The Awakening Kate Chopin - Penn State University

The Awakening 

and Selected Short Stories 

by 

Kate Chopin 

A PENN STATE 

ELECTRONIC CLASSICS SERIES 

PUBLICATION

The Awakening and Selected Short Stories by Kate Chopin 

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The Awakening and Selected Short Stories by Kate Chopin, 

the Pennsylvania State University, Electronic Classics 

Series, Jim Manis, Faculty Editor, Hazleton, PA 18202- 

1291 is a Portable Document File produced as part of an 

ongoing student publication project to bring classical 

works of literature, in English, to free and easy access of 

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Copyright © 2008 The Pennsylvania State University 

The Pennsylvania State University is an equal opportunity university.

Kate Chopin (born Katherine O'Flaherty on February 8, 1850 – 

August 22, 1904) was an American author of short stories and novels, 

mostly of a Louisiana Creole background. She is now considered to 

have been a forerunner of feminist authors of the 20th century. 

—Courtesy Wikipedia.org

Contents 

THE AWAKENING ............................... 5 

Beyond the Bayou ................................ 122 

Ma’ame Pelagie .................................... 128 

Desiree’s Baby ...................................... 136 

A Respectable Woman ......................... 141 

The Kiss............................................... 145 

A Pair of Silk Stockings ........................ 148 

The Locket .......................................... 153 

A Reflection ......................................... 158


and Selected Short Stories 

by 


THE AWAKENING 

I 


A GREEN AND YELLOW PARROT, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept 

repeating over and over: 

“Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!” 

He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody 

understood, unless it was the mocking-bird 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. 

5


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 eye-glasses. 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 Farival 

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 Cheniere Caminada in 

Beaudelet’s lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the 

wateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier’s two children were there sturdy 

little fellows of four and five. A quadroon 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 camomile. 

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 bathe 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. 

6


“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-by 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. 

7


8 

II 

MRS. PONTELLIER’S EYES were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, 

about the color 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, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome 

than beautiful. Her face was captivating by 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 coloring 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 languor 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 

Cheniere; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the 

Farival 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. Each 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 Francais,” it enabled Madame Lebrun 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 Leonce 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 club men over at Klein’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. 

III 

IT WAS ELEVEN O’CLOCK that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Klein’s 

hotel. He was in an excellent humor, 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 bank notes 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 utterances. 

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. 

9


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, whose 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 peignoir. 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 peignoir 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, steaming and wet, 

into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any 

10


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 

rockaway 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-by. 

The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous 

things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, 

and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say 

goodby 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 friandises, with luscious and 

toothsome bits—the finest of fruits, pates, 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 

pates and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed 

11


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. 

12 

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 eves 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 quadroon nurse was 

looked upon as a huge encumbrance, only good to button up waists 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 motherwomen 

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 idolized 

their children, worshiped 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 

Adele 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 mite 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-drawers 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-drawers. 

She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier to cut 

out—a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby’s body so effectually 

that only two small eyes might look out from the garment, like 

an Eskimo’s. They were designed for winter wear, when treacherous drafts 

came down chimneys and insidious currents of deadly cold found their 

way through key-holes. 

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 unamiable and uninterested, so she had 

brought forth newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of the gallery, 

and under Madame Ratignolle’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 Ratignolle. 

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 Ratignolle 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 color mount 

13


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 Lebrun’s. 

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 heard 

Madame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival 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 

color 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. 

14 

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 Mademoiselle 

Duvigne’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.’” 

“Par exemple! 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. ‘Passez! Adieu! Allez vous-en!’” 

“Perhaps I feared to make Alphonse jealous,” she interjoined, with excessive 

naivete. 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: 

“Blagueur—farceur—gros bete, va!” 

He never assumed this seriocomic 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 

15


there like some sensuous Madonna, with the gleam of the fading day enriching 

her splendid color. 

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 ce n’est pas mal! Elle s’y connait, 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 offense. 

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 completed 

bore 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 quadroon 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. Children 

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. 

16


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, encircling 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. 

VI 

EDNA 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 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 vouchsafe 

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 

17


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. 

18 

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 

Adele Ratignolle. 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 every one 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 

Ratignolle to leave the children behind, though she could not induce her 

to relinquish a diminutive roll of needlework, which Adele 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 camomile 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 Ratignolle 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 modeling, and the graceful severity 

of poise and movement, which made Edna Pontellier different from 

the crowd. 

She wore a cool muslin 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 Ratignolle, 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 a 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 bath-houses 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 Lebrun’s 

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 Ratignolle 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-room 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 

Ratignolle 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. Edna removed her 

collar and opened her dress at the throat. She took the fan from Madame 

19


Ratignolle and began to fan both herself and her companion. It was very 

warm, and for a while they did nothing but exchange remarks about the 

heat, the sun, the glare. But there was a breeze blowing, a choppy, stiff wind 

that whipped the water into froth. It fluttered the skirts of the two women 

and kept them for a while engaged in adjusting, readjusting, tucking in, 

securing hair-pins and hat-pins. A few persons were sporting some distance 

away in the water. The beach was very still of human sound at that hour. 

The lady in black was reading her morning devotions on the porch of a 

neighboring bathhouse. Two young lovers were exchanging their hearts’ yearnings 

beneath the children’s tent, which they had found unoccupied. 

Edna Pontellier, casting her eyes about, had finally kept them at rest 

upon the sea. The day was clear and carried the gaze out as far as the blue 

sky went; there were a few white clouds suspended idly over the horizon. 

A lateen sail was visible in the direction of Cat Island, and others to the 

south seemed almost motionless in the far distance. 

“Of whom—of what are you thinking?” asked 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! But it seems to me it is the reply we make instinctively to such a 

question. Let me see,” she went on, throwing back her head and narrowing 

her fine eyes till they shone like two vivid points of light. “Let me see. 

I was really not conscious of thinking of anything; but perhaps I can retrace 

my thoughts.” 

“Oh! never mind!” laughed Madame Ratignolle. “I am not quite so 

exacting. I will let you off this time. It is really too hot to think, especially 

to think about thinking.” 

“But for the fun of it,” persisted Edna. “First of all, the sight of the 

water stretching so far away, those motionless sails against the blue sky, 

made a delicious picture that I just wanted to sit and look at. The hot 

wind beating in my face made me think—without any connection that I 

can trace of a summer day in Kentucky, of a meadow that seemed as big as 

the ocean to the very little girl walking through the grass, which was higher 

than her waist. She threw out her arms as if swimming when she walked, 

beating the tall grass as one strikes out in the water. Oh, I see the connection 

now!” 

“Where were you going that day in Kentucky, walking through the 

grass?” 

“I don’t remember now. I was just walking diagonally across a big field. 

20


My sun-bonnet obstructed the view. I could see only the stretch of green 

before me, and I felt as if I must walk on forever, without coming to the 

end of it. I don’t remember whether I was frightened or pleased. I must 

have been entertained. 

“Likely as not it was Sunday,” she laughed; “and I was running away 

from prayers, from the Presbyterian service, read in a spirit of gloom by 

my father that chills me yet to think of.” 

“And have you been running away from prayers ever since, ma chere?” 

asked Madame Ratignolle, amused. 

“No! oh, no!” Edna hastened to say. “I was a little unthinking child in 

those days, just following a misleading impulse without question. On the 

contrary, during one period of my life religion took a firm hold upon me; 

after I was twelve and until-until—why, I suppose until now, though I 

never thought much about it—just driven along by habit. But do you 

know,” she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle 

and leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of her 

companion, “sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking through 

the green meadow again; idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided.” 

Madame Ratignolle laid her hand over that of Mrs. Pontellier, which 

was near her. Seeing that the hand was not withdrawn, she clasped it 

firmly and warmly. She even stroked it a little, fondly, with the other 

hand, murmuring in an undertone, “Pauvre cherie.” 

The action was at first a little confusing to Edna, but she soon lent 

herself readily to the Creole’s gentle caress. She was not accustomed to an 

outward and spoken expression of affection, either in herself or in others. 

She and her younger sister, Janet, had quarreled a good deal through force 

of unfortunate habit. Her older sister, Margaret, was matronly and dignified, 

probably from having assumed matronly and housewifely responsibilities 

too early in life, their mother having died when they were quite 

young, Margaret was not effusive; she was practical. Edna had had an 

occasional girl friend, but whether accidentally or not, they seemed to 

have been all of one type—the self-contained. She never realized that the 

reserve of her own character had much, perhaps everything, to do with 

this. Her most intimate friend at school had been one of rather exceptional 

intellectual gifts, who wrote fine-sounding essays, which Edna admired 

and strove to imitate; and with her she talked and glowed over the 

English classics, and sometimes held religious and political controversies. 

Edna often wondered at one propensity which sometimes had inwardly 

disturbed her without causing any outward show or manifestation on her 

part. At a very early age—perhaps it was when she traversed the ocean of 

21


waving grass—she remembered that she had been passionately enamored 

of a dignified and sad-eyed cavalry officer who visited her father in Kentucky. 

She could not leave his presence when he was there, nor remove her 

eyes from his face, which was something like Napoleon’s, with a lock of 

black hair failing across the forehead. But the cavalry officer melted imperceptibly 

out of her existence. 

At another time her affections were deeply engaged by a young gentleman 

who visited a lady on a neighboring plantation. It was after they went 

to Mississippi to live. The young man was engaged to be married to the 

young lady, and they sometimes called upon Margaret, driving over of 

afternoons in a buggy. Edna was a little miss, just merging into her teens; 

and the realization that she herself was nothing, nothing, nothing to the 

engaged young man was a bitter affliction to her. But he, too, went the 

way of dreams. 

She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she 

supposed to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a 

great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The 

persistence of the infatuation lent it an aspect of genuineness. The hopelessness 

of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion. 

The picture of the tragedian stood enframed upon her desk. Any one 

may possess the portrait of a tragedian without exciting suspicion or comment. 

(This was a sinister reflection which she cherished.) In the presence 

of others she expressed admiration for his exalted gifts, as she handed the 

photograph around and dwelt upon the fidelity of the likeness. When 

alone she sometimes picked it up and kissed the cold glass passionately. 

Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this respect 

resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees 

of Fate. It was in the midst of her secret great passion that she met him. He 

fell in love, as men are in the habit of doing, and pressed his suit with an 

earnestness and an ardor which left nothing to be desired. He pleased her; 

his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there was a sympathy of 

thought and taste between them, in which fancy she was mistaken. Add to 

this the violent opposition of her father and her sister Margaret to her 

marriage with a Catholic, and we need seek no further for the motives 

which led her to accept Monsieur Pontellier. for her husband. 

The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, 

was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who 

worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity in 

the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the realm 

of romance and dreams. 

22


But it was not long before the tragedian had gone to join the cavalry 

officer and the engaged young man and a few others; and Edna found 

herself face to face with the realities. She grew fond of her husband, realizing 

with some unaccountable satisfaction that no trace of passion or 

excessive and fictitious warmth colored her affection, thereby threatening 

its dissolution. 

She was fond of her children in an uneven, impulsive way. She would 

sometimes gather them passionately to her heart; she would sometimes 

forget them. The year before they had spent part of the summer with their 

grandmother Pontellier in Iberville. Feeling secure regarding their happiness 

and welfare, she did not miss them except with an occasional intense 

longing. Their absence was a sort of relief, though she did not admit this, 

even to herself. It seemed to free her of a responsibility which she had 

blindly assumed and for which Fate had not fitted her. 

Edna did not reveal so much as all this to Madame Ratignolle that 

summer day when they sat with faces turned to the sea. But a good part of 

it escaped her. She had put her head down on Madame Ratignolle’s shoulder. 

She was flushed and felt intoxicated with the sound of her own voice 

and the unaccustomed taste of candor. It muddled her like wine, or like a 

first breath of freedom. 

There was the sound of approaching voices. It was Robert, surrounded 

by a troop of children, searching for them. The two little Pontelliers were 

with him, and he carried Madame Ratignolle’s little girl in his arms. There 

were other children beside, and two nurse-maids followed, looking disagreeable 

and resigned. 

The women at once rose and began to shake out their draperies and 

relax their muscles. Mrs. Pontellier threw the cushions and rug into the 

bath-house. The children all scampered off to the awning, and they stood 

there in a line, gazing upon the intruding lovers, still exchanging their 

vows and sighs. The lovers got up, with only a silent protest, and walked 

slowly away somewhere else. 

The children possessed themselves of the tent, and Mrs. Pontellier went 

over to join them. 

Madame Ratignolle begged Robert to accompany her to the house; she 

complained of cramp in her limbs and stiffness of the joints. She leaned 

draggingly upon his arm as they walked. 

23


24 

VIII 

“Do me a favor, Robert,” spoke the pretty woman at his side, almost as 

soon as she and Robert had started their slow, homeward way. She looked 

up in his face, leaning on his arm beneath the encircling shadow of the 

umbrella which he had lifted. 

“Granted; as many as you like,” he returned, glancing down into her 

eyes that were full of thoughtfulness and some speculation. 

“I only ask for one; let Mrs. Pontellier alone.” 

“Tiens!” he exclaimed, with a sudden, boyish laugh. “Voila que Madame 

Ratignolle est jalouse!” 

“Nonsense! I’m in earnest; I mean what I say. Let Mrs. Pontellier alone.” 

“Why?” he asked; himself growing serious at his companion’s solicitation. 

“She is not one of us; she is not like us. She might make the unfortunate 

blunder of taking you seriously.” 

His face flushed with annoyance, and taking off his soft hat he began to 

beat it impatiently against his leg as he walked. “Why shouldn’t she take 

me seriously?” he demanded sharply. “Am I a comedian, a clown, a jackin-the-box? 

Why shouldn’t she? You Creoles! I have no patience with you! 

Am I always to be regarded as a feature of an amusing programme? I hope 

Mrs. Pontellier does take me seriously. I hope she 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 of 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 Ratignolle 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 foi!”


“It isn’t pleasant to have a woman tell you—” he went on, unheedingly, 

but breaking off suddenly: “Now if I were like Arobin-you remember 

Alcee Arobin and that story of the consul’s wife at Biloxi?” And he related 

the story of Alcee Arobin 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, till Mrs. Pontellier and 

her possible propensity for taking young men seriously was apparently 

forgotten. 

Madame Ratignolle, 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 made one mistake, Adele,” 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? Shall I stir you a toddy? Let me mix 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 Sevres 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 

garcon, and she meant it. Robert 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 wateroaks 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 eye might reach. The furnishings of 

the room were light, cool, and practical. 

25


Madame Lebrun 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, by-gone 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 promised to lend her the Goncourt. Don’t forget to take it down 

when you go; it’s 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 Lebrun 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 Lebrun went back to the machine, crimson with annoyance. 

Victor was the younger son and brother—a tete montee, with a temper 

which invited violence and a will which no ax could break. 

“Whenever you say the word I’m ready to thrash any amount of reason 

into him that he’s able to hold.” 

“If your father had only lived!” Clatter, clatter, clatter, clatter, bang! It 

was a fixed belief with Madame Lebrun 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 Lebrun been removed to 

other spheres during the early years of their married life. 

“What do you hear from Montel?” Montel was a middleaged gentleman 

whose vain ambition and desire for the past twenty years had been to 

fill the void which Monsieur Lebrun’s taking off had left in the Lebrun 

household. Clatter, clatter, bang, clatter! 

26


“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 Vera 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 starting 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?” 

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. Some 

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 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 Lebrun. 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 sit 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 fur- 

27


nished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about the 

programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation. 

At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon to 

play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the Virgin’s 

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 every one present followed it with the overture to “The Poet 

and the Peasant.” 

“Allez vous-en! Sapristi!” 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 Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew indignant 

over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird removed and 

consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun 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 every one 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 every one 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 every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to 

separate during the brief period when one or the other should be whirling 

around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced together, 

but they did not think of it. 

28


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 around with cake—gold and silver cake arranged 

on platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during 

the afternoon back of 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 every one to partake of it to excess. 

After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with 

Robert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, 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 effulgence 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 Reisz play?” asked Robert, coming 

out on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear 

Mademoiselle Reisz 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 Reisz 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 endeavoring to put to 

sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no longer young, who had 

quarreled with almost every one, owing to a temper which was self-assertive 

and a 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 weazened 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 

29


surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon every one 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 signaled out for 

the imperious little woman’s favor. She would not dare to choose, and 

begged that Mademoiselle Reisz 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 Ratignolle 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 Reisz 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 would 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 

Reisz 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 

30


said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!” “That last prelude! 

Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!” 

It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband. But 

some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic hour 

and under that mystic moon. 

X 

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 Pontelliers and Ratignolles 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 odors 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 in- 

31


structions 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 realizing the futility of his efforts. A certain 

ungovernable dread hung about her when in the water, unless there was 

a hand near by that might reach out and reassure her. 

But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching 

child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first time 

alone, boldly and with over-confidence. 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 were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you”, he told her. 

Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes 

and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She 

32


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 Lebrun, 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 to-night. I don’t comprehend half of them. Don’t mind what 

I’m saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be stirred 

again as Mademoiselle Reisz’s playing moved me to-night. 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 to-night.” 

“There are,” whispered Robert, “Didn’t you know this was the twentyeighth 

of August?” 

“The twenty-eighth of August?” 

“Yes. On the twenty-eighth 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 to-night 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.” 

33


“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 soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.” 

“No matter.” And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath 

her head. She extended herself in 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 over at 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 

34


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 throbbings 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. 

XI 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in 

bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked 

up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply. 

“Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her. 

“No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as 

they looked into his. 

“Do you know it is past one o’clock? Come on,” and he mounted the 

steps and went into their room. 

“Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had 

gone by. 

“Don’t wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through the 

door. 

“You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What folly is this? 

Why don’t you come in?” 

“It isn’t cold; I have my shawl.” 

“The mosquitoes will devour you.” 

“There are no mosquitoes.” 

She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience 

and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. 

She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of 

submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as 

we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which 

has been portioned out to us. 

“Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time 

fondly, with a note of entreaty. 

“No; I am going to stay out here.” 

“This is more than folly,” he blurted out. “I can’t permit you to stay out 

35


there all night. You must come in the house instantly.” 

With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the hammock. 

She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and resistant. 

She could not at that moment have done other than denied and resisted. 

She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that before, and 

if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she remembered 

that she had. But she could not realize why or how she should have yielded, 

feeling as she then did. 

“Leonce, go to bed, “ she said I mean to stay out here. I don’t wish to go 

in, and I don’t intend to. Don’t speak to me like that again; I shall not 

answer you.” 

Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. 

He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select 

supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out 

on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He 

drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to 

smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank 

another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when 

it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated 

feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more 

cigars. 

Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a 

delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing 

into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the exuberance 

which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and 

yielding to the conditions which crowded her in. 

The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when 

the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned 

from silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, 

and the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads. 

Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She 

tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into the 

house. 

“Are you coming in, Leonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her 

husband. 

“Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke. 

“Just as soon as I have finished my cigar. 

36

XII 


SHE SLEPT BUT A FEW HOURS. They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed 

with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving only an 

impression upon her half-awakened senses of something unattainable. She 

was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was invigorating 

and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, she was not seeking 

refreshment or help from any source, either external or from within. She 

was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed 

herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of responsibility. 

Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, 

who intended to go over to the Cheniere for mass, were moving about. 

The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling 

toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer-book, 

velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was following them 

at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more than half 

inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw hat, 

and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall, followed the lady in 

black, never overtaking her. 

The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun’s sewing-machine 

was sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom. 

Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert. 

“Tell him I am going to the Cheniere. The boat is ready; tell him to 

hurry.” 

He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had 

never asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did 

not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding 

his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything extraordinary 

in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet glow 

when he met her. 

They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no 

time to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window and 

the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and ate 

from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good. 

She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often 

noticed that she lacked forethought. 

37


“Wasn’t it enough to think of going to the Cheniere and waking you 

up?” she laughed. “Do I have to think of everything?—as Leonce says 

when he’s in a bad humor. I don’t blame him; he’d never be in a bad 

humor if it weren’t for me.” 

They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see the 

curious procession moving toward the wharf—the lovers, shoulder to shoulder, 

creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old Monsieur 

Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted Spanish girl, 

with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm, bringing up the 

rear. 

Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one 

present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a 

round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small, and 

she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were broad 

and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her feet, and 

noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes. 

Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much 

room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who 

considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he he would not quarrel 

with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with Mariequita. 

The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to Robert. She was 

saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making “eyes” at Robert 

and making “mouths” at Beaudelet. 

The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The 

lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur 

Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and of 

what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject. 

Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly 

brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again. 

“Why does she look at me like that?” inquired the girl of Robert. 

“Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?” 

“No. Is she your sweetheart?” 

“She’s a married lady, and has two children.” 

“Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano’s wife, who had four children. 

They took all his money and one of the children and stole his boat.” 

“Shut up!” 

“Does she understand?” 

“Oh, hush!” 

“Are those two married over there—leaning on each other?” 

“Of course not,” laughed Robert. 

38


“Of course not,” echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob 

of the head. 

The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to 

Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands. Robert 

held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise through the 

water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and overflowing them. 

Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at something as he looked at 

the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man under his breath. 

Sailing across the bay to the Cheniere Caminada, Edna felt as if she 

were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast, 

whose chains had been loosening—had snapped the night before when 

the mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she 

chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer noticed 

Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They were 

covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and 

muttered to herself sullenly. 

“Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?” said Robert in a low voice. 

“What shall we do there?” 

“Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling gold 

snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.” 

She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to 

be alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean’s roar and 

watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old 

fort. 

“And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,” he went on. 

“What shall we do there?” 

“Anything—cast bait for fish.” 

“No; we’ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.” 

“We’ll go wherever you like,” he said. “I’ll have Tonie come over and 

help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any 

one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Then I’ll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines. 

Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands the 

treasures are hidden—direct you to the very spot, perhaps.” 

“And in a day we should be rich!” she laughed. “I’d give it all to you, the 

pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you would 

know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn’t a thing to be hoarded or utilized. It 

is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for the fun of 

seeing the golden specks fly.” 

39


“We’d share it, and scatter it together,” he said. His face flushed. 

They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our 

Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun’s 

glare. 

Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita 

walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill 

humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye. 

40 

XIII 

A FEELING OF OPPRESSION and drowsiness overcame Edna during the service. 

Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed before her 

eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain her composure; 

but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere of the church 

and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert’s feet with a muttered 

apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious, stood up, but upon 

seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he sank back into his 

seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in black, who did not 

notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon the pages of her 

velvet prayer-book. 

“I felt giddy and almost overcome,” Edna said, lifting her hands instinctively 

to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead. “I 

couldn’t have stayed through the service.” They were outside in the shadow 

of the church. Robert was full of solicitude. 

“It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone staying. 

Come over to Madame Antoine’s; you can rest there.” He took her arm 

and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into her face. 

How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the 

reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray, weatherbeaten 

houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It must always 

have been God’s day on that low, drowsy island, Edna thought. They 

stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift, to ask for water. A 

youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from the cistern, which 

was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening on one side, sunk in 

the ground. The water which the youth handed to them in a tin pail was 

not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated face, and it greatly revived 

and refreshed her.


Madame Antoine’s cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed 

them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door to 

let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily across the 

floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her understand 

that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to rest, she was all 

eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of her comfortably. 

The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed, 

snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which 

looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was a 

disabled boat lying keel upward. 

Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she 

supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and 

wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame 

Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was 

boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace. 

Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing 

the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and arms in the basin 

that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes and stockings and 

stretched herself in the very center of the high, white bed. How luxurious it 

felt to rest thus in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel 

lingering about the sheets and mattress! She stretched her strong limbs that 

ached a little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She 

looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them one 

after the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw for the first 

time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped her hands 

easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep. 

She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the things 

about her. She could hear Madame Antoine’s heavy, scraping tread as she 

walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were clucking 

outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the grass. Later she 

half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking under the shed. She did 

not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily over her sleepy eyes. 

