The Awakening Other Short Stories | Page 9

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.

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 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.

VII

Mrs.