still have the intention of joining him, bang, clatter, clatter, bang. Why didn't you tell me so before, mother? You know I wanted, clatter, clatter, clatter. Do you see Mrs. Pontellier coming back with the children? She will be in late to luncheon again. She never starts to get ready for luncheon till the last minute. Clatter, clatter, where are you going? Where did you say the Goncourt was? CHAPTER IX Every light in the hall was ablaze. Every lamp turned as high as it could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole room. One had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped the windows and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the gulf. It was Saturday night and a few weeks after the intimate conversation held between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay over Sunday, and they were being suitably entertained by their families with the material help of Madame Le Brun. The dining tables had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now an apparent disposition to relax, to widen the circle of confidences, and give a more general tone to the conversation. Many of the children had been permitted to stay up beyond their usual bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do so and making their authority felt. Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments furnished or rather offered, but there was nothing systematic about the program, no appearance of pre-arrangement, nor even pre-meditation. At an early hour in the evening the Fairvald twins were prevailed upon to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the virgins' colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the blessed virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from Zampa, and at the earnest solicitation of everyone present, followed it with the overture to the poet and the peasant. Allez-vous-en, sa prestie, shrieked the parrot outside the door. He was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first time that summer. Old Monsieur Fra-Réval, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and consigned to regions of darkness, Victor Lebron objected, and his decrees were as immutable as those of fate. The parrot, fortunately, offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and hurled against the twins in that one, impetuous outburst. Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which everyone present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the city. A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The mother played her accompaniments, and at the same time watched her daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially crimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses were full of grace, and her little black shod toes twinkled as they shot out and upward, with a rapidity and suddenness which were bewildering. But there was no reason why everyone should not dance. Madame Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time, and infusing an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was keeping up her music on account of the children, she said, because she and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and making it attractive. Almost everyone danced but the twins, who could not be induced to separate during the brief period when one or the other should be whirling about the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced together, but they did not think of it. The children were sent to bed, some went submissively, others with shrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted to sit up till after the ice cream, which naturally marked the limit of human indulgence. The ice cream was passed round with cake, gold and silver cake arranged on platters in alternate slices. It had been made and frozen during the afternoon back in the kitchen by two black women under the supervision of Victor. It was pronounced a great success, excellent if it had only contained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been frozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement and went about recommending it and urging everyone to partake of it to excess. After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with Robert, and once with Monsieur Ratignol, who was thin and tall and swayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the gallery and seated herself on the low window sill, where she commanded a view of all that went on in the hall and could look out toward the gulf. There was a soft defulgence in the east, the moon was coming up and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant, restless water. Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Ries play, asked Robert, coming out on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear Mademoiselle Ries play, but she feared it would be useless to entreat her. I'll ask her, he said, I'll tell her that you want to hear her, she likes you, she will come. He turned and hurried away to one of the far cottages, where Mademoiselle Ries was shuffling away. She was dragging a chair in and out of her room and at intervals objecting to the crying of a baby which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was endeavouring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who had quarreled with almost everyone, owing to a temper which was self-assertive and disposition to trample upon the rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great difficulty. She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an awkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman with a small, wooden face and body and eyes that glowed. She had absolutely no taste in dress and wore a batch of rusty black lace with a bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair. Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play. She requested of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not touching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the window. A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon everyone as they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down and a prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle embarrassed at being thus singled out for the imperious little woman's favor. She would not dare to choose and begged that Mademoiselle Ries would please herself in her selections. Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains well rendered had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratagnoll played or practiced one piece which that lady played. Edna had entitled Solitude. It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the piece was something else, but she called it Solitude. When she heard it there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging its flight away from him. Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an empire gown taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue between tall hedges. Again another reminded her of children at play and still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat. The very first chords which Mademoiselle Ries struck upon the piano sent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column. It was not the first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the first time she was ready. Perhaps the first time her being was tempered to take an impress of the abiding truth. She waited for the material pictures which she thought gather and blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing or of despair. But the very passions themselves were aroused within her soul swaying it lashing it as the waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled. She was choking and the tears blinded her. Mademoiselle had finished. She arose and bowing her stiff lofty bow she went away stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder. Well, how did you like my music? She asked. The young woman was unable to answer. She pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively. Mademoiselle Reese perceived her agitation and even her tears. She patted her again upon the shoulder as she said, you are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah. And