The voices went on—Tonie’s slow, Acadian drawl, Robert’s quick, soft, 

smooth French. She understood French imperfectly unless directly addressed, 

and the voices were only part of the other drowsy, muffled sounds 

lulling her senses. 

When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long 

and soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine’s 

step was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens 

had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn 

41


over her; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar. 

Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the 

window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far 

advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade 

against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a 

book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become of 

the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood 

washing herself in the little basin between the windows. 

Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and 

had placed a box of poudre de riz within easy reach. Edna dabbed the 

powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the 

little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes 

were bright and wide awake and her face glowed. 

When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. 

She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon 

the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a 

crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece 

from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured 

some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly 

out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a 

tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. 

An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined 

her under the orange tree. 

“How many years have I slept?” she inquired. “The whole island seems 

changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and 

me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie 

die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?” 

He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. 

“You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard 

your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed 

reading a book. The only evil I couldn’t prevent was to keep a broiled fowl 

from drying up.” 

“If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,” said Edna, moving with him 

into the house. “But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the 

others?” 

“Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought 

it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn’t have let them. What was I 

here for?” 

“I wonder if Leonce will be uneasy!” she speculated, as she seated herself 

at table. 

42


“Of course not; he knows you are with me,” Robert replied, as he busied 

himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left 

standing on the hearth. 

“Where are Madame Antoine and her son?” asked Edna. 

“Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you 

back in Tonie’s boat whenever you are ready to go.” 

He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. 

He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing 

it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but 

while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified 

to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the 

food which he had procured for her. 

“Shall we go right away?” she asked, after draining her glass and brushing 

together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. 

“The sun isn’t as low as it will be in two hours,” he answered. 

“The sun will be gone in two hours.” 

“Well, let it go; who cares!” 

They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine 

came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her 

absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly 

face any woman except his mother. 

It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun 

dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and 

gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters 

across the grass. 

Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground—that is, he lay upon the 

ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. 

Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench 

beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound 

herself up to the storytelling pitch. 

And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the 

Cheniere Caminada, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had 

squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the 

Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. 

Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled 

gold. 

When she and Robert stepped into Tonie’s boat, with the red lateen sail, 

misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, 

and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. 

43


44 

XIV 

THE YOUNGEST BOY, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle 

said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been 

unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken 

charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in 

bed and asleep for two hours. 

The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as 

Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he 

rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in 

her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, 

calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. 

It was not more than nine o’clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the 

children. 

Leonce had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had 

wanted to start at once for the Cheniere. But Monsieur Farival had assured 

him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie 

would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded 

from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein’s, looking up some cotton 

broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, 

bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember 

what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from 

heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. 

She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was 

alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. 

When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, 

and Robert went and lifted the mosquito bar that she might lay the child 

comfortably in his bed. The quadroon had vanished. When they emerged 

from the cottage Robert bade Edna good-night. 

“Do you know we have been together the whole livelong day, Robert— 

since early this morning?” she said at parting. 

“All but the hundred years when you were sleeping. Goodnight.” 

He pressed her hand and went away in the direction of the beach. He 

did not join any of the others, but walked alone toward the Gulf. 

Edna stayed outside, awaiting her husband’s return. She had no desire 

to sleep or to retire; nor did she feel like going over to sit with the


Ratignolles, or to join Madame Lebrun and a group whose animated voices 

reached her as they sat in conversation before the house. She let her mind 

wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein 

this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her 

life. She could only realize that she herself—her present self—was in some 

way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes 

and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored 

and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect. 

She wondered why Robert had gone away and left her. It did not occur 

to her to think he might have grown tired of being with her the livelong 

day. She was not tired, and she felt that he was not. She regretted that he 

had gone. It was so much more natural to have him stay when he was not 

absolutely required to leave her. 

As Edna waited for her husband she sang low a little song that Robert 

had sung as they crossed the bay. It began with “Ah! Si tu savais,” and 

every verse ended with “si tu savais.” 

Robert’s voice was not pretentious. It was musical and true. The voice, 

the notes, the whole refrain haunted her memory. 

XV 

WHEN EDNA ENTERED the dining-room one evening a little late, as was her 

habit, an unusually animated conversation seemed to be going on. Several 

persons were talking at once, and Victor’s voice was predominating, even 

over that of his mother. Edna had returned late from her bath, had dressed 

in some haste, and her face was flushed. Her head, set off by her dainty 

white gown, suggested a rich, rare blossom. She took her seat at table 

between old Monsieur Farival and Madame Ratignolle. 

As she seated herself and was about to begin to eat her soup, which had 

been served when she entered the room, several persons informed her 

simultaneously that Robert was going to Mexico. She laid her spoon down 

and looked about her bewildered. He had been with her, reading to her all 

the morning, and had never even mentioned such a place as Mexico. She 

had not seen him during the afternoon; she had heard some one say he 

was at the house, upstairs with his mother. This she had thought nothing 

of, though she was surprised when he did not join her later in the afternoon, 

when she went down to the beach. 

45


She looked across at him, where he sat beside Madame Lebrun, who presided. 

Edna’s face was a blank picture of bewilderment, which she never thought 

of disguising. He lifted his eyebrows with the pretext of a smile as he returned 

her glance. He looked embarrassed and uneasy. “When is he going?” she asked 

of everybody in general, as if Robert were not there to answer for himself. 

“To-night!” “This very evening!” “Did you ever!” “What possesses him!” 

were some of the replies she gathered, uttered simultaneously in French 

and English. 

“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “How can a person start off from Grand 

Isle to Mexico at a moment’s notice, as if he were going over to Klein’s or 

to the wharf or down to the beach?” 

“I said all along I was going to Mexico; I’ve been saying so for years!” 

cried Robert, in an excited and irritable tone, with the air of a man defending 

himself against a swarm of stinging insects. 

Madame Lebrun knocked on the table with her knife handle. 

“Please let Robert explain why he is going, and why he is going tonight,” 

she called out. “Really, this table is getting to be more and more 

like Bedlam every day, with everybody talking at once. Sometimes—I 

hope God will forgive me—but positively, sometimes I wish Victor would 

lose the power of speech.” 

Victor laughed sardonically as he thanked his mother for her holy wish, 

of which he failed to see the benefit to anybody, except that it might 

afford her a more ample opportunity and license to talk herself. 

Monsieur Farival thought that Victor should have been taken out in 

mid-ocean in his earliest youth and drowned. Victor thought there would 

be more logic in thus disposing of old people with an established claim for 

making themselves universally obnoxious. Madame Lebrun grew a trifle 

hysterical; Robert called his brother some sharp, hard names. 

“There’s nothing much to explain, mother,” he said; though he explained, 

nevertheless—looking chiefly at Edna—that he could only meet the gentleman 

whom he intended to join at Vera Cruz by taking such and such a 

steamer, which left New Orleans on such a day; that Beaudelet was going 

out with his lugger-load of vegetables that night, which gave him an opportunity 

of reaching the city and making his vessel in time. 

“But when did you make up your mind to all this?” demanded Monsieur 

Farival. 

“This afternoon,” returned Robert, with a shade of annoyance. 

“At what time this afternoon?” persisted the old gentleman, with nagging 

determination, as if he were cross-questioning a criminal in a court 

of justice. 

46


“At four o’clock this afternoon, Monsieur Farival,” Robert replied, in a 

high voice and with a lofty air, which reminded Edna of some gentleman 

on the stage. 

She had forced herself to eat most of her soup, and now she was picking 

the flaky bits of a court bouillon with her fork. 

The lovers were profiting by the general conversation on Mexico to 

speak in whispers of matters which they rightly considered were interesting 

to no one but themselves. The lady in black had once received a 

pair of prayer-beads of curious workmanship from Mexico, with very 

special indulgence attached to them, but she had never been able to 

ascertain whether the indulgence extended outside the Mexican border. 

Father Fochel of the Cathedral had attempted to explain it; but he had 

not done so to her satisfaction. And she begged that Robert would interest 

himself, and discover, if possible, whether she was entitled to the 

indulgence accompanying the remarkably curious Mexican prayer-beads. 

Madame Ratignolle hoped that Robert would exercise extreme caution 

in dealing with the Mexicans, who, she considered, were a treacherous 

people, unscrupulous and revengeful. She trusted she did them no injustice 

in thus condemning them as a race. She had known personally but 

one Mexican, who made and sold excellent tamales, and whom she would 

have trusted implicitly, so softspoken was he. One day he was arrested for 

stabbing his wife. She never knew whether he had been hanged or not. 

Victor had grown hilarious, and was attempting to tell an anecdote 

about a Mexican girl who served chocolate one winter in a restaurant in 

Dauphine Street. No one would listen to him but old Monsieur Farival, 

who went into convulsions over the droll story. 

Edna wondered if they had all gone mad, to be talking and clamoring 

at that rate. She herself could think of nothing to say about Mexico or the 

Mexicans. 

“At what time do you leave?” she asked Robert. 

“At ten,” he told her. “Beaudelet wants to wait for the moon.” 

“Are you all ready to go?” 

“Quite ready. I shall only take a hand-bag, and shall pack my trunk in 

the city.” 

He turned to answer some question put to him by his mother, and 

Edna, having finished her black coffee, left the table. 

She went directly to her room. The little cottage was close and stuffy 

after leaving the outer air. But she did not mind; there appeared to be a 

hundred different things demanding her attention indoors. She began to 

set the toilet-stand to rights, grumbling at the negligence of the quadroon, 

47


who was in the adjoining room putting the children to bed. She gathered 

together stray garments that were hanging on the backs of chairs, and put 

each where it belonged in closet or bureau drawer. She changed her gown 

for a more comfortable and commodious wrapper. She rearranged her 

hair, combing and brushing it with unusual energy. Then she went in and 

assisted the quadroon in getting the boys to bed. 

They were very playful and inclined to talk—to do anything but lie 

quiet and go to sleep. Edna sent the quadroon away to her supper and told 

her she need not return. Then she sat and told the children a story. Instead 

of soothing it excited them, and added to their wakefulness. She left them 

in heated argument, speculating about the conclusion of the tale which 

their mother promised to finish the following night. 

The little black girl came in to say that Madame Lebrun would like to 

have Mrs. Pontellier go and sit with them over at the house till Mr. Robert 

went away. Edna returned answer that she had already undressed, that she 

did not feel quite well, but perhaps she would go over to the house later. 

She started to dress again, and got as far advanced as to remove her peignoir. 

But changing her mind once more she resumed the peignoir, and 

went outside and sat down before her door. She was overheated and irritable, 

and fanned herself energetically for a while. Madame Ratignolle 

came down to discover what was the matter. 

“All that noise and confusion at the table must have upset me,” replied 

Edna, “and moreover, I hate shocks and surprises. The idea of Robert 

starting off in such a ridiculously sudden and dramatic way! As if it were a 

matter of life and death! Never saying a word about it all morning when 

he was with me.” 

“Yes,” agreed Madame Ratignolle. “I think it was showing us all—you 

especially—very little consideration. It wouldn’t have surprised me in any 

of the others; those Lebruns are all given to heroics. But I must say I 

should never have expected such a thing from Robert. Are you not coming 

down? Come on, dear; it doesn’t look friendly.” 

“No,” said Edna, a little sullenly. “I can’t go to the trouble of dressing 

again; I don’t feel like it.” 

“You needn’t dress; you look all right; fasten a belt around your waist. 

Just look at me!” 

“No,” persisted Edna; “but you go on. Madame Lebrun might be offended 

if we both stayed away.” 

Madame Ratignolle kissed Edna good-night, and went away, being in 

truth rather desirous of joining in the general and animated conversation 

which was still in progress concerning Mexico and the Mexicans. 

48


Somewhat later Robert came up, carrying his hand-bag. 

“Aren’t you feeling well?” he asked. 

“Oh, well enough. Are you going right away?” 

He lit a match and looked at his watch. “In twenty minutes,” he said. 

The sudden and brief flare of the match emphasized the darkness for a 

while. He sat down upon a stool which the children had left out on the 

porch. 

“Get a chair,” said Edna. 

“This will do,” he replied. He put on his soft hat and nervously took it 

off again, and wiping his face with his handkerchief, complained of the 

heat. 

“Take the fan,” said Edna, offering it to him. 

“Oh, no! Thank you. It does no good; you have to stop fanning some 

time, and feel all the more uncomfortable afterward.” 

“That’s one of the ridiculous things which men always say. I have never 

known one to speak otherwise of fanning. How long will you be gone?” 

“Forever, perhaps. I don’t know. It depends upon a good many things.” 

“Well, in case it shouldn’t be forever, how long will it be?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“This seems to me perfectly preposterous and uncalled for. I don’t like 

it. I don’t understand your motive for silence and mystery, never saying a 

word to me about it this morning.” He remained silent, not offering to 

defend himself. He only said, after a moment: 

“Don’t part from me in any ill humor. I never knew you to be out of 

patience with me before.” 

“I don’t want to part in any ill humor,” she said. “But can’t you understand? 

I’ve grown used to seeing you, to having you with me all the time, 

and your action seems unfriendly, even unkind. You don’t even offer an 

excuse for it. Why, I was planning to be together, thinking of how pleasant 

it would be to see you in the city next winter.” 

“So was I,” he blurted. “Perhaps that’s the—” He stood up suddenly 

and held out his hand. “Good-by, my dear Mrs. Pontellier; good-by. You 

won’t—I hope you won’t completely forget me.” She clung to his hand, 

striving to detain him. 

“Write to me when you get there, won’t you, Robert?” she entreated. 

“I will, thank you. Good-by.” 

How unlike Robert! The merest acquaintance would have said something 

more emphatic than “I will, thank you; good-by,” to such a request. 

He had evidently already taken leave of the people over at the house, for 

he descended the steps and went to join Beaudelet, who was out there 

49


with an oar across his shoulder waiting for Robert. They walked away in 

the darkness. She could only hear Beaudelet’s voice; Robert had apparently 

not even spoken a word of greeting to his companion. 

Edna bit her handkerchief convulsively, striving to hold back and to 

hide, even from herself as she would have hidden from another, the emotion 

which was troubling—tearing—her. Her eyes were brimming with 

tears. 

For the first time she recognized the symptoms of infatuation which 

she had felt incipiently as a child, as a girl in her earliest teens, and later as 

a young woman. The recognition did not lessen the reality, the poignancy 

of the revelation by any suggestion or promise of instability. The past was 

nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future 

was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present 

alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing then with the 

biting conviction that she had lost that which she had held, that she had 

been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened being demanded. 

50 

XVI 

“DO YOU MISS YOUR friend greatly?” asked Mademoiselle Reisz one morning 

as she came creeping up behind Edna, who had just left her cottage on 

her way to the beach. She spent much of her time in the water since she 

had acquired finally the art of swimming. As their stay at Grand Isle drew 

near its close, she felt that she could not give too much time to a diversion 

which afforded her the only real pleasurable moments that she knew. When 

Mademoiselle Reisz came and touched her upon the shoulder and spoke 

to her, the woman seemed to echo the thought which was ever in Edna’s 

mind; or, better, the feeling which constantly possessed her. 

Robert’s going had some way taken the brightness, the color, the meaning 

out of everything. The conditions of her life were in no way changed, but her 

whole existence was dulled, like a faded garment which seems to be no longer 

worth wearing. She sought him everywhere—in others whom she induced to 

talk about him. She went up in the mornings to Madame Lebrun’s room, 

braving the clatter of the old sewing-machine. She sat there and chatted at 

intervals as Robert had done. She gazed around the room at the pictures and 

photographs hanging upon the wall, and discovered in some corner an old 

family album, which she examined with the keenest interest, appealing to


Madame Lebrun for enlightenment concerning the many figures and faces 

which she discovered between its pages. 

There was a picture of Madame Lebrun with Robert as a baby, seated in 

her lap, a round-faced infant with a fist in his mouth. The eyes alone in the 

baby suggested the man. And that was he also in kilts, at the age of five, 

wearing long curls and holding a whip in his hand. It made Edna laugh, and 

she laughed, too, at the portrait in his first long trousers; while another 

interested her, taken when he left for college, looking thin, long-faced, with 

eyes full of fire, ambition and great intentions. But there was no recent 

picture, none which suggested the Robert who had gone away five days ago, 

leaving a void and wilderness behind him. 

“Oh, Robert stopped having his pictures taken when he had to pay for 

them himself! He found wiser use for his money, he says,” explained Madame 

Lebrun. She had a letter from him, written before he left New Orleans. 

Edna wished to see the letter, and Madame Lebrun told her to look 

for it either on the table or the dresser, or perhaps it was on the mantelpiece. 

The letter was on the bookshelf. It possessed the greatest interest and 

attraction for Edna; the envelope, its size and shape, the post-mark, the 

handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before opening it. 

There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the city that 

afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, that he was well, 

and sent her his love and begged to be affectionately remembered to all. 

There was no special message to Edna except a postscript saying that if 

Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish the book which he had been reading to 

her, his mother would find it in his room, among other books there on the 

table. Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had written to his 

mother rather than to her. 

Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her 

husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert’s departure, 

expressed regret that he had gone. 

“How do you get on without him, Edna?” he asked. 

“It’s very dull without him,” she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen Robert 

in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where had 

they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone “in” and 

had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about? Chiefly 

about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought were promising. 

How did he look? How did he seem—grave, or gay, or how? Quite 

cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier 

found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek fortune and adventure 

in a strange, queer country. 

51


Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children persisted 

in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She went 

down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not being 

more attentive. 

It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be making 

of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to speak of 

him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way resembled 

that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever expected to 

feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and 

emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken the form 

of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained 

the conviction that she had a right to them and that they concerned no 

one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would 

never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed 

a rather heated argument; the two women did not appear to understand 

each other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to appease her 

friend, to explain. 

“I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give 

my life for my children; but I wouldn’t give myself. I can’t make it more 

clear; it’s only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is 

revealing itself to me.” 

“I don’t know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by 

the unessential,” said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; “but a woman who 

would give her life for her children could do no more than that— your 

Bible tells you so. I’m sure I couldn’t do more than that.” 

“Oh, yes you could!” laughed Edna. 

She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz’s question the morning 

that lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and 

asked if she did not greatly miss her young friend. 

“Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss 

Robert. Are you going down to bathe?” 

“Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I 

haven’t been in the surf all summer,” replied the woman, disagreeably. 

“I beg your pardon,” offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she 

should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz’s avoidance of the water 

had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought 

it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, 

while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed 

to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna 

some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way 

52


of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for 

their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass, 

she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun’s table 

was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame 

Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring 

them to pay for it. 

“She must feel very lonely without her son,” said Edna, desiring to 

change the subject. “Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to 

let him go.” 

Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. 

“Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale 

upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has 

spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the 

ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money 

he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite 

son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him 

and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of 

salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That 

Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It’s a wonder Robert hasn’t 

beaten him to death long ago.” 

“I thought he had great patience with his brother,” offered Edna, glad 

to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. 

“Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago,” said Mademoiselle. 

“It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort 

of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with 

her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket—I don’t remember what;— 

and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on 

the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good while. It’s 

about time he was getting another.” 

“Was her name Mariequita?” asked Edna. 

“Mariequita—yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she’s a 

sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!” 

Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could 

have listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, 

almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she donned 

her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of 

the children’s tent. The water was growing cooler as the season advanced. 

Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated 

her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle 

Reisz would not wait for her. 

53


But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, 

and raved much over Edna’s appearance in her bathing suit. She talked 

about music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and 

wrote her address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she 

found in her pocket. 

“When do you leave?” asked Edna. 

“Next Monday; and you?” 

“The following week,” answered Edna, adding, “It has been a pleasant 

summer, hasn’t it, Mademoiselle?” 

“Well,” agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, “rather pleasant, if it 

hadn’t been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins.” 

54 

XVII 

THE PONTELLIERS POSSESSED a very charming home on Esplanade Street in 

New Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda, 

whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was 

painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In 

the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of 

every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Within doors the 

appointments were perfect after the conventional type. The softest carpets 

and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperies hung at doors and 

windows. There were paintings, selected with judgment and discrimination, 

upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavy damask which 

daily appeared upon the table were the envy of many women whose husbands 

were less generous than Mr. Pontellier. 

Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its 

various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He greatly 

valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and derived genuine 

pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a rare lace curtain— 

no matter what—after he had bought it and placed it among his household 

gods. 

On Tuesday afternoons—Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier’s reception 

day—there was a constant stream of callers—women who came in carriages 

or in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance 

permitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a diminutive 

silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A maid, in


white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or chocolate, as they 

might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome reception gown, remained 

in the drawing-room the entire afternoon receiving her visitors. 

Men sometimes called in the evening with their wives. 

This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously followed 

since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during the week 

she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play. 

Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten 

o’clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the evening— 

dinner being served at half-past seven. 

He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few 

weeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The 

boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet could be 

heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the quadroon, lifted in 

mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not wear her usual Tuesday 

reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress. Mr. Pontellier, who was 

observant about such things, noticed it, as he served the soup and handed 

it to the boy in waiting. 

“Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?” he asked. He 

tasted his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar, mustard—everything 

within reach. 

“There were a good many,” replied Edna, who was eating her soup with 

evident satisfaction. “I found their cards when I got home; I was out.” 

“Out!” exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation in his 

voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her through his glasses. “Why, 

what could have taken you out on Tuesday? What did you have to do?” 

“Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.” 

“Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,” said her husband, somewhat 

appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup. 

“No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.” 

“Why, my dear, I should think you’d understand by this time that people 

don’t do such things; we’ve got to observe les convenances if we ever expect 

to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you had to 

leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable explanation 

for your absence. 

“This soup is really impossible; it’s strange that woman hasn’t learned 

yet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better 

one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?” 

“Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don’t remember who was here.” 

The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver 

55


tray, which was covered with ladies’ visiting cards. He handed it to Mrs. 

Pontellier. 

“Give it to Mr. Pontellier,” she said. 

Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup. 

Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife’s callers, reading some of 

them aloud, with comments as he read. 

“`The Misses Delasidas.’ I worked a big deal in futures for their father 

this morning; nice girls; it’s time they were getting married. ‘Mrs. Belthrop.’ 

I tell you what it is, Edna; you can’t afford to snub Mrs. Belthrop. Why, 

Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His business is worth a 

good, round sum to me. You’d better write her a note. ‘Mrs. James 

Highcamp.’ Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs. Highcamp, the better. 

‘Madame Laforce.’ Came all the way from Carrolton, too, poor old 

soul. ‘Miss Wiggs,’ `Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.’” He pushed the cards aside. 

“Mercy!” exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. “Why are you taking 

the thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?” 

“I’m not making any fuss over it. But it’s just such seeming trifles that 

we’ve got to take seriously; such things count.” 

The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she 

did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to his 

fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were served. 

“It seems to me,” he said, “we spend money enough in this house to 

procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his selfrespect.” 

“You used to think the cook was a treasure,” returned Edna, indifferently. 

“Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They 

need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ. Suppose 

I didn’t look after the clerks in my office, just let them run things 

their own way; they’d soon make a nice mess of me and my business.” 

“Where are you going?” asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from 

table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the highly-seasoned 

soup. 

“I’m going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.” He went into the 

hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house. 

She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her 

very unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely deprived 

of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone into the 

kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she went to her 

room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening, finally writing 

out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a feeling that, after 

56


all, she had accomplished no good that was worth the name. 

But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced deliberation. 

Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward fire that 

lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her room, having instructed 

the boy to tell any other callers that she was indisposed. 

It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim 

light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open 

window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the 

mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the 

perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She 

was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet, half-darkness 

which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her 

from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded 

mournful notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back 

into the room and began to walk to and fro down its whole length, without 

stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, 

which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she 

stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When 

she saw it lying there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But 

her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little 

glittering circlet. 

In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung it 

upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The crash 

and clatter were what she wanted to hear. 

A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to discover 

what was the matter. 

“A vase fell upon the hearth,” said Edna. “Never mind; leave it till morning.” 

“Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma’am,” insisted the 

young woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered upon 

the carpet. “And here’s your ring, ma’am, under the chair.” 

Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her finger. 

