The Awakening and Selected Short Stories

K >> Kate Chopin >> The Awakening and Selected Short Stories


"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.




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.

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
gold, 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
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. 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
composed, 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
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.

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

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.

He stood up beside her and smoothed her hair with his soft, magnetic
hand. His touch conveyed to her a certain physical comfort. She could
have fallen quietly asleep there if he had continued to pass his hand
over her hair. He brushed the hair upward from the nape of her neck.

"I hope you will feel better and happier in the morning," he said. "You
have tried to do too much in the past few days. The dinner was the last
straw; you might have dispensed with it."

"Yes," she admitted; "it was stupid."

"No, it was delightful; but it has worn you out." His hand had strayed
to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh
to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon
the shoulder.

"I thought you were going away," she said, in an uneven voice.

"I am, after I have said good night."

"Good night," she murmured.

He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good
night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties.




XXXII


When Mr. Pontellier learned of his wife's intention to abandon her home
and take up her residence elsewhere, he immediately wrote her a letter
of unqualified disapproval and remonstrance. She had given reasons which
he was unwilling to acknowledge as adequate. He hoped she had not acted
upon her rash impulse; and he begged her to consider first, foremost,
and above all else, what people would say. He was not dreaming of
scandal when he uttered this warning; that was a thing which would never
have entered into his mind to consider in connection with his wife's
name or his own. He was simply thinking of his financial integrity. It
might get noised about that the Pontelliers had met with reverses, and
were forced to conduct their 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.