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The Awakening and Other Stories
The Awakening and Other Stories
The Awakening and Other Stories
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The Awakening and Other Stories

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A collection of transformative stories that emphasize women’s roles in society.

The works of Kate Chopin were nearly forgotten for much of the twentieth century, but her popularity made a resurgence in the 1970s when readers and scholars turned their attention to early women’s literature. The Awakening, her best-known novel, is set in the Gulf Coast region around New Orleans, and is critically acclaimed for its style and for being ahead of its time in discussing important women’s issues. Also included in this volume are several of Chopin’s short stories, including “Désirée’s Baby” and “The Story of an Hour.”
 
LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 3, 2018
ISBN9781684123506
The Awakening and Other Stories
Author

Kate Chopin

Born and raised in St. Louis, Kate Chopin (1850–1904) moved to Louisiana to marry the son of a cotton grower. A mother of six by the age of twenty-eight and a widow at thirty-two, she turned to writing to support her young family. She is best known today for The Awakening (1899), a portrait of marriage and motherhood so controversial it fell out of print shortly after publication and was not rediscovered until the 1960s.

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Rating: 3.603857115307352 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I always knew that this book is considered a feminist classic. What I did not know, however, is that Chopin writes with such flair, genuine emotion, and amazing local color. Even her earlier, less polished short stories shine with an amazing sincerity and clarity of energy. She was ahead of her time and continues to be relevant, and it's a shame that she wasn't able to become properly renown in her lifetime.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Substance: The short stories are entertaining, in the 19th century style, with interesting views of the Louisiana Creole milieu. The sentiments exhibited are conventional romances, although with wit and some insight.The novel "The Awakening" might better be termed "The Abandonment." I suggest that it was considered unacceptable as much for for its denigration of the roles of wife and mother, as for the restrained sensuality and "coded" adultery, although I'm sure Eulalie Mackecknie Shinn would have disapproved of the book. Style: Chopin writes smoothly and easily, with succulent descriptive passages. The use of dialect is not overly intrusive (compare "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and a host of grade-B writings from the period up through the 1950s).SPOILER ALERTThe self-indulgent protagonist seems never to have outgrown her youthful fantasies, and certainly made no effort to extend herself to understand her husband or care for her children (which she admitted).There have always been women with no desire to be encumbered by a family (her family removed her from a convent at some age, if I remember rightly). To accept the task and then shirk it, as Edna did, does not become justified by the claim that she didn't understand herself until later. Depriving her children of their mother is not a noble act, although they probably won't ever miss her, since she interacted with them as little as possible. (At least she didn't kill herself in front of them, compare "The Horse Whisperer".)
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The awakening to self-awareness of a rich New Orleans woman at the end of the nineteenth century. Unfortunately, in my opinion a rather dull book about a very dull woman.On the island of Grand Isle in the Gulf of Mexico a number of wealthy New Orleans are spending their summer vacation away from the city. Mrs Pontellier is of these: a young woman who has drifted into marriage and motherhood with very little thought, and with no strong feelings in relation to her husband, and very few towards her children, she finds herself bored with her life after six years of marriage. Robert Lebrun, the son of the house where they are staying, devotes himself slavishly to Edna Pontellier throughout her visit but, as he devotes himself slavishly (and innocently) to one young married woman or other during every summer season, this passes without remark or without exciting any jealousy on the part of Mr Pontallier. But rather than it just being an innocent flirtation for Edna, on her return to New Orleans she starts to question the very life that she leads.So a story of a woman's awakening to realisation of herself as a person in her own right, rather than as a wife and mother with needs subjugated to those of her family. But unfortunately I couldn't see Edna as anything other than a selfish little rich girl, who was quite happy to take from others without being prepared to give in return, and didn't seem to care about anybody other than herself in any meaningful way. She just didn't engage my interest at all, and neither did any of the other characters. So OK, but not great.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The story—which I certainly imagine must have been shocking to many of its initial readers—is well constructed and patiently told. I didn’t really love the writing, but the characters, and in particular the change in Edna’s character—were very well developed.

