Chapter I
A
green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating
over and over:
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 âbridgesâ which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the
other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the
mockingbird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make
all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society
when they ceased to be entertaining.
He
stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the
main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which
was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper.
The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet
reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he
glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had
time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before.
Mr.
Pontellier wore eyeglasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather
slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on
one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed.
Once
in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him.
There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called âthe
house,â 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 âZampaâ
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 ChĂȘniĂšre Caminada
in Beaudeletâs lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the
wateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellierâs two children were thereâsturdy
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
snailâs pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks
of the water oaks and across the stretch of yellow chamomile. The gulf looked
far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued
to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs.
Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two
seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the
porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post.
âWhat
folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat!â exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He
himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to
him.
âYou
are burnt beyond recognition,â 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.
âWhat
is it?â 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 Kleinâs hotel and play a
game of billiards.
âCome
go along, Lebrun,â he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly
that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier.
âWell,
send him about his business when he bores you, Edna,â instructed her husband as
he prepared to leave.
âHere,
take the umbrella,â she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the
sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away.
âComing
back to dinner?â 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 Kleinâs and the
size of âthe game.â He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed,
nodding goodbye to him.
Both
children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He
kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts.
Chapter II
Mrs.
Pontellierâs 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 waterâit had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind,
the trees, the people who had gone to the ChĂȘniĂšre; about the children
playing croquet under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing
the overture to âThe Poet and the Peasant.â
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, âthe houseâ 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 âQuartier Français,â
it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which
appeared to be her birthright.
Mrs.
Pontellier talked about her fatherâs 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.
âI
see LĂ©once isnât coming back,â 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 Kleinâs.
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.
Chapter III
It
was eleven oâclock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Kleinâs 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. 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 motherâs 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. Pontellierâs 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 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 husbandâs 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 soulâs 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 Kleinâs
hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted
it with no little satisfaction.
âIt
will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet!â she exclaimed, smoothing
out the bills as she counted them one by one.
âOh!
weâll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,â he laughed, as he prepared
to kiss her goodbye.
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 goodbye 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
bitsâthe finest of fruits, patĂ©s, 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 patés and fruit
were brought to the dining room; the bonbons were passed around. And the
ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily,
all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs.
Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.
Chapter IV
It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or anyone elseâs 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 motherâs arms for comfort; he would more likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his eyes and the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other mother-tots. The 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-wom...