57


58 

XVIII 

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Mr. Pontellier, upon leaving for his office, asked 

Edna if she would not meet him in town in order to look at some new 

fixtures for the library. 

“I hardly think we need new fixtures, Leonce. Don’t let us get anything 

new; you are too extravagant. I don’t believe you ever think of saving or 

putting by.” 

“The way to become rich is to make money, my dear Edna, not to save 

it,” he said. He regretted that she did not feel inclined to go with him and 

select new fixtures. He kissed her good-by, and told her she was not looking 

well and must take care of herself. She was unusually pale and very 

quiet. 

She stood on the front veranda as he quitted the house, and absently 

picked a few sprays of jessamine that grew upon a trellis near by. She 

inhaled the odor of the blossoms and thrust them into the bosom of her 

white morning gown. The boys were dragging along the banquette a small 

“express wagon,” which they had filled with blocks and sticks. The quadroon 

was following them with little quick steps, having assumed a fictitious 

animation and alacrity for the occasion. A fruit vender was crying 

his wares in the street. 

Edna looked straight before her with a self-absorbed expression upon 

her face. She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, 

the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all 

part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic. 

She went back into the house. She had thought of speaking to the cook 

concerning her blunders of the previous night; but Mr. Pontellier had 

saved her that disagreeable mission, for which she was so poorly fitted. 

Mr. Pontellier’s arguments were usually convincing with those whom he 

employed. He left home feeling quite sure that he and Edna would sit 

down that evening, and possibly a few subsequent evenings, to a dinner 

deserving of the name. 

Edna spent an hour or two in looking over some of her old sketches. 

She could see their shortcomings and defects, which were glaring in her 

eyes. She tried to work a little, but found she was not in the humor. Fi-


nally she gathered together a few of the sketches—those which she considered 

the least discreditable; and she carried them with her when, a little 

later, she dressed and left the house. She looked handsome and distinguished 

in her street gown. The tan of the seashore had left her face, and 

her forehead was smooth, white, and polished beneath her heavy, yellowbrown 

hair. There were a few freckles on her face, and a small, dark mole 

near the under lip and one on the temple, half-hidden in her hair. 

As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was 

still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing 

the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an 

obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon 

details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or peculiar way his 

personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her thought, 

fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving 

again with an intensity which filled her with an incomprehensible 

longing. 

Edna was on her way to Madame Ratignolle’s. Their intimacy, begun at 

Grand Isle, had not declined, and they had seen each other with some 

frequency since their return to the city. The Ratignolles lived at no great 

distance from Edna’s home, on the corner of a side street, where Monsieur 

Ratignolle owned and conducted a drug store which enjoyed a steady and 

prosperous trade. His father had been in the business before him, and 

Monsieur Ratignolle stood well in the community and bore an enviable 

reputation for integrity and clearheadedness. His family lived in commodious 

apartments over the store, having an entrance on the side within the 

porte cochere. There was something which Edna thought very French, 

very foreign, about their whole manner of living. In the large and pleasant 

salon which extended across the width of the house, the Ratignolles entertained 

their friends once a fortnight with a soiree musicale, sometimes 

diversified by card-playing. There was a friend who played upon the ‘cello. 

One brought his flute and another his violin, while there were some who 

sang and a number who performed upon the piano with various degrees 

of taste and agility. The Ratignolles’ soirees musicales were widely known, 

and it was considered a privilege to be invited to them. 

Edna found her friend engaged in assorting the clothes which had returned 

that morning from the laundry. She at once abandoned her occupation 

upon seeing Edna, who had been ushered without ceremony into 

her presence. 

“`Cite can do it as well as I; it is really her business,” she explained to 

Edna, who apologized for interrupting her. And she summoned a young 

59


black woman, whom she instructed, in French, to be very careful in checking 

off the list which she handed her. She told her to notice particularly if 

a fine linen handkerchief of Monsieur Ratignolle’s, which was missing last 

week, had been returned; and to be sure to set to one side such pieces as 

required mending and darning. 

Then placing an arm around Edna’s waist, she led her to the front of the 

house, to the salon, where it was cool and sweet with the odor of great 

roses that stood upon the hearth in jars. 

Madame Ratignolle looked more beautiful than ever there at home, in 

a neglige which left her arms almost wholly bare and exposed the rich, 

melting curves of her white throat. 

“Perhaps I shall be able to paint your picture some day,” said Edna with 

a smile when they were seated. She produced the roll of sketches and 

started to unfold them. “I believe I ought to work again. I feel as if I 

wanted to be doing something. What do you think of them? Do you 

think it worth while to take it up again and study some more? I might 

study for a while with Laidpore.” 

She knew that Madame Ratignolle’s opinion in such a matter would be 

next to valueless, that she herself had not alone decided, but determined; 

but she sought the words of praise and encouragement that would help 

her to put heart into her venture. 

“Your talent is immense, dear!” 

“Nonsense!” protested Edna, well pleased. 

“Immense, I tell you,” persisted Madame Ratignolle, surveying the 

sketches one by one, at close range, then holding them at arm’s length, 

narrowing her eyes, and dropping her head on one side. “Surely, this Bavarian 

peasant is worthy of framing; and this basket of apples! never have 

I seen anything more lifelike. One might almost be tempted to reach out 

a hand and take one.” 

Edna could not control a feeling which bordered upon complacency at 

her friend’s praise, even realizing, as she did, its true worth. She retained a 

few of the sketches, and gave all the rest to Madame Ratignolle, who 

appreciated the gift far beyond its value and proudly exhibited the pictures 

to her husband when he came up from the store a little later for his 

midday dinner. 

Mr. Ratignolle was one of those men who are called the salt of the 

earth. His cheerfulness was unbounded, and it was matched by his goodness 

of heart, his broad charity, and common sense. He and his wife spoke 

English with an accent which was only discernible through its un-English 

emphasis and a certain carefulness and deliberation. Edna’s husband spoke 

60


English with no accent whatever. The Ratignolles understood each other 

perfectly. If ever the fusion of two human beings into one has been accomplished 

on this sphere it was surely in their union. 

As Edna seated herself at table with them she thought, “Better a dinner 

of herbs,” though it did not take her long to discover that it was no dinner 

of herbs, but a delicious repast, simple, choice, and in every way satisfying. 

Monsieur Ratignolle was delighted to see her, though he found her 

looking not so well as at Grand Isle, and he advised a tonic. He talked a 

good deal on various topics, a little politics, some city news and neighborhood 

gossip. He spoke with an animation and earnestness that gave an 

exaggerated importance to every syllable he uttered. His wife was keenly 

interested in everything he said, laying down her fork the better to listen, 

chiming in, taking the words out of his mouth. 

Edna felt depressed rather than soothed after leaving them. The little 

glimpse of domestic harmony which had been offered her, gave her no 

regret, no longing. It was not a condition of life which fitted her, and she 

could see in it but an appalling and hopeless ennui. She was moved by a 

kind of commiseration for Madame Ratignolle,—a pity for that colorless 

existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind 

contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in 

which she would never have the taste of life’s delirium. Edna vaguely wondered 

what she meant by “life’s delirium.” It had crossed her thought like 

some unsought, extraneous impression. 

XIX 

Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to 

have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon 

the tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such futile 

expedients. She began to do as she liked and to feel as she liked. She 

completely abandoned her Tuesdays at home, and did not return the visits 

of those who had called upon her. She made no ineffectual efforts to conduct 

her household en bonne menagere, going and coming as it suited her 

fancy, and, so far as she was able, lending herself to any passing caprice. 

Mr. Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a 

certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new and unexpected line 

61


of conduct completely bewildered him. It shocked him. Then her absolute 

disregard for her duties as a wife angered him. When Mr. Pontellier 

became rude, Edna grew insolent. She had resolved never to take another 

step backward. 

“It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of a household, 

and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier days which would 

be better employed contriving for the comfort of her family.” 

“I feel like painting,” answered Edna. “Perhaps I shan’t always feel like it.” 

“Then in God’s name paint! but don’t let the family go to the devil. 

There’s Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music, she doesn’t 

let everything else go to chaos. And she’s more of a musician than you are 

a painter.” 

“She isn’t a musician, and I’m not a painter. It isn’t on account of painting 

that I let things go.” 

“On account of what, then?” 

“Oh! I don’t know. Let me alone; you bother me.” 

It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier’s mind to wonder if his wife were 

not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she 

was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself 

and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment 

with which to appear before the world. 

Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away to his office. 

Edna went up to her atelier—a bright room in the top of the house. She 

was working with great energy and interest, without accomplishing anything, 

however, which satisfied her even in the smallest degree. For a time 

she had the whole household enrolled in the service of art. The boys posed 

for her. They thought it amusing at first, but the occupation soon lost its 

attractiveness when they discovered that it was not a game arranged especially 

for their entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna’s 

palette, patient as a savage, while the house-maid took charge of the children, 

and the drawing-room went undusted. But the housemaid, too, 

served her term as model when Edna perceived that the young woman’s 

back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened 

from its confining cap, became an inspiration. While Edna worked 

she sometimes sang low the little air, “Ah! si tu savais!” 

It moved her with recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the 

water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint of the moon upon the bay, 

and could feel the soft, gusty beating of the hot south wind. A subtle 

current of desire passed through her body, weakening her hold upon the 

brushes and making her eyes burn. 

62


There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She 

was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be 

one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some 

perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and 

unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned 

to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested. 

There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,—when 

it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when 

life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like 

worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not 

work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her 

blood. 

XX 

IT WAS DURING SUCH A MOOD that Edna hunted up Mademoiselle Reisz. 

She had not forgotten the rather disagreeable impression left upon her by 

their last interview; but she nevertheless felt a desire to see her—above all, 

to listen while she played upon the piano. Quite early in the afternoon she 

started upon her quest for the pianist. Unfortunately she had mislaid or 

lost Mademoiselle Reisz’s card, and looking up her address in the city 

directory, she found that the woman lived on Bienville Street, some distance 

away. The directory which fell into her hands was a year or more 

old, however, and upon reaching the number indicated, Edna discovered 

that the house was occupied by a respectable family of mulattoes who had 

chambres garnies to let. They had been living there for six months, and 

knew absolutely nothing of a Mademoiselle Reisz. In fact, they knew nothing 

of any of their neighbors; their lodgers were all people of the highest 

distinction, they assured Edna. She did not linger to discuss class distinctions 

with Madame Pouponne, but hastened to a neighboring grocery 

store, feeling sure that Mademoiselle would have left her address with the 

proprietor. 

He knew Mademoiselle Reisz a good deal better than he wanted to 

know her, he informed his questioner. In truth, he did not want to know 

her at all, or anything concerning her—the most disagreeable and unpopular 

woman who ever lived in Bienville Street. He thanked heaven she 

63


had left the neighborhood, and was equally thankful that he did not know 

where she had gone. 

Edna’s desire to see Mademoiselle Reisz had increased tenfold since these 

unlooked-for obstacles had arisen to thwart it. She was wondering who 

could give her the information she sought, when it suddenly occurred to 

her that Madame Lebrun would be the one most likely to do so. She knew 

it was useless to ask Madame Ratignolle, who was on the most distant 

terms with the musician, and preferred to know nothing concerning her. 

She had once been almost as emphatic in expressing herself upon the 

subject as the corner grocer. 

Edna knew that Madame Lebrun had returned to the city, for it was the 

middle of November. And she also knew where the Lebruns lived, on 

Chartres Street. 

Their home from the outside looked like a prison, with iron bars before 

the door and lower windows. The iron bars were a relic of the old regime, 

and no one had ever thought of dislodging them. At the side was a high 

fence enclosing the garden. A gate or door opening upon the street was 

locked. Edna rang the bell at this side garden gate, and stood upon the 

banquette, waiting to be admitted. 

It was Victor who opened the gate for her. A black woman, wiping her 

hands upon her apron, was close at his heels. Before she saw them Edna 

could hear them in altercation, the woman—plainly an anomaly—claiming 

the right to be allowed to perform her duties, one of which was to 

answer the bell. 

Victor was surprised and delighted to see Mrs. Pontellier, and he made 

no attempt to conceal either his astonishment or his delight. He was a 

dark-browed, good-looking youngster of nineteen, greatly resembling his 

mother, but with ten times her impetuosity. He instructed the black woman 

to go at once and inform Madame Lebrun that Mrs. Pontellier desired to 

see her. The woman grumbled a refusal to do part of her duty when she 

had not been permitted to do it all, and started back to her interrupted 

task of weeding the garden. Whereupon Victor administered a rebuke in 

the form of a volley of abuse, which, owing to its rapidity and incoherence, 

was all but incomprehensible to Edna. Whatever it was, the rebuke 

was convincing, for the woman dropped her hoe and went mumbling 

into the house. 

Edna did not wish to enter. It was very pleasant there on the side porch, 

where there were chairs, a wicker lounge, and a small table. She seated 

herself, for she was tired from her long tramp; and she began to rock 

gently and smooth out the folds of her silk parasol. Victor drew up his 

64


chair beside her. He at once explained that the black woman’s offensive 

conduct was all due to imperfect training, as he was not there to take her 

in hand. He had only come up from the island the morning before, and 

expected to return next day. He stayed all winter at the island; he lived 

there, and kept the place in order and got things ready for the summer 

visitors. 

But a man needed occasional relaxation, he informed Mrs. Pontellier, 

and every now and again he drummed up a pretext to bring him to the 

city. My! but he had had a time of it the evening before! He wouldn’t want 

his mother to know, and he began to talk in a whisper. He was scintillant 

with recollections. Of course, he couldn’t think of telling Mrs. Pontellier 

all about it, she being a woman and not comprehending such things. But 

it all began with a girl peeping and smiling at him through the shutters as 

he passed by. Oh! but she was a beauty! Certainly he smiled back, and 

went up and talked to her. Mrs. Pontellier did not know him if she supposed 

he was one to let an opportunity like that escape him. Despite 

herself, the youngster amused her. She must have betrayed in her look 

some degree of interest or entertainment. The boy grew more daring, and 

Mrs. Pontellier might have found herself, in a little while, listening to a 

highly colored story but for the timely appearance of Madame Lebrun. 

That lady was still clad in white, according to her custom of the summer. 

Her eyes beamed an effusive welcome. Would not Mrs. Pontellier go 

inside? Would she partake of some refreshment? Why had she not been 

there before? How was that dear Mr. Pontellier and how were those sweet 

children? Had Mrs. Pontellier ever known such a warm November? 

Victor went and reclined on the wicker lounge behind his mother’s chair, 

where he commanded a view of Edna’s face. He had taken her parasol from her 

hands while he spoke to her, and he now lifted it and twirled it above him as he 

lay on his back. When Madame Lebrun complained that it was so dull coming 

back to the city; that she saw so few people now; that even Victor, when he came 

up from the island for a day or two, had so much to occupy him and engage his 

time; then it was that the youth went into contortions on the lounge and winked 

mischievously at Edna. She somehow felt like a confederate in crime, and tried 

to look severe and disapproving. 

There had been but two letters from Robert, with little in them, they 

told her. Victor said it was really not worth while to go inside for the 

letters, when his mother entreated him to go in search of them. He remembered 

the contents, which in truth he rattled off very glibly when put 

to the test. 

One letter was written from Vera Cruz and the other from the City of 

65


Mexico. He had met Montel, who was doing everything toward his advancement. 

So far, the financial situation was no improvement over the 

one he had left in New Orleans, but of course the prospects were vastly 

better. He wrote of the City of Mexico, the buildings, the people and their 

habits, the conditions of life which he found there. He sent his love to the 

family. He inclosed a check to his mother, and hoped she would affectionately 

remember him to all his friends. That was about the substance of the 

two letters. Edna felt that if there had been a message for her, she would 

have received it. The despondent frame of mind in which she had left 

home began again to overtake her, and she remembered that she wished to 

find Mademoiselle Reisz. 

Madame Lebrun knew where Mademoiselle Reisz lived. She gave Edna 

the address, regretting that she would not consent to stay and spend the 

remainder of the afternoon, and pay a visit to Mademoiselle Reisz some 

other day. The afternoon was already well advanced. 

Victor escorted her out upon the banquette, lifted her parasol, and held 

it over her while he walked to the car with her. He entreated her to bear in 

mind that the disclosures of the afternoon were strictly confidential. She 

laughed and bantered him a little, remembering too late that she should 

have been dignified and reserved. 

“How handsome Mrs. Pontellier looked!” said Madame Lebrun to her 

son. 

“Ravishing!” he admitted. “The city atmosphere has improved her. Some 

way she doesn’t seem like the same woman.” 

66 

XXI 

SOME PEOPLE CONTENDED that the reason Mademoiselle Reisz always chose 

apartments up under the roof was to discourage the approach of beggars, 

peddlars and callers. There were plenty of windows in her little front room. 

They were for the most part dingy, but as they were nearly always open it 

did not make so much difference. They often admitted into the room a 

good deal of smoke and soot; but at the same time all the light and air that 

there was came through them. From her windows could be seen the crescent 

of the river, the masts of ships and the big chimneys of the Mississippi 

steamers. A magnificent piano crowded the apartment. In the next 

room she slept, and in the third and last she harbored a gasoline stove on


which she cooked her meals when disinclined to descend to the neighboring 

restaurant. It was there also that she ate, keeping her belongings in a 

rare old buffet, dingy and battered from a hundred years of use. 

When Edna knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s front room door and entered, 

she discovered that person standing beside the window, engaged in 

mending or patching an old prunella gaiter. The little musician laughed all 

over when she saw Edna. Her laugh consisted of a contortion of the face and 

all the muscles of the body. She seemed strikingly homely, standing there in 

the afternoon light. She still wore the shabby lace and the artificial bunch of 

violets on the side of her head. 

“So you remembered me at last,” said Mademoiselle. “I had said to 

myself, `Ah, bah! she will never come.’” 

“Did you want me to come?” asked Edna with a smile. 

“I had not thought much about it,” answered Mademoiselle. The two 

had seated themselves on a little bumpy sofa which stood against the wall. 

“I am glad, however, that you came. I have the water boiling back there, 

and was just about to make some coffee. You will drink a cup with me. 

And how is la belle dame? Always handsome! always healthy! always contented!” 

She took Edna’s hand between her strong wiry fingers, holding it 

loosely without warmth, and executing a sort of double theme upon the 

back and palm. 

“Yes,” she went on; “I sometimes thought: `She will never come. She 

promised as those women in society always do, without meaning it. She will 

not come.’ For I really don’t believe you like me, Mrs. Pontellier.” 

“I don’t know whether I like you or not,” replied Edna, gazing down at 

the little woman with a quizzical look. 

The candor of Mrs. Pontellier’s admission greatly pleased Mademoiselle 

Reisz. She expressed her gratification by repairing forthwith to the 

region of the gasoline stove and rewarding her guest with the promised 

cup of coffee. The coffee and the biscuit accompanying it proved very 

acceptable to Edna, who had declined refreshment at Madame Lebrun’s 

and was now beginning to feel hungry. Mademoiselle set the tray which 

she brought in upon a small table near at hand, and seated herself once 

again on the lumpy sofa. 

“I have had a letter from your friend,” she remarked, as she poured a 

little cream into Edna’s cup and handed it to her. 

“My friend?” 

“Yes, your friend Robert. He wrote to me from the City of Mexico.” 

“Wrote to you?” repeated Edna in amazement, stirring her coffee absently. 

67


“Yes, to me. Why not? Don’t stir all the warmth out of your coffee; 

drink it. Though the letter might as well have been sent to you; it was 

nothing but Mrs. Pontellier from beginning to end.” 

“Let me see it,” requested the young woman, entreatingly. 

“No; a letter concerns no one but the person who writes it and the one 

to whom it is written.” 

“Haven’t you just said it concerned me from beginning to end?” 

“It was written about you, not to you. `Have you seen Mrs. Pontellier? 

How is she looking?’ he asks. ‘As Mrs. Pontellier says,’ or ‘as Mrs. Pontellier 

once said.’ ‘If Mrs. Pontellier should call upon you, play for her that Impromptu 

of Chopin’s, my favorite. I heard it here a day or two ago, but 

not as you play it. I should like to know how it affects her,’ and so on, as 

if he supposed we were constantly in each other’s society.” 

“Let me see the letter.” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Have you answered it?” 

“No.” 

“Let me see the letter.” 

“No, and again, no.” 

“Then play the Impromptu for me.” 

“It is growing late; what time do you have to be home?” 

“Time doesn’t concern me. Your question seems a little rude. Play the 

Impromptu.” 

“But you have told me nothing of yourself. What are you doing?” 

“Painting!” laughed Edna. “I am becoming an artist. Think of it!” 

“Ah! an artist! You have pretensions, Madame.” 

“Why pretensions? Do you think I could not become an artist?” 

“I do not know you well enough to say. I do not know your talent or 

your temperament. To be an artist includes much; one must possess many 

gifts—absolute gifts—which have not been acquired by one’s own effort. 

And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul.” 

“What do you mean by the courageous soul?” 

“Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies.” 

“Show me the letter and play for me the Impromptu. You see that I 

have persistence. Does that quality count for anything in art?” 

“It counts with a foolish old woman whom you have captivated,” replied 

Mademoiselle, with her wriggling laugh. 

The letter was right there at hand in the drawer of the little table upon 

which Edna had just placed her coffee cup. Mademoiselle opened the drawer 

and drew forth the letter, the topmost one. She placed it in Edna’s hands, 

68


and without further comment arose and went to the piano. 

Mademoiselle played a soft interlude. It was an improvisation. She sat 

low at the instrument, and the lines of her body settled into ungraceful 

curves and angles that gave it an appearance of deformity. Gradually and 

imperceptibly the interlude melted into the soft opening minor chords of 

the Chopin Impromptu. 

Edna did not know when the Impromptu began or ended. She sat in the 

sofa corner reading Robert’s letter by the fading light. Mademoiselle had 

glided from the Chopin into the quivering lovenotes of Isolde’s song, and 

back again to the Impromptu with its soulful and poignant longing. 

The shadows deepened in the little room. The music grew strange and 

fantastic—turbulent, insistent, plaintive and soft with entreaty. The shadows 

grew deeper. The music filled the room. It floated out upon the night, 

over the housetops, the crescent of the river, losing itself in the silence of 

the upper air. 

Edna was sobbing, just as she had wept one midnight at Grand Isle 

when strange, new voices awoke in her. She arose in some agitation to take 

her departure. “May I come again, Mademoiselle?” she asked at the threshold. 

“Come whenever you feel like it. Be careful; the stairs and landings are 

dark; don’t stumble.” 

Mademoiselle reentered and lit a candle. Robert’s letter was on the floor. 

She stooped and picked it up. It was crumpled and damp with tears. Mademoiselle 

smoothed the letter out, restored it to the envelope, and replaced 

it in the table drawer. 

XXII 

ONE MORNING ON HIS WAY into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house 

of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was 

a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore 

a reputation for wisdom rather than skill—leaving the active practice of 

medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries—and was much 

sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by 

bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a 

physician. The Pontelliers were among these. 

Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his 

69


study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a 

delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman’s 

study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his 

eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to 

disturb him at that hour of the morning. 

“Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do 

you bring this morning?” He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray 

hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness 

but none of their penetration. 

“Oh! I’m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber—of 

that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I 

came to consult—no, not precisely to consult—to talk to you about Edna. 

I don’t know what ails her.” 

“Madame Pontellier not well,” marveled the Doctor. “Why, I saw her— 

I think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street, the picture of 

health, it seemed to me.” 

“Yes, yes; she seems quite well,” said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward 

and whirling his stick between his two hands; “but she doesn’t act well. 

She’s odd, she’s not like herself. I can’t make her out, and I thought perhaps 

you’d help me.” 

“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor. 

“Well, it isn’t easy to explain,” said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself 

back in his chair. “She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.” 

“Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We’ve got to 

consider—” 

“I know that; I told you I couldn’t explain. Her whole attitude—toward 

me and everybody and everything—has changed. You know I have a quick 

temper, but I don’t want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my 

wife; yet I’m driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I’ve made 

a fool of myself. She’s making it devilishly uncomfortable for me,” he 

went on nervously. “She’s got some sort of notion in her head concerning 

the eternal rights of women; and—you understand—we meet in the morning 

at the breakfast table.” 

