The Awakening

very 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
furnished, 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.

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 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
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.