she went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room. But she was mistaken about those others. Her playing had aroused a fever of enthusiasm. What passion? What an artist, I have always said, no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reese. That last prelude, bon Dieu, it shakes a man. It was growing late and there was a general disposition to disband. But someone, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour and under that mystic moon. Chapter 10. At all events Robert proposed it and there was not a dissenting voice. There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did not lead the way, however. He directed the way and he himself loitered behind with the lovers who had betrayed a disposition to linger and hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself. The pantallés and ratignols walked ahead, the women leaning upon the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert's voice behind them and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the next as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining. The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and laughed, some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein's hotel and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance. There were strange, rare odours abroad, a tangle of the sea smell and of weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness, there were no shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the mystery and the softness of sleep. Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The sea was quiet now and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into one another and did not break, except upon the beach in little foamy crests that coiled back like slow white serpents. Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received instructions from both the men and women, in some instances from the children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily and he was nearly at the point of discouragement in realising the futility of his efforts. A certain, ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water unless there was a hand nearby that might reach out and reassure her. But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching child who of a sudden realises its power and walks for the first time alone, boldly and with overconfidence. She could have shouted for joy. She did shout for joy as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted her body to the surface of the water. A feeling of exultation overtook her as if some power of significant import had been given her to control the working of her body and her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out where no woman had swum before. Her unlooked for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause and admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings had accomplished this desired end. How easy it is, she thought. It is nothing, she said aloud. Why did I not discover before that it was nothing? Think of the time I have lost splashing about like a baby. She would not join the groups in their sports and bouts. But intoxicated with her newly conquered power, she swam out alone. She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and solitude, which the vast expanse of water meeting and melting with the moonlit sky conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam, she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself. Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had left there. She had not gone any great distance, that is, what would have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her unaccustomed vision, the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to overcome. A quick vision of death smote her soul and for a second of time appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her staggering faculties and managed to regain the land. She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of terror, except to say to her husband, I thought I should have perished out there alone. You are not so very far, my dear. I was watching you, he told her. Edna went at once to the bathhouse and she had put on her dry clothes and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her. She waved a dissenting hand and went on, paying no further heed to their renewed cries which sought to detain her. Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious, said Madame Lupin, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that Edna's abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure. I know she is, assented Mr. Pontellier. Sometimes, not often. Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before she was overtaken by Robert. Did you think I was afraid? She asked him without a shade of annoyance. No, I knew you weren't afraid. Then why did you come? Why didn't you stay out there with the others? I never thought of it. Thought of what? Of anything, what difference does it make? I'm very tired, she uttered complainingly. I know you are. You don't know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so exhausted in my life but it isn't unpleasant. A thousand emotions have swept through me tonight. I don't comprehend half of them. Don't mind what I'm saying, I'm just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be stirred again as Mademoiselle Reese is playing Moved Me Tonight. I wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny, half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad tonight. There are, whispered Robert. Didn't you know this was the 28th of August? The 28th of August? Yes, on the 28th of August at the hour of midnight, and if the moon is shining, the moon must be shining. A spirit that has haunted these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating vision, the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company, worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless and he has sunk back, disheartened into the sea but tonight he found Mrs. Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell. Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk in the shadow of her divine presence. Don't banter me, she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain, he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm for by her own admission she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly as though her thoughts were elsewhere, somewhere in advance of her body and she was striving to overtake them. Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree. Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier? He asked. I'll stay out here. Good night. Shall I get you a pillow? There's one here, she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow. It must be soil the children have been tumbling it about, no matter, and having discovered the pillow she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself into the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body. Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes? Asked Robert, seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post. If you wish, don't swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl which I left on the window sill of the house? Are you chilly? No, but I shall be presently. Presently, he laughed, do you know what time it is? How long are you going to stay out here? I don't know, will you get the shawl? Of course I will, he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight. It was past midnight, it was very quiet. When he returned with the shawl, she took it and kept it in her hand. She did not put it around her. Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back? I said you might if you wished to. He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette which he smoked in silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could have been more significant than those moments of silence or more pregnant with the first felt throbbing of desire. When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said good night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he walked away. End of chapter 10.