The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether 

lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips. 

“What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?” 

“Doing! Parbleu!” 

“Has she,” asked the Doctor, with a smile, “has she been associating of 

late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women—super-spiritual superior 

beings? My wife has been telling me about them.” 

70


“That’s the trouble,” broke in Mr. Pontellier, “she hasn’t been associating 

with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown 

over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in 

the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she’s peculiar. I don’t like it; 

I feel a little worried over it.” 

This was a new aspect for the Doctor. “Nothing hereditary?” he asked, 

seriously. “Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?” 

“Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. 

The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday 

sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses 

literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever 

laid eyes upon. Margaret—you know Margaret—she has all the 

Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By 

the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now.” 

“Send your wife up to the wedding,” exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing 

a happy solution. “Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will 

do her good.” 

“That’s what I want her to do. She won’t go to the marriage. She says a 

wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for 

a woman to say to her husband!” exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew 

at the recollection. 

“Pontellier,” said the Doctor, after a moment’s reflection, “let your wife 

alone for a while. Don’t bother her, and don’t let her bother you. Woman, 

my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism—a sensitive and 

highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially 

peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with 

them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with 

their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and 

whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or 

causes which you and I needn’t try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, 

especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me.” 

“Oh! I couldn’t do that; there’d be no reason for it,” objected Mr. 

Pontellier. 

“Then I’ll go around and see her,” said the Doctor. “I’ll drop in to 

dinner some evening en bon ami. 

“Do! by all means,” urged Mr. Pontellier. “What evening will you come? 

Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?” he asked, rising to take his leave. 

“Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for 

me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may 

expect me.” 

71


Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say: 

“I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on 

hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the 

ribbons. We’ll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,” he laughed. 

“No, I thank you, my dear sir,” returned the Doctor. “I leave such ventures 

to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood.” 

“What I wanted to say,” continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the 

knob; “I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to 

take Edna along?” 

“By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don’t contradict 

her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three 

months—possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.” 

“Well, good-by, a jeudi, “ said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out. 

The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, 

“Is there any man in the case?” but he knew his Creole too well to make 

such a blunder as that. 

He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively 

looking out into the garden. 

72 

XXIII 

EDNA’S FATHER WAS in the city, and had been with them several days. She 

was not very warmly or deeply attached to him, but they had certain tastes 

in common, and when together they were companionable. His coming 

was in the nature of a welcome disturbance; it seemed to furnish a new 

direction for her emotions. 

He had come to purchase a wedding gift for his daughter, Janet, and an 

outfit for himself in which he might make a creditable appearance at her 

marriage. Mr. Pontellier had selected the bridal gift, as every one immediately 

connected with him always deferred to his taste in such matters. And 

his suggestions on the question of dress—which too often assumes the 

nature of a problemwere of inestimable value to his father-in-law. But for 

the past few days the old gentleman had been upon Edna’s hands, and in 

his society she was becoming acquainted with a new set of sensations. He 

had been a colonel in the Confederate army, and still maintained, with 

the title, the military bearing which had always accompanied it. His hair 

and mustache were white and silky, emphasizing the rugged bronze of his


face. He was tall and thin, and wore his coats padded, which gave a fictitious 

breadth and depth to his shoulders and chest. Edna and her father 

looked very distinguished together, and excited a good deal of notice during 

their perambulations. Upon his arrival she began by introducing him 

to her atelier and making a sketch of him. He took the whole matter very 

seriously. If her talent had been ten-fold greater than it was, it would not 

have surprised him, convinced as he was that he had bequeathed to all of 

his daughters the germs of a masterful capability, which only depended 

upon their own efforts to be directed toward successful achievement. 

Before her pencil he sat rigid and unflinching, as he had faced the 

cannon’s mouth in days gone by. He resented the intrusion of the children, 

who gaped with wondering eyes at him, sitting so stiff up there in 

their mother’s bright atelier. When they drew near he motioned them 

away with an expressive action of the foot, loath to disturb the fixed lines 

of his countenance, his arms, or his rigid shoulders. 

Edna, anxious to entertain him, invited Mademoiselle Reisz to meet 

him, having promised him a treat in her piano playing; but Mademoiselle 

declined the invitation. So together they attended a soiree musicale at the 

Ratignolles’. Monsieur and Madame Ratignolle made much of the Colonel, 

installing him as the guest of honor and engaging him at once to dine 

with them the following Sunday, or any day which he might select. Madame 

coquetted with him in the most captivating and naive manner, with 

eyes, gestures, and a profusion of compliments, till the Colonel’s old head 

felt thirty years younger on his padded shoulders. Edna marveled, not 

comprehending. She herself was almost devoid of coquetry. 

There were one or two men whom she observed at the soiree musicale; 

but she would never have felt moved to any kittenish display to attract 

their notice—to any feline or feminine wiles to express herself toward 

them. Their personality attracted her in an agreeable way. Her fancy selected 

them, and she was glad when a lull in the music gave them an 

opportunity to meet her and talk with her. Often on the street the glance 

of strange eyes had lingered in her memory, and sometimes had disturbed 

her. 

Mr. Pontellier did not attend these soirees musicales. He considered 

them bourgeois, and found more diversion at the club. To Madame 

Ratignolle he said the music dispensed at her soirees was too “heavy,” too 

far beyond his untrained comprehension. His excuse flattered her. But she 

disapproved of Mr. Pontellier’s club, and she was frank enough to tell 

Edna so. 

“It’s a pity Mr. Pontellier doesn’t stay home more in the evenings. I 

73


think you would be more—well, if you don’t mind my saying it—more 

united, if he did.” 

“Oh! dear no!” said Edna, with a blank look in her eyes. “What should 

I do if he stayed home? We wouldn’t have anything to say to each other.” 

She had not much of anything to say to her father, for that matter; but 

he did not antagonize her. She discovered that he interested her, though 

she realized that he might not interest her long; and for the first time in 

her life she felt as if she were thoroughly acquainted with him. He kept 

her busy serving him and ministering to his wants. It amused her to do so. 

She would not permit a servant or one of the children to do anything for 

him which she might do herself. Her husband noticed, and thought it was 

the expression of a deep filial attachment which he had never suspected. 

The Colonel drank numerous “toddies” during the course of the day, 

which left him, however, imperturbed. He was an expert at concocting 

strong drinks. He had even invented some, to which he had given fantastic 

names, and for whose manufacture he required diverse ingredients that 

it devolved upon Edna to procure for him. 

When Doctor Mandelet dined with the Pontelliers on Thursday he 

could discern in Mrs. Pontellier no trace of that morbid condition which 

her husband had reported to him. She was excited and in a manner radiant. 

She and her father had been to the race course, and their thoughts 

when they seated themselves at table were still occupied with the events of 

the afternoon, and their talk was still of the track. The Doctor had not 

kept pace with turf affairs. He had certain recollections of racing in what 

he called “the good old times” when the Lecompte stables flourished, and 

he drew upon this fund of memories so that he might not be left out and 

seem wholly devoid of the modern spirit. But he failed to impose upon 

the Colonel, and was even far from impressing him with this trumped-up 

knowledge of bygone days. Edna had staked her father on his last venture, 

with the most gratifying results to both of them. Besides, they had met 

some very charming people, according to the Colonel’s impressions. Mrs. 

Mortimer Merriman and Mrs. James Highcamp, who were there with 

Alcee Arobin, had joined them and had enlivened the hours in a fashion 

that warmed him to think of. 

Mr. Pontellier himself had no particular leaning toward horseracing, 

and was even rather inclined to discourage it as a pastime, especially when 

he considered the fate of that blue-grass farm in Kentucky. He endeavored, 

in a general way, to express a particular disapproval, and only succeeded 

in arousing the ire and opposition of his father-in-law. A pretty 

dispute followed, in which Edna warmly espoused her father’s cause and 

74


the Doctor remained neutral. 

He observed his hostess attentively from under his shaggy brows, and 

noted a subtle change which had transformed her from the listless woman 

he had known into a being who, for the moment, seemed palpitant with 

the forces of life. Her speech was warm and energetic. There was no repression 

in her glance or gesture. She reminded him of some beautiful, 

sleek animal waking up in the sun. 

The dinner was excellent. The claret was warm and the champagne was 

cold, and under their beneficent influence the threatened unpleasantness 

melted and vanished with the fumes of the wine. 

Mr. Pontellier warmed up and grew reminiscent. He told some amusing 

plantation experiences, recollections of old Iberville and his youth, 

when he hunted ‘possum in company with some friendly darky; thrashed 

the pecan trees, shot the grosbec, and roamed the woods and fields in 

mischievous idleness. 

The Colonel, with little sense of humor and of the fitness of things, 

related a somber episode of those dark and bitter days, in which he had 

acted a conspicuous part and always formed a central figure. Nor was the 

Doctor happier in his selection, when he told the old, ever new and curious 

story of the waning of a woman’s love, seeking strange, new channels, 

only to return to its legitimate source after days of fierce unrest. It was one 

of the many little human documents which had been unfolded to him 

during his long career as a physician. The story did not seem especially to 

impress Edna. She had one of her own to tell, of a woman who paddled 

away with her lover one night in a pirogue and never came back. They 

were lost amid the Baratarian Islands, and no one ever heard of them or 

found trace of them from that day to this. It was a pure invention. She 

said that Madame Antoine had related it to her. That, also, was an invention. 

Perhaps it was a dream she had had. But every glowing word seemed 

real to those who listened. They could feel the hot breath of the Southern 

night; they could hear the long sweep of the pirogue through the glistening 

moonlit water, the beating of birds’ wings, rising startled from among 

the reeds in the salt-water pools; they could see the faces of the lovers, 

pale, close together, rapt in oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown. 

The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks 

with Edna’s memory that night. 

Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the 

night was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak 

across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his 

75


fellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so seldom 

unfolds itself to unanointed* eyes. He was sorry he had accepted 

Pontellier’s invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest 

and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives thrust 

upon him. 

“I hope it isn’t Arobin,” he muttered to himself as he walked. “I hope to 

heaven it isn’t Alcee Arobin.” 

76 

XXIV 

EDNA AND HER FATHER had a warm, and almost violent dispute upon the 

subject of her refusal to attend her sister’s wedding. Mr. Pontellier declined 

to interfere, to interpose either his influence or his authority. He 

was following Doctor Mandelet’s advice, and letting her do as she liked. 

The Colonel reproached his daughter for her lack of filial kindness and 

respect, her want of sisterly affection and womanly consideration. His 

arguments were labored and unconvincing. He doubted if Janet would 

accept any excuse—forgetting that Edna had offered none. He doubted if 

Janet would ever speak to her again, and he was sure Margaret would not. 

Edna was glad to be rid of her father when he finally took himself off 

with his wedding garments and his bridal gifts, with his padded shoulders, 

his Bible reading, his “toddies” and ponderous oaths. 

Mr. Pontellier followed him closely. He meant to stop at the wedding 

on his way to New York and endeavor by every means which money and 

love could devise to atone somewhat for Edna’s incomprehensible action. 

“You are too lenient, too lenient by far, Leonce,” asserted the Colonel. 

“Authority, coercion are what is needed. Put your foot down good and 

hard; the only way to manage a wife. Take my word for it.” 

The Colonel was perhaps unaware that he had coerced his own wife 

into her grave. Mr. Pontellier had a vague suspicion of it which he thought 

it needless to mention at that late day. 

Edna was not so consciously gratified at her husband’s leaving home as 

she had been over the departure of her father. As the day approached 

when he was to leave her for a comparatively long stay, she grew melting 

and affectionate, remembering his many acts of consideration and his 

repeated expressions of an ardent attachment. She was solicitous about his 

health and his welfare. She bustled around, looking after his clothing, 

thinking about heavy underwear, quite as Madame Ratignolle would have


done under similar circumstances. She cried when he went away, calling 

him her dear, good friend, and she was quite certain she would grow lonely 

before very long and go to join him in New York. 

But after all, a radiant peace settled upon her when she at last found 

herself alone. Even the children were gone. Old Madame Pontellier had 

come herself and carried them off to Iberville with their quadroon. The 

old madame did not venture to say she was afraid they would be neglected 

during Leonce’s absence; she hardly ventured to think so. She was hungry 

for them—even a little fierce in her attachment. She did not want them to 

be wholly “children of the pavement,” she always said when begging to 

have them for a space. She wished them to know the country, with its 

streams, its fields, its woods, its freedom, so delicious to the young. She 

wished them to taste something of the life their father had lived and known 

and loved when he, too, was a little child. 

When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief. 

A feeling that was unfamiliar but very delicious came over her. She walked 

all through the house, from one room to another, as if inspecting it for the 

first time. She tried the various chairs and lounges, as if she had never sat 

and reclined upon them before. And she perambulated around the outside 

of the house, investigating, looking to see if windows and shutters 

were secure and in order. The flowers were like new acquaintances; she 

approached them in a familiar spirit, and made herself at home among 

them. The garden walks were damp, and Edna called to the maid to bring 

out her rubber sandals. And there she stayed, and stooped, digging around 

the plants, trimming, picking dead, dry leaves. The children’s little dog 

came out, interfering, getting in her way. She scolded him, laughed at 

him, played with him. The garden smelled so good and looked so pretty 

in the afternoon sunlight. Edna plucked all the bright flowers she could 

find, and went into the house with them, she and the little dog. 

Even the kitchen assumed a sudden interesting character which she had 

never before perceived. She went in to give directions to the cook, to say 

that the butcher would have to bring much less meat, that they would 

require only half their usual quantity of bread, of milk and groceries. She 

told the cook that she herself would be greatly occupied during Mr. 

Pontellier’s absence, and she begged her to take all thought and responsibility 

of the larder upon her own shoulders. 

That night Edna dined alone. The candelabra, with a few candies in the 

center of the table, gave all the light she needed. Outside the circle of light 

in which she sat, the large dining-room looked solemn and shadowy. The 

cook, placed upon her mettle, served a delicious repast—a luscious ten- 

77


derloin broiled a point. The wine tasted good; the marron glace seemed to 

be just what she wanted. It was so pleasant, too, to dine in a comfortable 

peignoir. 

She thought a little sentimentally about Leonce and the children, and 

wondered what they were doing. As she gave a dainty scrap or two to the 

doggie, she talked intimately to him about Etienne and Raoul. He was 

beside himself with astonishment and delight over these companionable 

advances, and showed his appreciation by his little quick, snappy barks 

and a lively agitation. 

Then Edna sat in the library after dinner and read Emerson until she 

grew sleepy. She realized that she had neglected her reading, and determined 

to start anew upon a course of improving studies, now that her 

time was completely her own to do with as she liked. 

After a refreshing bath, Edna went to bed. And as she snuggled comfortably 

beneath the eiderdown a sense of restfulness invaded her, such as 

she had not known before. 

78 

XXV 

WHEN THE WEATHER was dark and cloudy Edna could not work. She needed 

the sun to mellow and temper her mood to the sticking point. She had 

reached a stage when she seemed to be no longer feeling her way, working, 

when in the humor, with sureness and ease. And being devoid of ambition, 

and striving not toward accomplishment, she drew satisfaction from 

the work in itself. 

On rainy or melancholy days Edna went out and sought the society of 

the friends she had made at Grand Isle. Or else she stayed indoors and 

nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own 

comfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as if 

life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled. Yet there 

were other days when she listened, was led on and deceived by fresh promises 

which her youth held out to her. 

She went again to the races, and again. Alcee Arobin and Mrs. Highcamp 

called for her one bright afternoon in Arobin’s drag. Mrs. Highcamp was 

a worldly but unaffected, intelligent, slim, tall blonde woman in the forties, 

with an indifferent manner and blue eyes that stared. She had a daughter 

who served her as a pretext for cultivating the society of young men of 

fashion. Alcee Arobin was one of them. He was a familiar figure at the


race course, the opera, the fashionable clubs. There was a perpetual smile 

in his eyes, which seldom failed to awaken a corresponding cheerfulness 

in any one who looked into them and listened to his good-humored voice. 

His manner was quiet, and at times a little insolent. He possessed a good 

figure, a pleasing face, not overburdened with depth of thought or feeling; 

and his dress was that of the conventional man of fashion. 

He admired Edna extravagantly, after meeting her at the races with her 

father. He had met her before on other occasions, but she had seemed to 

him unapproachable until that day. It was at his instigation that Mrs. 

Highcamp called to ask her to go with them to the Jockey Club to witness 

the turf event of the season. 

There were possibly a few track men out there who knew the race horse 

as well as Edna, but there was certainly none who knew it better. She sat 

between her two companions as one having authority to speak. She laughed 

at Arobin’s pretensions, and deplored Mrs. Highcamp’s ignorance. The 

race horse was a friend and intimate associate of her childhood. The atmosphere 

of the stables and the breath of the blue grass paddock revived 

in her memory and lingered in her nostrils. She did not perceive that she 

was talking like her father as the sleek geldings ambled in review before 

them. She played for very high stakes, and fortune favored her. The fever 

of the game flamed in her cheeks and eves, and it got into her blood and 

into her brain like an intoxicant. People turned their heads to look at her, 

and more than one lent an attentive car to her utterances, hoping thereby 

to secure the elusive but ever-desired “tip.” Arobin caught the contagion 

of excitement which drew him to Edna like a magnet. Mrs. Highcamp 

remained, as usual, unmoved, with her indifferent stare and uplifted eyebrows. 

Edna stayed and dined with Mrs. Highcamp upon being urged to do 

so. Arobin also remained and sent away his drag. 

The dinner was quiet and uninteresting, save for the cheerful efforts of 

Arobin to enliven things. Mrs. Highcamp deplored the absence of her 

daughter from the races, and tried to convey to her what she had missed 

by going to the “Dante reading” instead of joining them. The girl held a 

geranium leaf up to her nose and said nothing, but looked knowing and 

noncommittal. Mr. Highcamp was a plain, bald-headed man, who only 

talked under compulsion. He was unresponsive. Mrs. Highcamp was full 

of delicate courtesy and consideration toward her husband. She addressed 

most of her conversation to him at table. They sat in the library after 

dinner and read the evening papers together under the droplight; while 

the younger people went into the drawing-room near by and talked. Miss 

79


Highcamp played some selections from Grieg upon the piano. She seemed 

to have apprehended all of the composer’s coldness and none of his poetry. 

While Edna listened she could not help wondering if she had lost her 

taste for music. 

When the time came for her to go home, Mr. Highcamp grunted a 

lame offer to escort her, looking down at his slippered feet with tactless 

concern. It was Arobin who took her home. The car ride was long, and it 

was late when they reached Esplanade Street. Arobin asked permission to 

enter for a second to light his cigarette—his match safe was empty. He 

filled his match safe, but did not light his cigarette until he left her, after 

she had expressed her willingness to go to the races with him again. 

Edna was neither tired nor sleepy. She was hungry again, for the 

Highcamp dinner, though of excellent quality, had lacked abundance. She 

rummaged in the larder and brought forth a slice of Gruyere and some 

crackers. She opened a bottle of beer which she found in the icebox. Edna 

felt extremely restless and excited. She vacantly hummed a fantastic tune 

as she poked at the wood embers on the hearth and munched a cracker. 

She wanted something to happen—something, anything; she did not 

know what. She regretted that she had not made Arobin stay a half hour 

to talk over the horses with her. She counted the money she had won. But 

there was nothing else to do, so she went to bed, and tossed there for 

hours in a sort of monotonous agitation. 

In the middle of the night she remembered that she had forgotten to 

write her regular letter to her husband; and she decided to do so next day 

and tell him about her afternoon at the Jockey Club. She lay wide awake 

composing a letter which was nothing like the one which she wrote next 

day. When the maid awoke her in the morning Edna was dreaming of Mr. 

Highcamp playing the piano at the entrance of a music store on Canal 

Street, while his wife was saying to Alcee Arobin, as they boarded an Esplanade 

Street car: 

“What a pity that so much talent has been neglected! but I must go.” 

When, a few days later, Alcee Arobin again called for Edna in his drag, 

Mrs. Highcamp was not with him. He said they would pick her up. But as 

that lady had not been apprised of his intention of picking her up, she was 

not at home. The daughter was just leaving the house to attend the meeting 

of a branch Folk Lore Society, and regretted that she could not accompany 

them. Arobin appeared nonplused, and asked Edna if there were any 

one else she cared to ask. 

She did not deem it worth while to go in search of any of the fashionable 

acquaintances from whom she had withdrawn herself. She thought 

80


of Madame Ratignolle, but knew that her fair friend did not leave the 

house, except to take a languid walk around the block with her husband 

after nightfall. Mademoiselle Reisz would have laughed at such a request 

from Edna. Madame Lebrun might have enjoyed the outing, but for some 

reason Edna did not want her. So they went alone, she and Arobin. 

The afternoon was intensely interesting to her. The excitement came 

back upon her like a remittent fever. Her talk grew familiar and confidential. 

It was no labor to become intimate with Arobin. His manner invited 

easy confidence. The preliminary stage of becoming acquainted was one 

which he always endeavored to ignore when a pretty and engaging woman 

was concerned. 

He stayed and dined with Edna. He stayed and sat beside the wood fire. 

They laughed and talked; and before it was time to go he was telling her 

how different life might have been if he had known her years before. With 

ingenuous frankness he spoke of what a wicked, ill-disciplined boy he had 

been, and impulsively drew up his cuff to exhibit upon his wrist the scar 

from a saber cut which he had received in a duel outside of Paris when he 

was nineteen. She touched his hand as she scanned the red cicatrice on the 

inside of his white wrist. A quick impulse that was somewhat spasmodic 

impelled her fingers to close in a sort of clutch upon his hand. He felt the 

pressure of her pointed nails in the flesh of his palm. 

She arose hastily and walked toward the mantel. 

“The sight of a wound or scar always agitates and sickens me,” she said. 

“I shouldn’t have looked at it.” 

“I beg your pardon,” he entreated, following her; “it never occurred to 

me that it might be repulsive.” 

He stood close to her, and the effrontery in his eyes repelled the old, 

vanishing self in her, yet drew all her awakening sensuousness. He saw 

enough in her face to impel him to take her hand and hold it while he said 

his lingering good night. 

“Will you go to the races again?” he asked. 

“No,” she said. “I’ve had enough of the races. I don’t want to lose all the money 

I’ve won, and I’ve got to work when the weather is bright, instead of—” 

“Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What 

morning may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?” 

“No!” 

“Day after?” 

“No, no.” 

“Oh, please don’t refuse me! I know something of such things. I might 

help you with a stray suggestion or two.” 

81


“No. Good night. Why don’t you go after you have said good night? I 

don’t like you,” she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting to draw 

away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and sincerity, and 

she knew that he felt it. 

“I’m sorry you don’t like me. I’m sorry I offended you. How have I 

offended you? What have I done? Can’t you forgive me?” And he bent and 

pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw 

them. 

“Mr. Arobin,” she complained, “I’m greatly upset by the excitement of 

the afternoon; I’m not myself. My manner must have misled you in some 

way. I wish you to go, please.” She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone. He 

took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her, looking 

into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive silence. 

“Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier,” he said finally. “My 

own emotions have done that. I couldn’t help it. When I’m near you, how 

could I help it? Don’t think anything of it, don’t bother, please. You see, I 

go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do so. If 

you let me come back, I—oh! you will let me come back?” 

He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response. 

Alcee Arobin’s manner was so genuine that it often deceived even himself. 

Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she 

was alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had 

kissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She 

felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into 

an act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without being 

wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely 

through her mind, “What would he think?” 

She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. 

Her husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married 

without love as an excuse. 

She lit a candle and went up to her room. Alcee Arobin was absolutely 

nothing to her. Yet his presence, his manners, the warmth of his glances, 

and above all the touch of his lips upon her hand had acted like a narcotic 

upon her. 

She slept a languorous sleep, interwoven with vanishing dreams. 

82

XXVI 


ALCEE AROBIN WROTE Edna an elaborate note of apology, palpitant with sincerity. 

