The Awakening

hey 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 naïveté. 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 bête, 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 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.

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.