It embarrassed her; for in a cooler, quieter moment it appeared to her, 

absurd that she should have taken his action so seriously, so dramatically. She 

felt sure that the significance of the whole occurrence had lain in her own selfconsciousness. 

If she ignored his note it would give undue importance to a 

trivial affair. If she replied to it in a serious spirit it would still leave in his mind 

the impression that she had in a susceptible moment yielded to his influence. 

After all, it was no great matter to have one’s hand kissed. She was provoked at 

his having written the apology. She answered in as light and bantering a spirit 

as she fancied it deserved, and said she would be glad to have him look in 

upon her at work whenever he felt the inclination and his business gave him 

the opportunity. 

He responded at once by presenting himself at her home with all his 

disarming naivete. And then there was scarcely a day which followed that 

she did not see him or was not reminded of him. He was prolific in pretexts. 

His attitude became one of good-humored subservience and tacit 

adoration. He was ready at all times to submit to her moods, which were 

as often kind as they were cold. She grew accustomed to him. They became 

intimate and friendly by imperceptible degrees, and then by leaps. 

He sometimes talked in a way that astonished her at first and brought the 

crimson into her face; in a way that pleased her at last, appealing to the 

animalism that stirred impatiently within her. 

There was nothing which so quieted the turmoil of Edna’s senses as a 

visit to Mademoiselle Reisz. It was then, in the presence of that personality 

which was offensive to her, that the woman, by her divine art, seemed 

to reach Edna’s spirit and set it free. 

It was misty, with heavy, lowering atmosphere, one afternoon, when 

Edna climbed the stairs to the pianist’s apartments under the roof. Her 

clothes were dripping with moisture. She felt chilled and pinched as she 

entered the room. Mademoiselle was poking at a rusty stove that smoked 

a little and warmed the room indifferently. She was endeavoring to heat a 

pot of chocolate on the stove. The room looked cheerless and dingy to 

Edna as she entered. A bust of Beethoven, covered with a hood of dust, 

scowled at her from the mantelpiece. 

83


“Ah! here comes the sunlight!” exclaimed Mademoiselle, rising from 

her knees before the stove. “Now it will be warm and bright enough; I can 

let the fire alone.” 

She closed the stove door with a bang, and approaching, assisted in 

removing Edna’s dripping mackintosh. 

“You are cold; you look miserable. The chocolate will soon be hot. But 

would you rather have a taste of brandy? I have scarcely touched the bottle 

which you brought me for my cold.” A piece of red flannel was wrapped 

around Mademoiselle’s throat; a stiff neck compelled her to hold her head 

on one side. 

“I will take some brandy,” said Edna, shivering as she removed her gloves 

and overshoes. She drank the liquor from the glass as a man would have done. 

Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, “Mademoiselle, 

I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. 

Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring 

to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening 

in her hair. Edna drew her down upon the sofa, and taking a pin from 

her own hair, secured the shabby artificial flowers in their accustomed 

place. 

“Aren’t you astonished?” 

“Passably. Where are you going? to New York? to Iberville? to your 

father in Mississippi? where?” 

“Just two steps away,” laughed Edna, “in a little four-room house around 

the corner. It looks so cozy, so inviting and restful, whenever I pass by; and 

it’s for rent. I’m tired looking after that big house. It never seemed like 

mine, anyway—like home. It’s too much trouble. I have to keep too many 

servants. I am tired bothering with them.” 

“That is not your true reason, ma belle. There is no use in telling me 

lies. I don’t know your reason, but you have not told me the truth.” Edna 

did not protest or endeavor to justify herself. 

“The house, the money that provides for it, are not mine. Isn’t that 

enough reason?” 

“They are your husband’s,” returned Mademoiselle, with a shrug and a 

malicious elevation of the eyebrows. 

“Oh! I see there is no deceiving you. Then let me tell you: It is a caprice. I 

have a little money of my own from my mother’s estate, which my father 

sends me by driblets. I won a large sum this winter on the races, and I am 

beginning to sell my sketches. Laidpore is more and more pleased with my 

work; he says it grows in force and individuality. I cannot judge of that myself, 

84


but I feel that I have gained in ease and confidence. However, as I said, I have 

sold a good many through Laidpore. I can live in the tiny house for little or 

nothing, with one servant. Old Celestine, who works occasionally for me, says 

she will come stay with me and do my work. I know I shall like it, like the 

feeling of freedom and independence.” 

“What does your husband say?” 

“I have not told him yet. I only thought of it this morning. He will 

think I am demented, no doubt. Perhaps you think so.” 

Mademoiselle shook her head slowly. “Your reason is not yet clear to 

me,” she said. 

Neither was it quite clear to Edna herself; but it unfolded itself as she 

sat for a while in silence. Instinct had prompted her to put away her 

husband’s bounty in casting off her allegiance. She did not know how it 

would be when he returned. There would have to be an understanding, an 

explanation. Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but 

whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than 

herself. 

“I shall give a grand dinner before I leave the old house!” Edna exclaimed. 

“You will have to come to it, Mademoiselle. I will give you everything that you 

like to eat and to drink. We shall sing and laugh and be merry for once.” And she 

uttered a sigh that came from the very depths of her being. 

If Mademoiselle happened to have received a letter from Robert during 

the interval of Edna’s visits, she would give her the letter unsolicited. And 

she would seat herself at the piano and play as her humor prompted her 

while the young woman read the letter. 

The little stove was roaring; it was red-hot, and the chocolate in the tin 

sizzled and sputtered. Edna went forward and opened the stove door, and 

Mademoiselle rising, took a letter from under the bust of Beethoven and 

handed it to Edna. 

“Another! so soon!” she exclaimed, her eyes filled with delight. “Tell 

me, Mademoiselle, does he know that I see his letters?” 

“Never in the world! He would be angry and would never write to me 

again if he thought so. Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send 

you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is 

trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to 

him.” 

“Why do you show me his letters, then?” 

“Haven’t you begged for them? Can I refuse you anything? Oh! you 

cannot deceive me,” and Mademoiselle approached her beloved instrument 

and began to play. Edna did not at once read the letter. She sat 

85


holding it in her hand, while the music penetrated her whole being like an 

effulgence, warming and brightening the dark places of her soul. It prepared 

her for joy and exultation. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, letting the letter fall to the floor. “Why did you 

not tell me?” She went and grasped Mademoiselle’s hands up from the 

keys. “Oh! unkind! malicious! Why did you not tell me?” 

“That he was coming back? No great news, ma foi. I wonder he did not 

come long ago.” 

“But when, when?” cried Edna, impatiently. “He does not say when.” 

“He says `very soon.’ You know as much about it as I do; it is all in the 

letter.” 

“But why? Why is he coming? Oh, if I thought—” and she snatched 

the letter from the floor and turned the pages this way and that way, 

looking for the reason, which was left untold. 

“If I were young and in love with a man,” said Mademoiselle, turning 

on the stool and pressing her wiry hands between her knees as she looked 

down at Edna, who sat on the floor holding the letter, “it seems to me he 

would have to be some grand esprit; a man with lofty aims and ability to 

reach them; one who stood high enough to attract the notice of his fellowmen. 

It seems to me if I were young and in love I should never deem a 

man of ordinary caliber worthy of my devotion.” 

“Now it is you who are telling lies and seeking to deceive me, Mademoiselle; 

or else you have never been in love, and know nothing about it. 

Why,” went on Edna, clasping her knees and looking up into 

Mademoiselle’s twisted face, “do you suppose a woman knows why she 

loves? Does she select? Does she say to herself: ‘Go to! Here is a distinguished 

statesman with presidential possibilities; I shall proceed to fall in 

love with him.’ Or, ‘I shall set my heart upon this musician, whose fame is 

on every tongue?’ Or, ‘This financier, who controls the world’s money 

markets?’ 

“You are purposely misunderstanding me, ma reine. Are you in love 

with Robert?” 

“Yes,” said Edna. It was the first time she had admitted it, and a glow 

overspread her face, blotching it with red spots. 

“Why?” asked her companion. “Why do you love him when you ought 

not to?” 

Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle 

Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands. 

“Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; 

because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; 

86


because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can’t 

straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because—” 

“Because you do, in short,” laughed Mademoiselle. “What will you do 

when he comes back?” she asked. 

“Do? Nothing, except feel glad and happy to be alive.” 

She was already glad and happy to be alive at the mere thought of his 

return. The murky, lowering sky, which had depressed her a few hours 

before, seemed bracing and invigorating as she splashed through the streets 

on her way home. 

She stopped at a confectioner’s and ordered a huge box of bonbons for 

the children in Iberville. She slipped a card in the box, on which she 

scribbled a tender message and sent an abundance of kisses. 

Before dinner in the evening Edna wrote a charming letter to her husband, 

telling him of her intention to move for a while into the little house 

around the block, and to give a farewell dinner before leaving, regretting 

that he was not there to share it, to help out with the menu and assist her 

in entertaining the guests. Her letter was brilliant and brimming with 

cheerfulness. 

XXVII 

“WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?” asked Arobin that evening. “I never 

found you in such a happy mood.” Edna was tired by that time, and was 

reclining on the lounge before the fire. 

“Don’t you know the weather prophet has told us we shall see the sun 

pretty soon?” 

“Well, that ought to be reason enough,” he acquiesced. “You wouldn’t 

give me another if I sat here all night imploring you.” He sat close to her 

on a low tabouret, and as he spoke his fingers lightly touched the hair that 

fell a little over her forehead. She liked the touch of his fingers through her 

hair, and closed her eyes sensitively. 

“One of these days,” she said, “I’m going to pull myself together for a 

while and think—try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, 

candidly, I don’t know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am 

a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can’t convince 

myself that I am. I must think about it.” 

87


“Don’t. What’s the use? Why should you bother thinking about it when 

I can tell you what manner of woman you are.” His fingers strayed occasionally 

down to her warm, smooth cheeks and firm chin, which was 

growing a little full and double. 

“Oh, yes! You will tell me that I am adorable; everything that is captivating. 

Spare yourself the effort.” 

“No; I shan’t tell you anything of the sort, though I shouldn’t be lying if 

I did.” 

“Do you know Mademoiselle Reisz?” she asked irrelevantly. 

“The pianist? I know her by sight. I’ve heard her play.” 

“She says queer things sometimes in a bantering way that you don’t 

notice at the time and you find yourself thinking about afterward.” 

“For instance?” 

“Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me 

and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said. ‘The 

bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must 

have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, 

fluttering back to earth.’ “Whither would you soar?” 

“I’m not thinking of any extraordinary flights. I only half comprehend 

her.” 

“I’ve heard she’s partially demented,” said Arobin. 

“She seems to me wonderfully sane,” Edna replied. 

“I’m told she’s extremely disagreeable and unpleasant. Why have you 

introduced her at a moment when I desired to talk of you?” 

“Oh! talk of me if you like,” cried Edna, clasping her hands beneath her 

head; “but let me think of something else while you do.” 

“I’m jealous of your thoughts tonight. They’re making you a little kinder 

than usual; but some way I feel as if they were wandering, as if they were 

not here with me.” She only looked at him and smiled. His eyes were very 

near. He leaned upon the lounge with an arm extended across her, while 

the other hand still rested upon her hair. They continued silently to look 

into each other’s eyes. When he leaned forward and kissed her, she clasped 

his head, holding his lips to hers. 

It was the first kiss of her life to which her nature had really responded. 

It was a flaming torch that kindled desire. 

88

XXVIII 


EDNA CRIED A LITTLE that night after Arobin left her. It was only one phase 

of the multitudinous emotions which had assailed her. There was with her 

an overwhelming feeling of irresponsibility. There was the shock of the 

unexpected and the unaccustomed. There was her husband’s reproach looking 

at her from the external things around her which he had provided for 

her external existence. There was Robert’s reproach making itself felt by a 

quicker, fiercer, more overpowering love, which had awakened within her 

toward him. Above all, there was understanding. She felt as if a mist had 

been lifted from her eyes, enabling her to took upon and comprehend the 

significance of life, that monster made up of beauty and brutality. But 

among the conflicting sensations which assailed her, there was neither 

shame nor remorse. There was a dull pang of regret because it was not the 

kiss of love which had inflamed her, because it was not love which had 

held this cup of life to her lips. 

XXIX 

WITHOUT EVEN WAITING for an answer from her husband regarding his 

opinion or wishes in the matter, Edna hastened her preparations for quitting 

her home on Esplanade Street and moving into the little house around 

the block. A feverish anxiety attended her every action in that direction. 

There was no moment of deliberation, no interval of repose between the 

thought and its fulfillment. Early upon the morning following those hours 

passed in Arobin’s society, Edna set about securing her new abode and 

hurrying her arrangements for occupying it. Within the precincts of her 

home she felt like one who has entered and lingered within the portals of 

some forbidden temple in which a thousand muffled voices bade her begone. 

Whatever was her own in the house, everything which she had acquired 

aside from her husband’s bounty, she caused to be transported to the other 

house, supplying simple and meager deficiencies from her own resources. 

89


Arobin found her with rolled sleeves, working in company with the 

house-maid when he looked in during the afternoon. She was splendid 

and robust, and had never appeared handsomer than in the old blue gown, 

with a red silk handkerchief knotted at random around her head to protect 

her hair from the dust. She was mounted upon a high stepladder, 

unhooking a picture from the wall when he entered. He had found the 

front door open, and had followed his ring by walking in unceremoniously. 

“Come down!” he said. “Do you want to kill yourself?” She greeted him 

with affected carelessness, and appeared absorbed in her occupation. 

If he had expected to find her languishing, reproachful, or indulging in 

sentimental tears, he must have been greatly surprised. 

He was no doubt prepared for any emergency, ready for any one of the 

foregoing attitudes, just as he bent himself easily and naturally to the situation 

which confronted him. 

“Please come down,” he insisted, holding the ladder and looking up at 

her. 

“No,” she answered; “Ellen is afraid to mount the ladder. Joe is working 

over at the ‘pigeon house’—that’s the name Ellen gives it, because it’s so small 

and looks like a pigeon house—and some one has to do this.” 

Arobin pulled off his coat, and expressed himself ready and willing to 

tempt fate in her place. Ellen brought him one of her dust-caps, and went 

into contortions of mirth, which she found it impossible to control, when 

she saw him put it on before the mirror as grotesquely as he could. Edna 

herself could not refrain from smiling when she fastened it at his request. So 

it was he who in turn mounted the ladder, unhooking pictures and curtains, 

and dislodging ornaments as Edna directed. When he had finished he took 

off his dust-cap and went out to wash his hands. 

Edna was sitting on the tabouret, idly brushing the tips of a feather 

duster along the carpet when he came in again. 

“Is there anything more you will let me do?” he asked. 

“That is all,” she answered. “Ellen can manage the rest.” She kept the 

young woman occupied in the drawing-room, unwilling to be left alone 

with Arobin. 

“What about the dinner?” he asked; “the grand event, the coup d’etat?” 

“It will be day after to-morrow. Why do you call it the `coup d’etat?’ 

Oh! it will be very fine; all my best of everything—crystal, silver and old, 

Sevres, flowers, music, and champagne to swim in. I’ll let Leonce pay the 

bills. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees the bills. 

“And you ask me why I call it a coup d’etat?” Arobin had put on his 

90


coat, and he stood before her and asked if his cravat was plumb. She told 

him it was, looking no higher than the tip of his collar. 

“When do you go to the `pigeon house?’—with all due acknowledgment 

to Ellen.” 

“Day after to-morrow, after the dinner. I shall sleep there.” 

“Ellen, will you very kindly get me a glass of water?” asked Arobin. 

“The dust in the curtains, if you will pardon me for hinting such a thing, 

has parched my throat to a crisp.” 

“While Ellen gets the water,” said Edna, rising, “I will say good-by and 

let you go. I must get rid of this grime, and I have a million things to do 

and think of.” 

“When shall I see you?” asked Arobin, seeking to detain her, the maid 

having left the room. 

“At the dinner, of course. You are invited.” 

“Not before?—not to-night or to-morrow morning or tomorrow noon 

or night? or the day after morning or noon? Can’t you see yourself, without 

my telling you, what an eternity it is?” 

He had followed her into the hall and to the foot of the stairway, looking 

up at her as she mounted with her face half turned to him. 

“Not an instant sooner,” she said. But she laughed and looked at him 

with eyes that at once gave him courage to wait and made it torture to 

wait. 

XXX 

THOUGH EDNA HAD SPOKEN of the dinner as a very grand affair, it was in 

truth a very small affair and very select, in so much as the guests invited 

were few and were selected with discrimination. She had counted upon an 

even dozen seating themselves at her round mahogany board, forgetting 

for the moment that Madame Ratignolle was to the last degree souffrante 

and unpresentable, and not foreseeing that Madame Lebrun would send a 

thousand regrets at the last moment. So there were only ten, after all, 

which made a cozy, comfortable number. 

There were Mr. and Mrs. Merriman, a pretty, vivacious little woman in 

the thirties; her husband, a jovial fellow, something of a shallow-pate, 

who laughed a good deal at other people’s witticisms, and had thereby 

made himself extremely popular. Mrs. Highcamp had accompanied them. 

91


Of course, there was Alcee Arobin; and Mademoiselle Reisz had consented 

to come. Edna had sent her a fresh bunch of violets with black lace trimmings 

for her hair. Monsieur Ratignolle brought himself and his wife’s 

excuses. Victor Lebrun, who happened to be in the city, bent upon relaxation, 

had accepted with alacrity. There was a Miss Mayblunt, no longer 

in her teens, who looked at the world through lorgnettes and with the 

keenest interest. It was thought and said that she was intellectual; it was 

suspected of her that she wrote under a nom de guerre. She had come 

with a gentleman by the name of Gouvernail, connected with one of the 

daily papers, of whom nothing special could be said, except that he was 

observant and seemed quiet and inoffensive. Edna herself made the tenth, 

and at half-past eight they seated themselves at table, Arobin and Monsieur 

Ratignolle on either side of their hostess. 

Mrs. Highcamp sat between Arobin and Victor Lebrun. Then came 

Mrs. Merriman, Mr. Gouvernail, Miss Mayblunt, Mr. Merriman, and 

Mademoiselle Reisz next to Monsieur Ratignolle. 

There was something extremely gorgeous about the appearance of the 

table, an effect of splendor conveyed by a cover of pale yellow satin under 

strips of lace-work. There were wax candles, in massive brass candelabra, 

burning softly under yellow silk shades; full, fragrant roses, yellow and 

red, abounded. There were silver and gold, as she had said there would be, 

and crystal which glittered like the gems which the women wore. 

The ordinary stiff dining chairs had been discarded for the occasion 

and replaced by the most commodious and luxurious which could be 

collected throughout the house. Mademoiselle Reisz, being exceedingly 

diminutive, was elevated upon cushions, as small children are sometimes 

hoisted at table upon bulky volumes. 

“Something new, Edna?” exclaimed Miss Mayblunt, with lorgnette directed 

toward a magnificent cluster of diamonds that sparkled, that almost 

sputtered, in Edna’s hair, just over the center of her forehead. 

“Quite new; `brand’ new, in fact; a present from my husband. It arrived 

this morning from New York. I may as well admit that this is my birthday, 

and that I am twenty-nine. In good time I expect you to drink my health. 

Meanwhile, I shall ask you to begin with this cocktail, composed—would 

you say ‘composed?’” with an appeal to Miss Mayblunt—”composed by my 

father in honor of Sister Janet’s wedding.” 

Before each guest stood a tiny glass that looked and sparkled like a 

garnet gem. 

“Then, all things considered,” spoke Arobin, “it might not be amiss to 

start out by drinking the Colonel’s health in the cocktail which he com- 

92


posed, on the birthday of the most charming of women—the daughter 

whom he invented.” 

Mr. Merriman’s laugh at this sally was such a genuine outburst and so 

contagious that it started the dinner with an agreeable swing that never 

slackened. 

Miss Mayblunt begged to be allowed to keep her cocktail untouched 

before her, just to look at. The color was marvelous! She could compare it 

to nothing she had ever seen, and the garnet lights which it emitted were 

unspeakably rare. She pronounced the Colonel an artist, and stuck to it. 

Monsieur Ratignolle was prepared to take things seriously; the mets, 

the entre-mets, the service, the decorations, even the people. He looked 

up from his pompano and inquired of Arobin if he were related to the 

gentleman of that name who formed one of the firm of Laitner and Arobin, 

lawyers. The young man admitted that Laitner was a warm personal friend, 

who permitted Arobin’s name to decorate the firm’s letterheads and to 

appear upon a shingle that graced Perdido Street. 

“There are so many inquisitive people and institutions abounding,” 

said Arobin, “that one is really forced as a matter of convenience these 

days to assume the virtue of an occupation if he has it not.” 

Monsieur Ratignolle stared a little, and turned to ask Mademoiselle 

Reisz if she considered the symphony concerts up to the standard which 

had been set the previous winter. Mademoiselle Reisz answered Monsieur 

Ratignolle in French, which Edna thought a little rude, under the circumstances, 

but characteristic. Mademoiselle had only disagreeable things to 

say of the symphony concerts, and insulting remarks to make of all the 

musicians of New Orleans, singly and collectively. All her interest seemed 

to be centered upon the delicacies placed before her. 

Mr. Merriman said that Mr. Arobin’s remark about inquisitive people 

reminded him of a man from Waco the other day at the St. Charles Hotel—but 

as Mr. Merriman’s stories were always lame and lacking point, 

his wife seldom permitted him to complete them. She interrupted him to 

ask if he remembered the name of the author whose book she had bought 

the week before to send to a friend in Geneva. She was talking “books” 

with Mr. Gouvernail and trying to draw from him his opinion upon current 

literary topics. Her husband told the story of the Waco man privately 

to Miss Mayblunt, who pretended to be greatly amused and to think it 

extremely clever. 

Mrs. Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the 

warm and impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun. 

Her attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating 

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herself at table; and when he turned to Mrs. Merriman, who was prettier 

and more vivacious than Mrs. Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference 

for an opportunity to reclaim his attention. There was the occasional 

sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an agreeable 

accompaniment rather than an interruption to the conversation. Outside 

the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; the sound penetrated 

into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came through 

the open windows. 

The golden shimmer of Edna’s satin gown spread in rich folds on either 

side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the 

color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one may 

sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her attitude, in 

her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the high-backed 

chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who 

rules, who looks on, who stands alone. 

But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking 

her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her 

like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It 

was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to issue 

from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her the 

acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the presence 

of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the 

unattainable. 

The moments glided on, while a feeling of good fellowship passed around 

the circle like a mystic cord, holding and binding these people together 

with jest and laughter. Monsieur Ratignolle was the first to break the pleasant 

charm. At ten o’clock he excused himself. Madame Ratignolle was 

waiting for him at home. She was bien souffrante, and she was filled with 

vague dread, which only her husband’s presence could allay. 

Mademoiselle Reisz arose with Monsieur Ratignolle, who offered to 

escort her to the car. She had eaten well; she had tasted the good, rich 

wines, and they must have turned her head, for she bowed pleasantly to all 

as she withdrew from table. She kissed Edna upon the shoulder, and whispered: 

“Bonne nuit, ma reine; soyez sage.” She had been a little bewildered 

upon rising, or rather, descending from her cushions, and Monsieur 

Ratignolle gallantly took her arm and led her away. 

Mrs. Highcamp was weaving a garland of roses, yellow and red. When 

she had finished the garland, she laid it lightly upon Victor’s black curls. 

He was reclining far back in the luxurious chair, holding a glass of champagne 

to the light. 

94


As if a magician’s wand had touched him, the garland of roses transformed 

him into a vision of Oriental beauty. His cheeks were the color of 

crushed grapes, and his dusky eyes glowed with a languishing fire. 

“Sapristi!” exclaimed Arobin. 

But Mrs. Highcamp had one more touch to add to the picture. She 

took from the back of her chair a white silken scarf, with which she had 

covered her shoulders in the early part of the evening. She draped it across 

the boy in graceful folds, and in a way to conceal his black, conventional 

evening dress. He did not seem to mind what she did to him, only smiled, 

showing a faint gleam of white teeth, while he continued to gaze with 

narrowing eyes at the light through his glass of champagne. 

“Oh! to be able to paint in color rather than in words!” exclaimed Miss 

Mayblunt, losing herself in a rhapsodic dream as she looked at him, 

“`There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground 

of gold.’” murmured Gouvernail, under his breath. 

The effect of the wine upon Victor was to change his accustomed volubility 

into silence. He seemed to have abandoned himself to a reverie, and 

to be seeing pleasing visions in the amber bead. 

“Sing,” entreated Mrs. Highcamp. “Won’t you sing to us?” 

“Let him alone,” said Arobin. 

“He’s posing,” offered Mr. Merriman; “let him have it out.” 

“I believe he’s paralyzed,” laughed Mrs. Merriman. And leaning over 

the youth’s chair, she took the glass from his hand and held it to his lips. 

He sipped the wine slowly, and when he had drained the glass she laid it 

upon the table and wiped his lips with her little filmy handkerchief. 

“Yes, I’ll sing for you,” he said, turning in his chair toward Mrs. 

Highcamp. He clasped his hands behind his head, and looking up at the 

ceiling began to hum a little, trying his voice like a musician tuning an 

instrument. Then, looking at Edna, he began to sing: 

“Ah! si tu savais!” 

“Stop!” she cried, “don’t sing that. I don’t want you to sing it,” and she 

laid her glass so impetuously and blindly upon the table as to shatter it 

against a carafe. The wine spilled over Arobin’s legs and some of it trickled 

down upon Mrs. Highcamp’s black gauze gown. Victor had lost all idea of 

courtesy, or else he thought his hostess was not in earnest, for he laughed 

and went on: 

“Ah! si tu savais 

95


96 

Ce que tes yeux me disent”— 

“Oh! you mustn’t! you mustn’t,” exclaimed Edna, and pushing back her 

chair she got up, and going behind him placed her hand over his mouth. 

He kissed the soft palm that pressed upon his lips. 

“No, no, I won’t, Mrs. Pontellier. I didn’t know you meant it,” looking 

up at her with caressing eyes. The touch of his lips was like a pleasing sting 

to her hand. She lifted the garland of roses from his head and flung it 

across the room. 

“Come, Victor; you’ve posed long enough. Give Mrs. Highcamp her 

scarf.” 

Mrs. Highcamp undraped the scarf from about him with her own hands. 

Miss Mayblunt and Mr. Gouvernail suddenly conceived the notion that it 

was time to say good night. And Mr. and Mrs. Merriman wondered how 

it could be so late. 

Before parting from Victor, Mrs. Highcamp invited him to call upon 

her daughter, who she knew would be charmed to meet him and talk 

French and sing French songs with him. Victor expressed his desire and 

intention to call upon Miss Highcamp at the first opportunity which presented 

itself. He asked if Arobin were going his way. Arobin was not. 

The mandolin players had long since stolen away. A profound stillness 

had fallen upon the broad, beautiful street. The voices of Edna’s disbanding 

guests jarred like a discordant note upon the quiet harmony of the 

night. 

XXXI 

“WELL?” QUESTIONED AROBIN, 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 to shut in the smoke and the fumes of the wine. Arobin 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, Arobin 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 weight of her satin train with the 

other hand. She looked down, noticing the black line of his leg moving in 

and out so close to her against the yellow shimmer of her gown. There was 

the whistle of a railway train somewhere in the distance, and the midnight 

bells were ringing. They met no one in their short walk. 

The “pigeon house” stood behind a locked gate, and a shallow parterre 

that had been somewhat neglected. There was a small front porch, upon 

which a long window and the front door opened. The door opened directly 

into the parlor; there was no side entry. Back in the yard was a room 

for servants, in which old Celestine had been ensconced. 

Edna had left a lamp burning low upon the table. She had succeeded in 

making the room look habitable and homelike. There were some books 

on the table and a lounge near at hand. On the floor was a fresh matting, 

covered with a rug or two; and on the walls hung a few tasteful pictures. 

But the room was filled with flowers. These were a surprise to her. Arobin 

had sent them, and had had Celestine distribute them during Edna’s absence. 

Her bedroom was adjoining, and across a small passage were the 

diningroom 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. 

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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. 

98 

XXXII 

When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife’s intention to abandon her home 

and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter of 

unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which 

he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted 

upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost, and 

above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of scandal 

when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never have 

entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife’s name or 

his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It might get 

noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and were forced 

to conduct their menage on a humbler scale than heretofore. It might do 

incalculable mischief to his business prospects. 

But remembering Edna’s whimsical turn of mind of late, and foreseeing 

that she had immediately acted upon her impetuous determination, he 

grasped the situation with his usual promptness and handled it with his 

well-known business tact and cleverness. 

The same mail which brought. to Edna his letter of disapproval carried


instructions—the most minute instructions—to a well-known architect 

concerning the remodeling of his home, changes which he had long contemplated, 

and which he desired carried forward during his temporary 

absence. 

Expert and reliable packers and movers were engaged to convey the 

furniture, carpets, pictures —everything movable, in short—to places of 

security. And in an incredibly short time the Pontellier house was turned 

over to the artisans. There was to be an addition—a small snuggery; there 

was to be frescoing, and hardwood flooring was to be put into such rooms 

as had not yet been subjected to this improvement. 

Furthermore, in one of the daily papers appeared a brief notice to the 

effect that Mr. and Mrs. Pontellier were contemplating a summer sojourn 

abroad, and that their handsome residence on Esplanade Street was undergoing 

sumptuous alterations, and would not be ready for occupancy 

until their return. Mr. Pontellier had saved appearances! 

Edna admired the skill of his maneuver, and avoided any occasion to balk 

his intentions. When the situation as set forth by Mr. Pontellier was accepted 

and taken for granted, she was apparently satisfied that it should be so. 

The pigeon house pleased her. It at once assumed the intimate character 

of a home, while she herself invested it with a charm which it reflected 

like a warm glow. There was with her a feeling of having descended in the 

social scale, with a corresponding sense of having risen in the spiritual. 

Every step which she took toward relieving herself from obligations added 

to her strength and expansion as an individual. She began to look with her 

own eyes; to see and to apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life. No 

longer was she content to “feed upon opinion” when her own soul had 

invited her. 

After a little while, a few days, in fact, Edna went up and spent a week 

with her children in Iberville. They were delicious February days, with all 

the summer’s promise hovering in the air. 

How glad she was to see the children! She wept for very pleasure when 

she felt their little arms clasping her; their hard, ruddy cheeks pressed 

against her own glowing cheeks. She looked into their faces with hungry 

eyes that could not be satisfied with looking. And what stories they had to 

tell their mother! About the pigs, the cows, the mules! About riding to the 

mill behind Gluglu; fishing back in the lake with their Uncle Jasper; picking 

pecans with Lidie’s little black brood, and hauling chips in their express 

wagon. It was a thousand times more fun to haul real chips for old 

lame Susie’s real fire than to drag painted blocks along the banquette on 

Esplanade Street! 

99


She went with them herself to see the pigs and the cows, to look at the 

darkies laying the cane, to thrash the pecan trees, and catch fish in the 

back lake. She lived with them a whole week long, giving them all of 

herself, and gathering and filling herself with their young existence. They 

listened, breathless, when she told them the house in Esplanade Street was 

crowded with workmen, hammering, nailing, sawing, and filling the place 

with clatter. They wanted. to know where their bed was; what had been 

done with their rocking-horse; and where did Joe sleep, and where had 

Ellen gone, and the cook? But, above all, they were fired with a desire to 

see the little house around the block. Was there any place to play? Were 

there any boys next door? Raoul, with pessimistic foreboding, was convinced 

that there were only girls next door. Where would they sleep, and 

where would papa sleep? She told them the fairies would fix it all right. 

The old Madame was charmed with Edna’s visit, and showered all manner 

of delicate attentions upon her. She was delighted to know that the 

Esplanade Street house was in a dismantled condition. It gave her the 

promise and pretext to keep the children indefinitely. 

It was with a wrench and a pang that Edna left her children. She carried 

away with her the sound of their voices and the touch of their cheeks. All 

along the journey homeward their presence lingered with her like the memory 

of a delicious song. But by the time she had regained the city the song no 

longer echoed in her soul. She was again alone. 

100 

XXXIII 

IT HAPPENED SOMETIMES when Edna went to see Mademoiselle Reisz that 

the little musician was absent, giving a lesson or making some small necessary 

household purchase. The key was always left in a secret hidingplace 

in the entry, which Edna knew. If Mademoiselle happened to be 

away, Edna would usually enter and wait for her return. 

When she knocked at Mademoiselle Reisz’s door one afternoon there 

was no response; so unlocking the door, as usual, she entered and found 

the apartment deserted, as she had expected. Her day had been quite filled 

up, and it was for a rest, for a refuge, and to talk about Robert, that she 

sought out her friend. 

She had worked at her canvas—a young Italian character study—all the 

morning, completing the work without the model; but there had been


many interruptions, some incident to her modest housekeeping, and others 

of a social nature. 

Madame Ratignolle had dragged herself over, avoiding the too public 

thoroughfares, she said. She complained that Edna had neglected her much 

of late. Besides, she was consumed with curiosity to see the little house 

and the manner in which it was conducted. She wanted to hear all about 

the dinner party; Monsieur Ratignolle had left so early. What had happened 

after he left? The champagne and grapes which Edna sent over were 

TOO delicious. She had so little appetite; they had refreshed and toned 

her stomach. Where on earth was she going to put Mr. Pontellier in that 

little house, and the boys? And then she made Edna promise to go to her 

when her hour of trial overtook her. 

“At any time—any time of the day or night, dear,” Edna assured her. 

Before leaving Madame Ratignolle said: 

“In some way you seem to me like a child, Edna. You seem to act without 

a certain amount of reflection which is necessary in this life. That is 

the reason I want to say you mustn’t mind if I advise you to be a little 

careful while you are living here alone. Why don’t you have some one 

come and stay with you? Wouldn’t Mademoiselle Reisz come?” 

“No; she wouldn’t wish to come, and I shouldn’t want her always with me.” 

“Well, the reason—you know how evil-minded the world is—some 

one was talking of Alcee Arobin visiting you. Of course, it wouldn’t matter 

if Mr. Arobin had not such a dreadful reputation. Monsieur Ratignolle 

was telling me that his attentions alone are considered enough to ruin a 

woman s name.” 

“Does he boast of his successes?” asked Edna, indifferently, squinting at 

her picture. 

“No, I think not. I believe he is a decent fellow as far as that goes. But 

his character is so well known among the men. I shan’t be able to come 

back and see you; it was very, very imprudent to-day.” 

“Mind the step!” cried Edna. 

“Don’t neglect me,” entreated Madame Ratignolle; “and don’t mind 

what I said about Arobin, or having some one to stay with you. 

“Of course not,” Edna laughed. “You may say anything you like to 

me.” They kissed each other good-by. Madame Ratignolle had not far to 

go, and Edna stood on the porch a while watching her walk down the 

street. 

Then in the afternoon Mrs. Merriman and Mrs. Highcamp had made 

their “party call.” Edna felt that they might have dispensed with the formality. 

They had also come to invite her to play vingt-et-un one evening 

101


at Mrs. Merriman’s. She was asked to go early, to dinner, and Mr. Merriman 

or Mr. Arobin would take her home. Edna accepted in a half-hearted way. 

She sometimes felt very tired of Mrs. Highcamp and Mrs. Merriman. 

Late in the afternoon she sought refuge with Mademoiselle Reisz, and 

stayed there alone, waiting for her, feeling a kind of repose invade her with 

the very atmosphere of the shabby, unpretentious little room. 

Edna sat at the window, which looked out over the house-tops 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 pin. Once she thought she heard 

Mademoiselle Reisz 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 rap at the door. She vaguely wondered 

what these people did when they found Mademoiselle’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 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 Mademoiselle 

Reisz 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 an 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 

102


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 color of hers—waved 

back from his temples in the same way as before. His skin was not more 

burned than it had been at Grand Isle. 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, whither 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 on the piano stool, saying: 

“I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier’s absence; it’s a wonder 

Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your 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 Isle next 

summer; it won’t seem—do you see much of Mademoiselle Reisz? 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 

103


piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of hair 

with some deliberation. 

“Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?” 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, as 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 Pontellier 

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 around the corner, and it 

seemed as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed 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 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 reentered, Robert was turning over magazines, sketches, and 

things that lay upon the table in great disorder. He picked up a photograph, 

and exclaimed: 

“Alcee Arobin! What on earth is his picture doing here?” 

“I tried to make a sketch of his head one day,” answered Edna, “and he 

104


thought the photograph might help me. It was at the other house. I thought 

it had been left there. I must have packed it up with my drawing materials.” 

“I should think you would give it back to him if you have 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 and the white beach of Grand Isle; the quiet, 

grassy street of the Cheniere; the old fort at Grande Terre. 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 and the white beach of Grand Isle; the quiet, 

grassy street of the Cheniere Caminada; the old sunny fort at Grande 

Terre. 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. 

XXXIV 

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. 

105


Old Celestine, with a bandana tignon 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 neighboring cigar stand to purchase cigarette papers, 

and when he came back he found that Celestine had served the black 

coffee in the parlor. 

“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 Isle in which we grew accustomed to each other and used to being 

together.” 

“I have forgotten nothing at Grand Isle,” 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 Vera Cruz girl; they are very generous,” he 

replied, striking a match and lighting his cigarette. 

“They are very handsome, I suppose, those Mexican women; very picturesque, 

with their black eyes and their lace scarfs.” 

“Some are; others are hideous. just as you 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 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. 

Arobin 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, Arobin?” 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?” 

106


“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 Arobin and went away. 

“Fine fellow, that Lebrun,” said Arobin 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. Merriman’s,” she said. “If you see her, tell her so. 

But perhaps I had 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 Arobin. “I don’t blame you; 

stupid lot!” 

Edna opened the blotter, and having procured paper and pen, began to 

write the note. Arobin lit 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.” 

107


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 Mademoiselle Reisz’s door. She recalled his words, his looks. How 

few and meager they had been for her hungry heart! A vision—a transcendently 

seductive vision of a Mexican girl arose 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. 

108 

XXXV 

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 deli-


cious printed scrawl from Raoul, expressing his love, asking her to send 

him some bonbons, and telling her they had found that morning ten tiny 

white pigs all lying in a row beside Lidie’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 felt now 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 Arobin, 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 Arobin’s note she made no reply. She put it under Celestine’s stovelid. 

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 Reisz’s 

nor pass by Madame Lebrun’s, as she might have done if he had still been 

in Mexico. 

When Arobin, one night, urged her to drive with him, she went—out 

to the lake, on the Shell Road. His horses were full of mettle, 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 to drink. Arobin was not needlessly imprudent. 

But they ate and they drank when they regained Edna’s little 

dining-room—which was comparatively early in the evening. 

109


It was late when he left her. It was getting to be more than a passing 

whim with Arobin 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. 

110 

XXXVI 

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 mulatresse slept her idle hours away in her 

chair at the open window, till, some one 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 gate stood ajar. 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 mulatresse, 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 Celestine 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 Catiche’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 upon 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 your neglect and indifference. I suppose this is what you would call 

unwomanly; but I have got into 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 bare 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. 

“Catiche’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 

111


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 a 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 into 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 he 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 the room 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 Isle; 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 Leonce 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. 

112


“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 some way becoming 

my wife.” 

“Your wife!” 

“Religion, loyalty, everything would give way if only you cared.” 

“Then you must have forgotten that I was Leonce Pontellier’s wife.” 

“Oh! 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 

Ratignolle’s servant had come around 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-by, my sweet Robert. Tell me good-by.” 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 

113


awoke me last summer out of a life-long, stupid dream. Oh! you have 

made me so unhappy with your indifference. Oh! I have suffered, suffered! 

Now you are here 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 you will 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-by 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. 

114 

XXXVII 

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. Mandelet 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, whither she had strayed in 

her suffering impatience. She sat on the sofa, clad in an ample white peignoir, 

holding a handkerchief tight 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 Griffe woman in 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 Mandelet; 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 withwhich 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. “Mandelet 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 

was Mrs. Pontellier leaving, no doubt, a pleasant evening at home to devote 

to her? And wasn’t Monsieur Ratignolle coming that very instant 

through the hall? And Josephine was quite sure she had heard Doctor 

Mandelet’s coupe. Yes, there it was, down at the door. 

Adele consented to go back to her room. She sat on the edge of a little 

low couch next to her bed. 

Doctor Mandelet paid no attention to Madame Ratignolle’s upbraidings. 

He was accustomed to them at such times, and was 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 

and entertain him. But Madame Ratignolle 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 feel 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-by. Adele, pressing her 

cheek, whispered in an exhausted voice: “Think of the children, Edna. 

Oh think of the children! Remember them!” 

115


116 

XXXVIII 

EDNA STILL FELT DAZED when she got outside in the open air. The Doctor’s 

coupe had returned for him and stood before the porte cochere. She did 

not wish to enter the coupe, and told Doctor Mandelet 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—away 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 Isle, 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 Leonce coming back?” 

“Quite soon. Some time in March.” 

“And you are going abroad?” 

“Perhaps—no, I am not going. I’m 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, rather 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 for your 

confidence. I will only say that if ever you 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 hearts, 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’m 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 never have 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. To-morrow 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 lamplight: 

“I love you. Good-by—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 

117


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. 

118 

XXXIX 

VICTOR, WITH HAMMER AND NAILS and scraps of scantling, was patching a 

corner of one of the galleries. Mariequita sat near by, dangling her legs, 

watching him work, and handing him nails from the tool-box. 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 

Lucullean 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 entrancing a spectacle than Mrs. Pontellier, blazing 

with beauty and diamonds at the head of the board, while the other women 

were all of them youthful houris, possessed of 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 Cheniere; and since 

it was the fashion to be in love with married people, why, she could run 

away any time she liked to New Orleans with Celina’s husband. 

Celina’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 Mariequita. 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 

Beaudelet’s 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 Philomel’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 Mariequita. 

Mariequita thought that perhaps Philomel’s mother might come for a 

few days, and money enough. 

Beholding Mrs. Pontellier make her appearance, the girl had at once 

suspected a lovers’ 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. 

Mariequita 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.” 

Mariequita 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 Philomel’s mother,” Victor instructed the girl. “I’ll go to 

the kitchen and see what I can do. By Gimminy! 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 

119


necessary after Robert went away, when she lay awake upon the sofa till 

morning. 

She had said over and over to herself: “To-day it is Arobin; to-morrow it 

will be some one else. It makes no difference to me, it doesn’t matter about 

Leonce Pontellier—but Raoul and Etienne!” She understood now clearly 

what she had meant long ago when she said to Adele Ratignolle 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 new-born 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, enfolding the 

body in its soft, close embrace. 

She went on and on. She remembered the night she swam far out, and 

recalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being unable to regain the 

120


shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on, thinking of the 

blue-grass 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 Leonce 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 Mademoiselle Reisz 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-by—because I love you.” He did not know; he did not understand. 

He would never understand. Perhaps Doctor Mandelet 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. Edna 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. 

121

Beyond the Bayou 

122 


THE BAYOU CURVED like a crescent around the point of land on which La 

Folle’s cabin stood. Between the stream and the hut lay a big abandoned 

field, where cattle were pastured when the bayou supplied them with water 

enough. Through the woods that spread back into unknown regions 

the woman had drawn an imaginary line, and past this circle she never 

stepped. This was the form of her only mania. 

She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name 

was Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle, because 

in childhood she had been frightened literally “out of her senses,” 

and had never wholly regained them. 

It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in 

the woods. Evening was near when P’tit Maitre, black with powder and 

crimson with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline’s mother, 

his pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason. 

She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had 

long since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more 

physical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn 

and tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou she 

had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived. 

People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thought 

nothing of it. Even when “Old Mis’” died, they did not wonder that La 

Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it, wailing 

and lamenting. 

P’tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged 

man, with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son 

whom La Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Cheri, and 

so did every one else because she did. 

None of the girls had ever been to her what Cheri was. They had each 

and all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of things 

that always happened “yonda, beyon’ de bayou.” 

But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Cheri did, nor


rested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep in her 

arms as he used to do. For Cheri hardly did such things now, since he had 

become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curls cut off. 

That summer—the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls tied with 

a knot of red ribbon—the water ran so low in the bayou that even the little 

children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the cattle were sent to 

pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when they were gone, for she 

loved these dumb companions well, and liked to feel that they were there, 

and to hear them browsing by night up to her own enclosure. 

It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had 

flocked to a neighboring village to do their week’s trading, and the women 

were occupied with household affairs,—La Folle as well as the others. It 

was then she mended and washed her handful of clothes, scoured her 

house, and did her baking. 

In this last employment she never forgot Cheri. To-day she had fashioned 

croquignoles of the most fantastic and alluring shapes for him. So when she saw 

the boy come trudging across the old field with his gleaming little new rifle on 

his shoulder, she called out gayly to him, “Cheri! Cheri!” 

But Cheri did not need the summons, for he was coming straight to 

her. His pockets all bulged out with almonds and raisins and an orange 

that he had secured for her from the very fine dinner which had been 

given that day up at his father’s house. 

He was a sunny-faced youngster of ten. When he had emptied his pockets, 

La Folle patted his round red cheek, wiped his soiled hands on her 

apron, and smoothed his hair. Then she watched him as, with his cakes in 

his hand, he crossed her strip of cotton back of the cabin, and disappeared 

into the wood. 

He had boasted of the things he was going to do with his gun out there. 

“You think they got plenty deer in the wood, La Folle?” he had inquired, 

with the calculating air of an experienced hunter. 

“Non, non!” the woman laughed. “Don’t you look fo’ no deer, Cheri. 

Dat’s too big. But you bring La Folle one good fat squirrel fo’ her dinner 

to-morrow, an’ she goin’ be satisfi’.” 

“One squirrel ain’t a bite. I’ll bring you mo’ ‘an one, La Folle,” he had 

boasted pompously as he went away. 

When the woman, an hour later, heard the report of the boy’s rifle close 

to the wood’s edge, she would have thought nothing of it if a sharp cry of 

distress had not followed the sound. 

She withdrew her arms from the tub of suds in which they had been 

plunged, dried them upon her apron, and as quickly as her trembling 

123


limbs would bear her, hurried to the spot whence the ominous report had 

come. 

It was as she feared. There she found Cheri stretched upon the ground, 

with his rifle beside him. He moaned piteously:—“I’m dead, La Folle! I’m 

dead! I’m gone!” 

“Non, non!” she exclaimed resolutely, as she knelt beside him. “Put you’ 

arm ‘roun’ La Folle’s nake, Cheri. Dat’s nuttin’; dat goin’ be nuttin’.” She 

lifted him in her powerful arms. 

Cheri had carried his gun muzzle-downward. He had stumbled,—he 

did not know how. He only knew that he had a ball lodged somewhere in 

his leg, and he thought that his end was at hand. Now, with his head upon 

the woman’s shoulder, he moaned and wept with pain and fright. 

“Oh, La Folle! La Folle! it hurt so bad! I can’ stan’ it, La Folle!” 

“Don’t cry, mon bebe, mon bebe, mon Cheri!” the woman spoke soothingly 

as she covered the ground with long strides. “La Folle goin’ mine 

you; Doctor Bonfils goin’ come make mon Cheri well agin.” 

She had reached the abandoned field. As she crossed it with her precious 

burden, she looked constantly and restlessly from side to side. A 

terrible fear was upon her, —the fear of the world beyond the bayou, the 

morbid and insane dread she had been under since childhood. 

When she was at the bayou’s edge she stood there, and shouted for help 

as if a life depended upon it:— 

“Oh, P’tit Maitre! P’tit Maitre! Venez donc! Au secours! Au secours!” 

No voice responded. Cheri’s hot tears were scalding her neck. She called 

for each and every one upon the place, and still no answer came. 

She shouted, she wailed; but whether her voice remained unheard or 

unheeded, no reply came to her frenzied cries. And all the while Cheri 

moaned and wept and entreated to be taken home to his mother. 

La Folle gave a last despairing look around her. Extreme terror was 

upon her. She clasped the child close against her breast, where he could 

feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer. Then shutting her eyes, she ran 

suddenly down the shallow bank of the bayou, and never stopped till she 

had climbed the opposite shore. 

She stood there quivering an instant as she opened her eyes. Then she 

plunged into the footpath through the trees. 

She spoke no more to Cheri, but muttered constantly, “Bon Dieu, ayez 

pitie La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitie moi!” 

Instinct seemed to guide her. When the pathway spread clear and smooth 

enough before her, she again closed her eyes tightly against the sight of 

that unknown and terrifying world. 

124


A child, playing in some weeds, caught sight of her as she neared the 

quarters. The little one uttered a cry of dismay. 

“La Folle!” she screamed, in her piercing treble. “La Folle done cross de 

bayer!” 

Quickly the cry passed down the line of cabins. 

“Yonda, La Folle done cross de bayou!” 

Children, old men, old women, young ones with infants in their arms, 

flocked to doors and windows to see this awe-inspiring spectacle. Most of 

them shuddered with superstitious dread of what it might portend. “She 

totin’ Cheri!” some of them shouted. 

Some of the more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels, 

only to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face upon 

them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a white 

foam on her black lips. 

Some one had run ahead of her to where P’tit Maitre sat with his family 

and guests upon the gallery. 

“P’tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda 

totin’ Cheri!” This startling intimation was the first which they had of the 

woman’s approach. 

She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were 

fixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox. 

At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid 

the boy in his father’s arms. Then the world that had looked red to La 

Folle suddenly turned black,—like that day she had seen powder and blood. 

She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she 

fell heavily to the ground. 

When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her 

own cabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through 

the open door and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black 

mammy who stood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It 

was very late. 

Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had 

gone again. P’tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, 

who said that La Folle might die. 

But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with 

which she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner. 

“Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b’lieve I’m 

goin’ sleep, me.” 

And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without 

compunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields 

125


to her own cabin in the new quarters. 

The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose, 

calmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but yesterday. 

She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered 

that this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong 

black coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walked 

across the old familiar field to the bayou’s edge again. 

She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with 

a long, steady stride as if she had done this all her life. 

When she had made her way through the brush and scrub cottonwoodtrees 

that lined the opposite bank, she found herself upon the border of a 

field where the white, bursting cotton, with the dew upon it, gleamed for 

acres and acres like frosted silver in the early dawn. 

La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She 

walked slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, looking 

about her as she went. 

The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her, were 

quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds that darted 

here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins. 

When La Folle came to the broad stretch of velvety lawn that surrounded 

the house, she moved slowly and with delight over the springy turf, that 

was delicious beneath her tread. 

She stopped to find whence came those perfumes that were assailing 

her senses with memories from a time far gone. 

There they were, stealing up to her from the thousand blue violets that 

peeped out from green, luxuriant beds. There they were, showering down 

from the big waxen bells of the magnolias far above her head, and from 

the jessamine clumps around her. 

There were roses, too, without number. To right and left palms spread 

in broad and graceful curves. It all looked like enchantment beneath the 

sparkling sheen of dew. 

When La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that 

led up to the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent she 

had made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow at 

the foot of Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul. 

La Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand. Cheri’s mother soon 

cautiously opened it. Quickly and cleverly she dissembled the astonishment 

she felt at seeing La Folle. 

“Ah, La Folle! Is it you, so early?” 

126


“Oui, madame. I come ax how my po’ li’le Cheri do, ‘s mo’nin’.” 

“He is feeling easier, thank you, La Folle. Dr. Bonfils says it will be 

nothing serious. He’s sleeping now. Will you come back when he awakes?” 

“Non, madame. I’m goin’ wait yair tell Cheri wake up.” La Folle seated 

herself upon the topmost step of the veranda. 

A look of wonder and deep content crept into her face as she watched 

for the first time the sun rise upon the new, the beautiful world beyond 

the bayou. 

127

Ma’ame Pelagie 

128 


I 

WHEN THE WAR BEGAN, there stood on Cote Joyeuse an imposing mansion 

of red brick, shaped like the Pantheon. A grove of majestic live-oaks surrounded 

it. 

Thirty years later, only the thick walls were standing, with the dull red 

brick showing here and there through a matted growth of clinging vines. 

The huge round pillars were intact; so to some extent was the stone flagging 

of hall and portico. There had been no home so stately along the 

whole stretch of Cote Joyeuse. Every one knew that, as they knew it had 

cost Philippe Valmet sixty thousand dollars to build, away back in 1840. 

No one was in danger of forgetting that fact, so long as his daughter Pelagie 

survived. She was a queenly, white-haired woman of fifty. “Ma’ame Pelagie,” 

they called her, though she was unmarried, as was her sister Pauline, a 

child in Ma’ame Pelagie’s eyes; a child of thirty-five. 

The two lived alone in a three-roomed cabin, almost within the shadow 

of the ruin. They lived for a dream, for Ma’ame Pelagie’s dream, which 

was to rebuild the old home. 

It would be pitiful to tell how their days were spent to accomplish this 

end; how the dollars had been saved for thirty years and the picayunes 

hoarded; and yet, not half enough gathered! But Ma’ame Pelagie felt sure 

of twenty years of life before her, and counted upon as many more for her 

sister. And what could not come to pass in twenty—in forty—years? 

Often, of pleasant afternoons, the two would drink their black coffee, 

seated upon the stone-flagged portico whose canopy was the blue sky of 

Louisiana. They loved to sit there in the silence, with only each other and 

the sheeny, prying lizards for company, talking of the old times and planning 

for the new; while light breezes stirred the tattered vines high up 

among the columns, where owls nested.


“We can never hope to have all just as it was, Pauline,” Ma’ame Pelagie 

would say; “perhaps the marble pillars of the salon will have to be replaced 

by wooden ones, and the crystal candelabra left out. Should you be willing, 

Pauline?” 

“Oh, yes Sesoeur, I shall be willing.” It was always, “Yes, Sesoeur,” or 

“No, Sesoeur,” “Just as you please, Sesoeur,” with poor little Mam’selle 

Pauline. For what did she remember of that old life and that old spendor? 

Only a faint gleam here and there; the half-consciousness of a young, 

uneventful existence; and then a great crash. That meant the nearness of 

war; the revolt of slaves; confusion ending in fire and flame through which 

she was borne safely in the strong arms of Pelagie, and carried to the log 

cabin which was still their home. Their brother, Leandre, had known more 

of it all than Pauline, and not so much as Pelagie. He had left the management 

of the big plantation with all its memories and traditions to his older 

sister, and had gone away to dwell in cities. That was many years ago. 

Now, Leandre’s business called him frequently and upon long journeys 

from home, and his motherless daughter was coming to stay with her 

aunts at Cote Joyeuse. 

They talked about it, sipping their coffee on the ruined portico. Mam’selle 

Pauline was terribly excited; the flush that throbbed into her pale, nervous 

face showed it; and she locked her thin fingers in and out incessantly. 

“But what shall we do with La Petite, Sesoeur? Where shall we put her? 

How shall we amuse her? Ah, Seigneur!” 

“She will sleep upon a cot in the room next to ours,” responded Ma’ame 

Pelagie, “and live as we do. She knows how we live, and why we live; her 

father has told her. She knows we have money and could squander it if we 

chose. Do not fret, Pauline; let us hope La Petite is a true Valmet.” 

Then Ma’ame Pelagie rose with stately deliberation and went to saddle 

her horse, for she had yet to make her last daily round through the fields; 

and Mam’selle Pauline threaded her way slowly among the tangled grasses 

toward the cabin. 

The coming of La Petite, bringing with her as she did the pungent 

atmosphere of an outside and dimly known world, was a shock to these 

two, living their dream-life. The girl was quite as tall as her aunt Pelagie, 

with dark eyes that reflected joy as a still pool reflects the light of stars; and 

her rounded cheek was tinged like the pink crepe myrtle. Mam’selle Pauline 

kissed her and trembled. Ma’ame Pelagie looked into her eyes with a searching 

gaze, which seemed to seek a likeness of the past in the living present. 

And they made room between them for this young life. 

129


130 

II 

LA PETITE HAD DETERMINED upon trying to fit herself to the strange, narrow 

existence which she knew awaited her at Cote Joyeuse. It went well 

enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma’ame Pelagie into the fields to 

note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count the ears of 

corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her aunt Pauline, 

assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief past, or walking with 

the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing moss of the giant oaks. 

Mam’selle Pauline’s steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes 

were sometimes as bright as a bird’s, unless La Petite were away from her 

side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy expectancy. 

The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her endearingly 

Tan’tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very quiet,—not 

listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then her cheeks began 

to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes of the white crepe 

myrtle that grew in the ruin. 

One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a 

hand of each, she said: “Tante Pelagie, I must tell you something, you and 

Tan’tante.” She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. “I love you both,— 

please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from you. I 

can’t live any longer here at Cote Joyeuse.” 

A spasm passed through Mam’selle Pauline’s delicate frame. La Petite 

could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined with 

her own. Ma’ame Pelagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human 

eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul 

felt. She said: “What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you to us, 

and I am sure it is his wish that you remain.” 

“My father loves me, tante Pelagie, and such will not be his wish when 

he knows. Oh!” she continued with a restless, movement, “it is as though 

a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the life 

I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day to day 

over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music, my books, 

my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of privation, I 

suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life, I should make the 

best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante Pelagie, you do not


need to. It seems to me,” she added in a whisper, “that it is a sin against 

myself. Ah, Tan’tante!—what is the matter with Tan’tante?” 

It was nothing; only a slight feeling of faintness, that would soon pass. 

She entreated them to take no notice; but they brought her some water 

and fanned her with a palmetto leaf. 

But that night, in the stillness of the room, Mam’selle Pauline sobbed 

and would not be comforted. Ma’ame Pelagie took her in her arms. 

“Pauline, my little sister Pauline,” she entreated, “I never have seen you 

like this before. Do you no longer love me? Have we not been happy 

together, you and I?” 

“Oh, yes, Sesoeur.” 

“Is it because La Petite is going away?” 

“Yes, Sesoeur.” 

“Then she is dearer to you than I!” spoke Ma’ame Pelagie with sharp 

resentment. “Than I, who held you and warmed you in my arms the day 

you were born; than I, your mother, father, sister, everything that could 

cherish you. Pauline, don’t tell me that.” 

Mam’selle Pauline tried to talk through her sobs. 

“I can’t explain it to you, Sesoeur. I don’t understand it myself. I love 

you as I have always loved you; next to God. But if La Petite goes away I 

shall die. I can’t understand,—help me, Sesoeur. She seems—she seems 

like a saviour; like one who had come and taken me by the hand and was 

leading me somewhere-somewhere I want to go.” 

Ma’ame Pelagie had been sitting beside the bed in her peignoir and 

slippers. She held the hand of her sister who lay there, and smoothed 

down the woman’s soft brown hair. She said not a word, and the silence 

was broken only by Mam’selle Pauline’s continued sobs. Once Ma’ame 

Pelagie arose to mix a drink of orange-flower water, which she gave to her 

sister, as she would have offered it to a nervous, fretful child. Almost an 

hour passed before Ma’ame Pelagie spoke again. Then she said:— 

“Pauline, you must cease that sobbing, now, and sleep. You will make 

yourself ill. La Petite will not go away. Do you hear me? Do you understand? 

She will stay, I promise you.” 

Mam’selle Pauline could not clearly comprehend, but she had great faith 

in the word of her sister, and soothed by the promise and the touch of 

Ma’ame Pelagie’s strong, gentle hand, she fell asleep. 

131


132 

III 

MA’AME PELAGIE, when she saw that her sister slept, arose noiselessly and 

stepped outside upon the low-roofed narrow gallery. She did not linger 

there, but with a step that was hurried and agitated, she crossed the distance 

that divided her cabin from the ruin. 

The night was not a dark one, for the sky was clear and the moon 

resplendent. But light or dark would have made no difference to Ma’ame 

Pelagie. It was not the first time she had stolen away to the ruin at nighttime, 

when the whole plantation slept; but she never before had been 

there with a heart so nearly broken. She was going there for the last time 

to dream her dreams; to see the visions that hitherto had crowded her days 

and nights, and to bid them farewell. 

There was the first of them, awaiting her upon the very portal; a robust 

old white-haired man, chiding her for returning home so late. There are 

guests to be entertained. Does she not know it? Guests from the city and 

from the near plantations. Yes, she knows it is late. She had been abroad 

with Felix, and they did not notice how the time was speeding. Felix is 

there; he will explain it all. He is there beside her, but she does not want to 

hear what he will tell her father. 

Ma’ame Pelagie had sunk upon the bench where she and her sister so 

often came to sit. Turning, she gazed in through the gaping chasm of the 

window at her side. The interior of the ruin is ablaze. Not with the moonlight, 

for that is faint beside the other one—the sparkle from the crystal 

candelabra, which negroes, moving noiselessly and respectfully about, are 

lighting, one after the other. How the gleam of them reflects and glances 

from the polished marble pillars! 

The room holds a number of guests. There is old Monsieur Lucien 

Santien, leaning against one of the pillars, and laughing at something which 

Monsieur Lafirme is telling him, till his fat shoulders shake. His son Jules 

is with him—Jules, who wants to marry her. She laughs. She wonders if 

Felix has told her father yet. There is young Jerome Lafirme playing at 

checkers upon the sofa with Leandre. Little Pauline stands annoying them 

and disturbing the game. Leandre reproves her. She begins to cry, and old 

black Clementine, her nurse, who is not far off, limps across the room to 

pick her up and carry her away. How sensitive the little one is! But she


trots about and takes care of herself better than she did a year or two ago, 

when she fell upon the stone hall floor and raised a great “bo-bo” on her 

forehead. Pelagie was hurt and angry enough about it; and she ordered 

rugs and buffalo robes to be brought and laid thick upon the tiles, till the 

little one’s steps were surer. 

“Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline.” She was saying it aloud—”faire mal 

a Pauline.” 

But she gazes beyond the salon, back into the big dining hall, where the 

white crepe myrtle grows. Ha! how low that bat has circled. It has struck 

Ma’ame Pelagie full on the breast. She does not know it. She is beyond 

there in the dining hall, where her father sits with a group of friends over 

their wine. As usual they are talking politics. How tiresome! She has heard 

them say “la guerre” oftener than once. La guerre. Bah! She and Felix have 

something pleasanter to talk about, out under the oaks, or back in the 

shadow of the oleanders. 

But they were right! The sound of a cannon, shot at Sumter, has rolled 

across the Southern States, and its echo is heard along the whole stretch of 

Cote Joyeuse. 

Yet Pelagie does not believe it. Not till La Ricaneuse stands before her 

with bare, black arms akimbo, uttering a volley of vile abuse and of brazen 

impudence. Pelagie wants to kill her. But yet she will not believe. Not till 

Felix comes to her in the chamber above the dining hall—there where that 

trumpet vine hangs—comes to say good-by to her. The hurt which the big 

brass buttons of his new gray uniform pressed into the tender flesh of her 

bosom has never left it. She sits upon the sofa, and he beside her, both 

speechless with pain. That room would not have been altered. Even the sofa 

would have been there in the same spot, and Ma’ame Pelagie had meant all 

along, for thirty years, all along, to lie there upon it some day when the time 

came to die. 

But there is no time to weep, with the enemy at the door. The door has 

been no barrier. They are clattering through the halls now, drinking the 

wines, shattering the crystal and glass, slashing the portraits. 

One of them stands before her and tells her to leave the house. She slaps 

his face. How the stigma stands out red as blood upon his blanched cheek! 

Now there is a roar of fire and the flames are bearing down upon her 

motionless figure. She wants to show them how a daughter of Louisiana 

can perish before her conquerors. But little Pauline clings to her knees in 

an agony of terror. Little Pauline must be saved. 

“Il ne faut pas faire mal a Pauline.” Again she is saying it aloud—”faire 

mal a Pauline.” 

133


The night was nearly spent; Ma’ame Pelagie had glided from the bench 

upon which she had rested, and for hours lay prone upon the stone flagging, 

motionless. When she dragged herself to her feet it was to walk like 

one in a dream. About the great, solemn pillars, one after the other, she 

reached her arms, and pressed her cheek and her lips upon the senseless 

brick. 

“Adieu, adieu!” whispered Ma’ame Pelagie. 

There was no longer the moon to guide her steps across the familiar 

pathway to the cabin. The brightest light in the sky was Venus, that swung 

low in the east. The bats had ceased to beat their wings about the ruin. 

Even the mocking-bird that had warbled for hours in the old mulberrytree 

had sung himself asleep. That darkest hour before the day was mantling 

the earth. Ma’ame Pelagie hurried through the wet, clinging grass, 

beating aside the heavy moss that swept across her face, walking on toward 

the cabin-toward Pauline. Not once did she look back upon the ruin 

that brooded like a huge monster—a black spot in the darkness that enveloped 

it. 

134 

IV 

LITTLE MORE THAN A YEAR later the transformation which the old Valmet 

place had undergone was the talk and wonder of Cote Joyeuse. One would 

have looked in vain for the ruin; it was no longer there; neither was the log 

cabin. But out in the open, where the sun shone upon it, and the breezes 

blew about it, was a shapely structure fashioned from woods that the forests 

of the State had furnished. It rested upon a solid foundation of brick. 

Upon a corner of the pleasant gallery sat Leandre smoking his afternoon 

cigar, and chatting with neighbors who had called. This was to be 

his pied a terre now; the home where his sisters and his daughter dwelt. 

The laughter of young people was heard out under the trees, and within 

the house where La Petite was playing upon the piano. With the enthusiasm 

of a young artist she drew from the keys strains that seemed marvelously 

beautiful to Mam’selle Pauline, who stood enraptured near her. 

Mam’selle Pauline had been touched by the re-creation of Valmet. Her 

cheek was as full and almost as flushed as La Petite’s. The years were falling 

away from her. 

Ma’ame Pelagie had been conversing with her brother and his friends.


Then she turned and walked away; stopping to listen awhile to the music 

which La Petite was making. But it was only for a moment. She went on 

around the curve of the veranda, where she found herself alone. She stayed 

there, erect, holding to the banister rail and looking out calmly in the 

distance across the fields. 

She was dressed in black, with the white kerchief she always wore folded 

across her bosom. Her thick, glossy hair rose like a silver diadem from her 

brow. In her deep, dark eyes smouldered the light of fires that would never 

flame. She had grown very old. Years instead of months seemed to have 

passed over her since the night she bade farewell to her visions. 

Poor Ma’ame Pelagie! How could it be different! While the outward 

pressure of a young and joyous existence had forced her footsteps into the 

light, her soul had stayed in the shadow of the ruin. 

135

Desiree’s Baby 

136 


AS THE DAY WAS PLEASANT, Madame Valmonde drove over to L’Abri to see 

Desiree and the baby. 

It made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemed but 

yesterday that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur 

in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lying asleep in 

the shadow of the big stone pillar. 

The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for “Dada.” That was 

as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have 

strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The 

prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, 

whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that 

Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame Valmonde 

abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been sent to 

her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that 

she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and 

gentle, affectionate and sincere,—the idol of Valmonde. 

It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in 

whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand 

Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That 

was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The 

wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known her since 

his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother 

died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at 

the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything 

that drives headlong over all obstacles. 

Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: 

that is, the girl’s obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not 

care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a 

name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? 

He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what 

patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.


Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. 

When she reached L’Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always 

did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known 

the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married 

and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well 

ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching 

out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. 

Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching 

branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny’s rule was a strict one, 

too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had 

been during the old master’s easy-going and indulgent lifetime. 

The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft 

white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her 

arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat 

beside a window fanning herself. 

Madame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her, 

holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child. 

“This is not the baby!” she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the 

language spoken at Valmonde in those days. 

“I knew you would be astonished,” laughed Desiree, “at the way he has 

grown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands 

and fingernails,—real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. 

Isn’t it true, Zandrine?” 

The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, “Mais si, Madame.” 

“And the way he cries,” went on Desiree, “is deafening. Armand heard 

him the other day as far away as La Blanche’s cabin.” 

Madame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She 

lifted it and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She 

scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose 

face was turned to gaze across the fields. 

“Yes, the child has grown, has changed,” said Madame Valmonde, slowly, 

as she replaced it beside its mother. “What does Armand say?” 

Desiree’s face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. 

“Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because 

it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not,—that he would have 

loved a girl as well. But I know it isn’t true. I know he says that to please me. 

And mamma,” she added, drawing Madame Valmonde’s head down to her, 

and speaking in a whisper, “he hasn’t punished one of them—not one of 

them—since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretended to have burnt 

his leg that he might rest from work—he only laughed, and said Negrillon 

137


was a great scamp. oh, mamma, I’m so happy; it frightens me.” 

What Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had 

softened Armand Aubigny’s imperious and exacting nature greatly. This 

was what made the gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved him desperately. 

When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she 

asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand’s dark, handsome face had 

not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her. 

When the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to 

the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It 

was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; 

an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors 

who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful 

change in her husband’s manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. 

When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old lovelight 

seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when 

there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the 

very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings 

with the slaves. Desiree was miserable enough to die. 

She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing 

through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung 

about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great 

mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined 

half-canopy. One of La Blanche’s little quadroon boys—half naked too— 

stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Desiree’s 

eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving 

to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She 

looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; 

over and over. “Ah!” It was a cry that she could not help; which she was 

not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, 

and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face. 

She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, 

at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress 

was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently 

stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes. 

She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face 

the picture of fright. 

Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went 

to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it. 

“Armand,” she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, 

if he was human. But he did not notice. “Armand,” she said again. Then 

138


she rose and tottered towards him. “Armand,” she panted once more, 

clutching his arm, “look at our child. What does it mean? tell me.” 

He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust 

the hand away from him. “Tell me what it means!” she cried despairingly. 

“It means,” he answered lightly, “that the child is not white; it means 

that you are not white.” 

A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her 

with unwonted courage to deny it. “It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! 

Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know 

they are gray. And my skin is fair,” seizing his wrist. “Look at my hand; 

whiter than yours, Armand,” she laughed hysterically. 

“As white as La Blanche’s,” he returned cruelly; and went away leaving 

her alone with their child. 

When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to 

Madame Valmonde. 

“My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not 

white. For God’s sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. 

I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live.” 

The answer that came was brief: 

“My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who 

loves you. Come with your child.” 

When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband’s study, 

and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone 

image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there. 

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words. 

He said nothing. “Shall I go, Armand?” she asked in tones sharp with 

agonized suspense. 

“Yes, go.” 

“Do you want me to go?” 

“Yes, I want you to go.” 

He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; 

and felt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed 

thus into his wife’s soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the 

unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name. 

She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards 

the door, hoping he would call her back. 

“Good-by, Armand,” she moaned. 

He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. 

Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery 

with it. She took the little one from the nurse’s arms with no word of explanation, 

139


and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches. 

It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still 

fields the negroes were picking cotton. 

Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which 

she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun’s rays brought a golden 

gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road 

which led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across a deserted 

field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, 

and tore her thin gown to shreds. 

She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the 

banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. 

SOME WEEKS LATER there was a curious scene enacted at L’Abri. In the 

centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand 

Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; 

and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which 

kept this fire ablaze. 

A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon 

the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. 

Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; 

laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had 

been of rare quality. 

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings 

that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was 

the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it 

was not Desiree’s; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. 

He read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband’s love:— 

“But above all,” she wrote, “night and day, I thank the good God for having so 

arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who 

adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery.” 

140


A Respectable Woman 

MRS. BARODA WAS A LITTLE PROVOKED to learn that her husband expected 

his friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation. 

They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time 

had also been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation. 

She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, and undisturbed 

tete-a-tete with her husband, when he informed her that Gouvernail 

was coming up to stay a week or two. 

This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her 

husband’s college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a society 

man or “a man about town,” which were, perhaps, some of the reasons she 

had never met him. But she had unconsciously formed an image of him in 

her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical; with eye-glasses, and his 

hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. Gouvernail was slim enough, 

but he wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; neither did he wear eyeglasses nor 

carry his hands in his pockets. And she rather liked him when he first 

presented himself. 

But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself 

when she partly attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of 

those brilliant and promising traits which Gaston, her husband, had often 

assured her that he possessed. On the contrary, he sat rather mute and 

receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him feel at home and in face 

of Gaston’s frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as courteous 

toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he made no 

direct appeal to her approval or even esteem. 

Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide portico 

in the shade of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his cigar lazily 

and listening attentively to Gaston’s experience as a sugar planter. 

“This is what I call living,” he would utter with deep satisfaction, as the 

air that swept across the sugar field caressed him with its warm and scented 

velvety touch. It pleased him also to get on familiar terms with the big 

dogs that came about him, rubbing themselves sociably against his legs. 

141


He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness to go out and kill 

grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so. 

Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, 

he was a lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she could 

understand him no better than at first, she gave over being puzzled and 

remained piqued. In this mood she left her husband and her guest, for the 

most part, alone together. Then finding that Gouvernail took no manner 

of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon him, accompanying 

him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along the batture. She 

persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which he had unconsciously 

enveloped himself. 

“When is he going—your friend?” she one day asked her husband. “For 

my part, he tires me frightfully.” 

“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no trouble.” 

“No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, and 

I had to plan somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.” 

Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly 

and laughingly into her troubled eyes. 

They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s 

dressing-room. 

“You are full of surprises, ma belle,” he said to her. “Even I can never 

count upon how you are going to act under given conditions.” He kissed 

her and turned to fasten his cravat before the mirror. 

“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor Gouvernail seriously and making 

a commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect.” 

“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say such a 

thing? Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.” 

“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s why 

I asked him here to take a rest.” 

“You used to say he was a man of ideas,” she retorted, unconciliated. “I 

expected him to be interesting, at least. I’m going to the city in the morning 

to have my spring gowns fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernail is 

gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.” 

That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a 

live oak tree at the edge of the gravel walk. 

She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. 

She could gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct necessity 

to quit her home in the morning. 

Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in 

the darkness only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew it 

142


was Gouvernail, for her husband did not smoke. She hoped to remain 

unnoticed, but her white gown revealed her to him. He threw away his 

cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her; without a suspicion 

that she might object to his presence. 

“Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,” he said, 

handing her a filmy, white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her 

head and shoulders. She accepted the scarf from him with a murmur of 

thanks, and let it lie in her lap. 

He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of 

the night air at the season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness, 

he murmured, half to himself: 

“`Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! 

Still nodding night—’” 

She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was 

not addressed to her. 

Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a self-conscious 

one. His periods of reserve were not constitutional, but the result of 

moods. Sitting there beside Mrs. Baroda, his silence melted for the time. 

He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not 

unpleasant to hear. He talked of the old college days when he and Gaston 

had been a good deal to each other; of the days of keen and blind ambitions 

and large intentions. Now there was left with him, at least, a philosophic 

acquiescence to the existing order—only a desire to be permitted 

to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine life, such as he was 

breathing now. 

Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying. Her physical being 

was for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his words, 

only drinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand 

in the darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon 

the face or the lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper against 

his cheek—she did not care what—as she might have done if she had not 

been a respectable woman. 

The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, in 

fact, did she draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without an 

appearance of too great rudeness, she rose and left him there alone. 

Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and 

ended his apostrophe to the night. 

Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband—who 

143


was also her friend—of this folly that had seized her. But she did not yield 

to the temptation. Beside being a respectable woman she was a very sensible 

one; and she knew there are some battles in life which a human being 

must fight alone. 

When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She 

had taken an early morning train to the city. She did not return till 

Gouvernail was gone from under her roof. 

There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. 

That is, Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his 

wife’s strenuous opposition. 

However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to 

have Gouvernail visit them again. Her husband was surprised and delighted 

with the suggestion coming from her. 

“I am glad, chere amie, to know that you have finally overcome your 

dislike for him; truly he did not deserve it.” 

“Oh,” she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon 

his lips, “I have overcome everything! you will see. This time I shall be 

very nice to him.” 

144

The Kiss 


IT WAS STILL QUITE LIGHT out of doors, but inside with the curtains drawn 

and the smouldering fire sending out a dim, uncertain glow, the room was 

full of deep shadows. 

Brantain sat in one of these shadows; it had overtaken him and he did 

not mind. The obscurity lent him courage to keep his eves fastened as 

ardently as he liked upon the girl who sat in the firelight. 

She was very handsome, with a certain fine, rich coloring that belongs 

to the healthy brune type. She was quite composed, as she idly stroked the 

satiny coat of the cat that lay curled in her lap, and she occasionally sent a 

slow glance into the shadow where her companion sat. They were talking 

low, of indifferent things which plainly were not the things that occupied 

their thoughts. She knew that he loved her—a frank, blustering fellow 

without guile enough to conceal his feelings, and no desire to do so. For 

two weeks past he had sought her society eagerly and persistently. She was 

confidently waiting for him to declare himself and she meant to accept 

him. The rather insignificant and unattractive Brantain was enormously 

rich; and she liked and required the entourage which wealth could give 

her. 

During one of the pauses between their talk of the last tea and the next 

reception the door opened and a young man entered whom Brantain knew 

quite well. The girl turned her face toward him. A stride or two brought 

him to her side, and bending over her chair—before she could suspect his 

intention, for she did not realize that he had not seen her visitor—he 

pressed an ardent, lingering kiss upon her lips. 

Brantain slowly arose; so did the girl arise, but quickly, and the newcomer 

stood between them, a little amusement and some defiance struggling 

with the confusion in his face. 

“I believe,” stammered Brantain, “I see that I have stayed too long. I— 

I had no idea—that is, I must wish you good-by.” He was clutching his 

hat with both hands, and probably did not perceive that she was extending 

her hand to him, her presence of mind had not completely deserted 

145

The Kiss 

her; but she could not have trusted herself to speak. 

“Hang me if I saw him sitting there, Nattie! I know it’s deuced awkward 

for you. But I hope you’ll forgive me this once—this very first break. 

Why, what’s the matter?” 

“Don’t touch me; don’t come near me,” she returned angrily. “What do 

you mean by entering the house without ringing?” 

“I came in with your brother, as I often do,” he answered coldly, in selfjustification. 

“We came in the side way. He went upstairs and I came in 

here hoping to find you. The explanation is simple enough and ought to 

satisfy you that the misadventure was unavoidable. But do say that you 

forgive me, Nathalie,” he entreated, softening. 

“Forgive you! You don’t know what you are talking about. Let me pass. 

It depends upon—a good deal whether I ever forgive you.” 

At that next reception which she and Brantain had been talking about 

she approached the young man with a delicious frankness of manner when 

she saw him there. 

“Will you let me speak to you a moment or two, Mr. Brantain?” she 

asked with an engaging but perturbed smile. He seemed extremely unhappy; 

but when she took his arm and walked away with him, seeking a 

retired corner, a ray of hope mingled with the almost comical misery of 

his expression. She was apparently very outspoken. 

“Perhaps I should not have sought this interview, Mr. Brantain; but— 

but, oh, I have been very uncomfortable, almost miserable since that little 

encounter the other afternoon. When I thought how you might have misinterpreted 

it, and believed things” —hope was plainly gaining the ascendancy 

over misery in Brantain’s round, guileless face—”Of course, I know 

it is nothing to you, but for my own sake I do want you to understand 

that Mr. Harvy is an intimate friend of long standing. Why, we have always 

been like cousins—like brother and sister, I may say. He is my brother’s 

most intimate associate and often fancies that he is entitled to the same 

privileges as the family. Oh, I know it is absurd, uncalled for, to tell you 

this; undignified even,” she was almost weeping, “but it makes so much 

difference to me what you think of—of me.” Her voice had grown very 

low and agitated. The misery had all disappeared from Brantain’s face. 

“Then you do really care what I think, Miss Nathalie? May I call you 

Miss Nathalie?” They turned into a long, dim corridor that was lined on 

either side with tall, graceful plants. They walked slowly to the very end of 

it. When they turned to retrace their steps Brantain’s face was radiant and 

hers was triumphant. 

146


HARVY WAS AMONG the guests at the wedding; and he sought her out in a 

rare moment when she stood alone. 

“Your husband,” he said, smiling, “has sent me over to kiss you. “ 

A quick blush suffused her face and round polished throat. “I suppose 

it’s natural for a man to feel and act generously on an occasion of this 

kind. He tells me he doesn’t want his marriage to interrupt wholly that 

pleasant intimacy which has existed between you and me. I don’t know 

what you’ve been telling him,” with an insolent smile, “but he has sent me 

here to kiss you.” 

She felt like a chess player who, by the clever handling of his pieces, sees 

the game taking the course intended. Her eyes were bright and tender 

with a smile as they glanced up into his; and her lips looked hungry for 

the kiss which they invited. 

“But, you know,” he went on quietly, “I didn’t tell him so, it would have 

seemed ungrateful, but I can tell you. I’ve stopped kissing women; it’s 

dangerous.” 

Well, she had Brantain and his million left. A person can’t have everything 

in this world; and it was a little unreasonable of her to expect it. 

147

A Pair of Silk Stockings 

148 


LITTLE MRS. SOMMERS ONE DAY found herself the unexpected possessor of 

fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the 

way in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old porte-monnaie gave her 

a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years. 

The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day 

or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really absorbed 

in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act hastily, to do anything 

she might afterward regret. But it was during the still hours of the 

night when she lay awake revolving plans in her mind that she seemed to 

see her way clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money. 

A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janie’s 

shoes, which would insure their lasting an appreciable time longer than 

they usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new 

shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag. She had intended to make the 

old ones do by skilful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had 

seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And 

still there would be left enough for new stockings—two pairs apiece— 

and what darning that would save for a while! She would get caps for the 

boys and sailor-hats for the girls. The vision of her little brood looking 

fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives excited her and made her 

restless and wakeful with anticipation. 

The neighbors sometimes talked of certain “better days” that little Mrs. 

Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Sommers. 

She herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time— 

no second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbed 

her every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim, gaunt monster 

sometimes appalled her, but luckily to-morrow never comes. 

Mrs. Sommers was one who knew the value of bargains; who could 

stand for hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object 

that was selling below cost. She could elbow her way if need be; she had 

learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with persis-


tence and determination till her turn came to be served, no matter when it 

came. 

But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light 

luncheon—no! when she came to think of it, between getting the children 

fed and the place righted, and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she 

had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all! 

She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was comparatively 

deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge through an 

eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting and figured lawn. 

An all-gone limp feeling had come over her and she rested her hand aimlessly 

upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By degrees she grew aware that 

her hand had encountered something very soothing, very pleasant to touch. 

She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A 

placard near by announced that they had been reduced in price from two 

dollars and fifty cents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents; and a young girl 

who stood behind the counter asked her if she wished to examine their line 

of silk hosiery. She smiled, just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of 

diamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling 

the soft, sheeny luxurious things—with both hands now, holding them up 

to see them glisten, and to feel them glide serpent-like through her fingers. 

Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up 

at the girl. 

“Do you think there are any eights-and-a-half among these?” 

There were any number of eights-and-a-half. In fact, there were more 

of that size than any other. Here was a light-blue pair; there were some 

lavender, some all black and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. Sommers 

selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely. She pretended 

to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured her was 

excellent. 

“A dollar and ninety-eight cents,” she mused aloud. “Well, I’ll take this 

pair.” She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her change and 

for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was! It seemed lost in the depths 

of her shabby old shopping-bag. 

Mrs. Sommers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain 

counter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into 

the region of the ladies’ waiting-rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged 

her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had just 

bought. She was not going through any acute mental process or reasoning 

with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive 

of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be 

taking a rest from that laborious and fatiguing function and to have aban- 

149


doned herself to some mechanical impulse that directed her actions and 

freed her of responsibility. 

How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh! She felt like lying 

back in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. 

She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton 

stockings together and thrust them into her bag. After doing this she crossed 

straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to be fitted. 

She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not reconcile 

her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily pleased. She held 

back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she 

glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked 

very pretty. She could not realize that they belonged to her and were a part of 

herself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who 

served her, and she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the 

price so long as she got what she desired. 

It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On 

rare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always “bargains,” so 

cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have 

expected them to be fitted to the hand. 

Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a 

pretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a longwristed 

“kid” over Mrs. Sommers’s hand. She smoothed it down over the 

wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second or two 

in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. But there 

were other places where money might be spent. 

There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few 

paces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines 

such as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been 

accustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. 

As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her stockings and 

boots and well fitting gloves had worked marvels in her bearing—had 

given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed 

multitude. 

She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings 

for food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed 

herself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available. But 

the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain any 

such thought. 

There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors; 

from the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask 

150


and shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion. 

When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation, 

as she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table 

alone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She 

did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite—a half dozen 

blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet—a creme-frappee, 

for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a small cup of black coffee. 

While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid 

them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, 

cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. 

The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through the window, 

and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and gentlemen, 

who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own. A soft, 

pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle breeze, was blowing 

through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two, and she 

sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in the silk stockings. The price 

of it made no difference. She counted the money out to the waiter and left 

an extra coin on his tray, whereupon he bowed before her as before a princess 

of royal blood. 

There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented 

itself in the shape of a matinee poster. 

It was a little later when she entered the theatre, the play had begun and 

the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here 

and there, and into one of them she was ushered, between brilliantly dressed 

women who had gone there to kill time and eat candy and display their 

gaudy attire. There were many others who were there solely for the play 

and acting. It is safe to say there was no one present who bore quite the 

attitude which Mrs. Sommers did to her surroundings. She gathered in 

the whole—stage and players and people in one wide impression, and 

absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at the comedy and wept—she and 

the gaudy woman next to her wept over the tragedy. And they talked a 

little together over it. And the gaudy woman wiped her eyes and sniffled 

on a tiny square of filmy, perfumed lace and passed little Mrs. Sommers 

her box of candy. 

The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a 

dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Sommers went to 

the corner and waited for the cable car. 

A man with keen eyes, who sat opposite to her, seemed to like the study 

of her small, pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In 

truth, he saw nothing-unless he were wizard enough to detect a poignant 

151


wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop anywhere, 

but go on and on with her forever. 

152

The Locket 

I 


ONE NIGHT IN AUTUMN a few men were gathered about a fire on the slope 

of a hill. They belonged to a small detachment of Confederate forces and 

were awaiting orders to march. Their gray uniforms were worn beyond 

the point of shabbiness. One of the men was heating something in a tin 

cup over the embers. Two were lying at full length a little distance away, 

while a fourth was trying to decipher a letter and had drawn close to the 

light. He had unfastened his collar and a good bit of his flannel shirt 

front. 

“What’s that you got around your neck, Ned?” asked one of the men 

lying in the obscurity. 

Ned—or Edmond—mechanically fastened another button of his shirt 

and did not reply. He went on reading his letter. 

“Is it your sweet heart’s picture?” 

“`Taint no gal’s picture,” offered the man at the fire. He had removed 

his tin cup and was engaged in stirring its grimy contents with a small 

stick. “That’s a charm; some kind of hoodoo business that one o’ them 

priests gave him to keep him out o’ trouble. I know them Cath’lics. That’s 

how come Frenchy got permoted an never got a scratch sence he’s been in 

the ranks. Hey, French! aint I right?” Edmond looked up absently from 

his letter. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“Aint that a charm you got round your neck?” 

“It must be, Nick,” returned Edmond with a smile. “I don’t know how 

I could have gone through this year and a half without it.” 

The letter had made Edmond heart sick and home sick. He stretched 

himself on his back and looked straight up at the blinking stars. But he 

was not thinking of them nor of anything but a certain spring day when 

153


the bees were humming in the clematis; when a girl was saying good bye 

to him. He could see her as she unclasped from her neck the locket which 

she fastened about his own. It was an old fashioned golden locket bearing 

miniatures of her father and mother with their names and the date of their 

marriage. It was her most precious earthly possession. Edmond could feel 

again the folds of the girl’s soft white gown, and see the droop of the 

angel-sleeves as she circled her fair arms about his neck. Her sweet face, 

appealing, pathetic, tormented by the pain of parting, appeared before 

him as vividly as life. He turned over, burying his face in his arm and there 

he lay, still and motionless. 

The profound and treacherous night with its silence and semblance of 

peace settled upon the camp. He dreamed that the fair Octavie brought 

him a letter. He had no chair to offer her and was pained and embarrassed 

at the condition of his garments. He was ashamed of the poor food which 

comprised the dinner at which he begged her to join them. 

He dreamt of a serpent coiling around his throat, and when he strove to 

grasp it the slimy thing glided away from his clutch. Then his dream was 

clamor. 

“Git your duds! you! Frenchy!” Nick was bellowing in his face. There was 

what appeared to be a scramble and a rush rather than any regulated movement. 

The hill side was alive with clatter and motion; with sudden upspringing 

lights among the pines. In the east the dawn was unfolding out of 

the darkness. Its glimmer was yet dim in the plain below. 

“What’s it all about?” wondered a big black bird perched in the top of 

the tallest tree. He was an old solitary and a wise one, yet he was not wise 

enough to guess what it was all about. So all day long he kept blinking and 

wondering. 

The noise reached far out over the plain and across the hills and awoke 

the little babes that were sleeping in their cradles. The smoke curled up 

toward the sun and shadowed the plain so that the stupid birds thought it 

was going to rain; but the wise one knew better. 

“They are children playing a game,” thought he. “I shall know more 

about it if I watch long enough.” 

At the approach of night they had all vanished away with their din and 

smoke. Then the old bird plumed his feathers. At last he had understood! 

With a flap of his great, black wings he shot downward, circling toward 

the plain. 

A man was picking his way across the plain. He was dressed in the garb 

of a clergyman. His mission was to administer the consolations of religion 

to any of the prostrate figures in whom there might yet linger a spark of 

154


life. A negro accompanied him, bearing a bucket of water and a flask of 

wine. 

There were no wounded here; they had been borne away. But the retreat 

had been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would 

have to look to the dead. 

There was a soldier—a mere boy—lying with his face to the sky. His 

hands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were 

stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his despairing 

grasp upon life. His musket was gone; he was hatless and his face and 

clothing were begrimed. Around his neck hung a gold chain and locket. 

The priest, bending over him, unclasped the chain and removed it from 

the dead soldier’s neck. He had grown used to the terrors of war and could 

face them unflinchingly; but its pathos, someway, always brought the tears 

to his old, dim eyes. 

The angelus was ringing half a mile away. The priest and the negro 

knelt and murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for 

the dead. 

II 

THE PEACE AND BEAUTY of a spring day had descended upon the earth like 

a benediction. Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow, tortuous stream 

in central Louisiana, rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet, much the worse 

for hard and rough usage over country roads and lanes. The fat, black 

horses went in a slow, measured trot, notwithstanding constant urging on 

the part of the fat, black coachman. Within the vehicle were seated the fair 

Octavie and her old friend and neighbor, Judge Pillier, who had come to 

take her for a morning drive. 

Octavie wore a plain black dress, severe in its simplicity. A narrow belt 

held it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into close fitting wristbands. 

She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared not unlike a nun. 

Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the old locket. She never displayed 

it now. It had returned to her sanctified in her eyes; made precious as 

material things sometimes are by being forever identified with a significant 

moment of one’s existence. 

A hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket had 

come back to her. No later than that morning she had again pored over it. 

155


As she sat beside the window, smoothing the letter out upon her knee, 

heavy and spiced odors stole in to her with the songs of birds and the 

humming of insects in the air. 

She was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over 

her a sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest’s letter. He 

told of that autumn day drawing to its close, with the gold and the red 

fading out of the west, and the night gathering its shadows to cover the 

faces of the dead. Oh! She could not believe that one of those dead was her 

own! with visage uplifted to the gray sky in an agony of supplication. A 

spasm of resistance and rebellion seized and swept over her. Why was the 

spring here with its flowers and its seductive breath if he was dead! Why 

was she here! What further had she to do with life and the living! 

Octavie had experienced many such moments of despair, but a blessed 

resignation had never failed to follow, and it fell then upon her like a 

mantle and enveloped her. 

“I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie,” she murmured 

to herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary. 

Already she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie. She walked 

with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Tavie whom 

some youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation while leaving 

her in possession of youth’s illusions. 

As she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover, again 

there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had assailed her so 

often before. The soul of her youth clamored for its rights; for a share in the 

world’s glory and exultation. She leaned back and drew her veil a little closer 

about her face. It was an old black veil of her Aunt Tavie’s. A whiff of dust 

from the road had blown in and she wiped her cheeks and her eyes with her 

soft, white handkerchief, a homemade handkerchief, fabricated from one of 

her old fine muslin petticoats. 

“Will you do me the favor, Octavie,” requested the judge in the courteous 

tone which he never abandoned, “to remove that veil which you wear. 

It seems out of harmony, someway, with the beauty and promise of the 

day.” 

The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion’s wish and 

unpinning the cumbersome, sombre drapery from her bonnet, folded it 

neatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her. 

“Ah! that is better; far better!” he said in a tone expressing unbounded 

relief. “Never put it on again, dear.” Octavie felt a little hurt; as if he 

wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden of affliction 

which had been placed upon all of them. Again she drew forth the old 

156


muslin handkerchief. 

They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had 

formerly been an old meadow. There were clumps of thorn trees here and 

there, gorgeous in their spring radiance. Some cattle were grazing off in 

the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious. At the far end 

of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge, skirting the lane that led to 

Judge Pillier’s house, and the scent of its heavy blossoms met them like a 

soft and tender embrace of welcome. 

As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the 

girl’s shoulders and turning her face up to him he said: “Do you not think 

that on a day like this, miracles might happen? When the whole earth is 

vibrant with life, does it not seem to you, Octavie, that heaven might for 

once relent and give us back our dead?” He spoke very low, advisedly, and 

impressively. In his voice was an old quaver which was not habitual and 

there was agitation in every line of his visage. She gazed at him with eyes 

that were full of supplication and a certain terror of joy. 

They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on 

one side and the open meadow on the other. The horses had somewhat 

quickened their lazy pace. As they turned into the avenue leading to the 

house, a whole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of 

melodious greeting from their leafy hiding places. 

Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was like 

a dream, more poignant and real than life. There was the old gray house 

with its sloping eaves. Amid the blur of green, and dimly, she saw familiar 

faces and heard voices as if they came from far across the fields, and Edmond 

was holding her. Her dead Edmond; her living Edmond, and she felt the 

beating of his heart against her and the agonizing rapture of his kisses 

striving to awake her. It was as if the spirit of life and the awakening spring 

had given back the soul to her youth and bade her rejoice. 

It was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom 

and looked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance. 

“It was the night before an engagement,” he said. “In the hurry of the 

encounter, and the retreat next day, I never missed it till the fight was over. 

I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the struggle, but it was 

stolen.” 

“Stolen,” she shuddered, and thought of the dead soldier with his face 

uplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication. 

Edmond said nothing; but he thought of his messmate; the one who 

had lain far back in the shadow; the one who had said nothing. 

157

A Reflection 

158 

A Reflection 

SOME PEOPLE ARE BORN with a vital and responsive energy. It not only 

enables them to keep abreast of the times; it qualifies them to furnish in 

their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace. 

They are fortunate beings. They do not need to apprehend the significance 

of things. They do not grow weary nor miss step, nor do they fall 

out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplating the moving 

procession. 

Ah! that moving procession that has left me by the road-side! Its fantastic 

colors are more brilliant and beautiful than the sun on the undulating 

waters. What matter if souls and bodies are failing beneath the feet of the 

ever-pressing multitude! It moves with the majestic rhythm of the spheres. 

Its discordant clashes sweep upward in one harmonious tone that blends 

with the music of other worlds—to complete God’s orchestra. 

It is greater than the stars—that moving procession of human energy; 

greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! I 

could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the clouds 

and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in the society of these symbols 

of life’s immutability. In the procession I should feel the crushing 

feet, the clashing discords, the ruthless hands and stifling breath. I could 

not hear the rhythm of the march. 

Salve! ye dumb hearts. Let us be still and wait by the roadside. 

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The Awakening Kate Chopin - Penn State University

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