    I did not like the ending, though, in spite of it being perhaps the best writing in the entire book. I just think it would have been so much more interesting to imagine how Edna’s life would progress after—beyond—her awakening. She herself begins to imagine it, even imagining that she would eventually move on from Robert (which I think sounds right). So then why not let her live it? The book needn’t have gone into it; it might still have ended in roughly the same spot. Chopin might have said any number of things to simply hint at what was to come, and ended on that. I honestly think her imminent demise is the moralistic easy-way-out. I also think it hurts the power of the story as a whole, because the beauty of an awakening is really inherent in what she awakens to. And Edna has barely scratched the surface of that, as the story closes. I assumed it would end in such a way, but hoped for more, so I found it disappointing.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The Awakening by Kate Chopin has been sitting on the shelf for some time, purchased at a point in time when I thought I wanted to read more classics. This was Chopin's second book so it fit with the Classics CAT for February dealing with two or seconds. I knew the basic plot of a woman struggling to find an authentic life in a world where women are largely considered decorative. Once awakened by real love during her summer sojourn on Grand Isle, Edna Pontellier finds it impossible to return to her normal life as wife and mother in New Orleans. The book was very controversial when it was published at the turn of the century as Chopin described an early feminist mindset that really did threaten a world that circumcised women's lives. My edition is a study one with lots of interpretive essays as well as primary source documents from the books and magazines of the times with their guidance for women to be good wives and mothers.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Good read. A woman trapped in a role as mother and wife and is not content. Taking into consideration that it was first published in 1899, this novel speaks volumes on women and self identity.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I read this book in either junior high or high school and, even though my circumstances were very different than the protagonist's, I identified so strongly with the feeling of being confined and restricted and just wanting to break free.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I absolutely hated the way this novel ended! While the novel, I suppose, provided an interesting character study, the ending was like that one piece of garlic in an otherwise tasty apple pie. It ruined this novel for me.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This book is always a bit difficult for me to read, but it's just so touching. Chopin really makes me feel Edna's confusion. The end always makes me cry.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Required reading in too many English classes, normally I would hate such a text, but this actually is pretty good, and has always been very relevant. It stands the test of time like few do. Not my favorite period or writer, but among the best of each. Recommended.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I wouldn't have read this book without needing to for my class, but I wasn't completely disappointed. As a book that is influential in the women's movement of the early 1900s, it's not the worst. I really like the short stories by Kate Chopin, but the novel just doesn't seem to go anywhere. The awakening that the main character goes through is not as entertaining as it could have been. Also, it was very controversial during the time that it was written because of the affair that the main character has, but for today's standards it's not as shocking and therefore not as interesting.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Really did not sympathize with the protagonist.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I'm pretty sure I read this earlier too, but I was impressed with how sweet I found it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I enjoyed this book. I didn't expect to. The language used and the character pictures painted were really good. The only thing that stopped me from another half star was the ending. I didn't see it coming so it was good from that aspect but it left me high and dry and unhappy. I guess that makes it good too, a good novel should extract emotion from the reader. However, this old romantic would have liked something a bit more positive.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A well-written thought-provoking book, particularly given the fact that it was published first in 1899. It is very understandable why this book was later re-discovered as it still seems very fresh. The attitude of this woman seems to be ahead of her time, which adds to the intrigue of the book. Plus it was very evocative of New Orleans. I could almost smell that City and I could certainly almost see it in her descriptions. My main problem, actually my only problem, with this book was the ending. Not because it was a tragic ending, but rather because she exhibits a belated concern for her children which she immediately throws out the window by killing herself. It was her relationship with her children in conjunction with her other decisions and actions that somehow didn't ring true. But it was still a wonderful surprise.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I found this to be a frustrating story. There were no characters that I really liked. The women were snobby and self-absorbed, the men distant and self-absorbed. I never really felt any empathy for Edna until close to the end of the story, and then, the story was over. Very unsatisfying.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I understand Mrs. P's 'Awakening' to her true self and identity and wants, but I don't think I have read about such a selfish and irresponsible character since Madame Bovary! It is really interesting how the two books take such similar twists ( that end with me feeling similar irritation and disrespect for the main characters), and yet I still really like both books; it is very infuriating to read a book and be upset by the turn of events because the characters are ridiculously simple minded and yet not be able to say you hate it! So yes, I liked this book, but golly it is so melodramatic and if Mrs. P is not bipolar then no one must be!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The writing is superb - all these elements - images, events, phrases - that lead the reader to consider the theme of waking up in all the many ways that one can "wake up". Long essays can and have been written on the ideas contained in this novel, so I won't attempt - but a few impressions. Edna has woken up and she is determined to be her own person - so much so that she would rather not be than be something she hasn't chosen. That is certainly taking the idea to its extreme extrapolation. While the book feels very real in some respects, there is a sense of unreality about Edna's single minded pursuit of individuality. Lots to think about in this novel.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This book falls under the sub-genre of 'books about women whose lives end tragically when society limits them in their choice of who they may love.' There are many great books in this category - Madame Bovary, The Age of Innocence, and Anna Karenina - just to name a few. Although I liked this story, I didn't feel the same empathy as I did with other great heroines. I have to say that it might have been because the audio narration was flat - the different character voices didn't display the angst that the protagonist, Edna Pontellier was experiencing. I have heard wonderful reviews of this book - and might have to give it another shot.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is a beautifully written brilliant story. An American classic about a woman's awakening to find her true self and her subsequent quest for independence.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I know this book supposed to be about the woman's sexual awakening and her awakening to the fact that, as a good wife and mother she's expected to subsume herself in the happiness of her family and she refuses to do such a thing. I was a little disappointed, though, that the only way she could think of expressing herself and asserting her individuality was through romance which I find to be many a woman's downfall and far from the meaning of life.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    I hated this book. I know, it's supposed to be the great feminist tome, but I think it was awful. If she was so unhappy, she should have left. She should have packed herself up and taken herself off. It just makes me crazy that anyone would think that suicide would be some great feminist gesture. Death preferred to the "awful" life she had. Give me a break! Life has possibilities - not all of them great, but at least there are options. Death, you're pretty much done. I don't even know why I still have this book. I'm going to have to get rid of it.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The Awakening? The ending is more like The Darkening (not to mention "The Hours" and "Madame Bovary.") My edition included some reviews from the 1899 publication date which were interesting. Even Willa Cather trounced the book at the end of her review. I've been meaning to read this one for years, though. Certainly the ending was a surprise.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    An appeasing novella, but dated and lacking in many instances. Altogether, did not enjoy very much.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I will start this interview by saying that this is not the edition of 'The Awakening' I got my hands on back in my college days. Nevertheless, this is an incredible book. On a personal note, I was struggling with nineteenth century literature, when my professor remarked to me that this book was different. And so it has been for me- this is one of my enduring favorites, a mesmerizing character study depicting a woman's quest that was considered scandalous in its day, but remains relevant to today's audience. But this book is more than that, it should not be dismissed as a 'woman's' book, as the emotional turmoil described in this book is something that perhaps transcends gender, as all of us experience certain frustrations and inhibitions in our lives. This is most apparent in the book's conclusion, which is equal parts tragedy and triumph. Beautifully written, with an emotional impact that will not be lost, this is a classic to add to one's personal library.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Dry and painful to read. The Awakening, a droll recounting of personal mistakes, will surely put anyone to sleep who attempts to read it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A married woman has an awakening of spirit after falling in love with a young man on a vacation by the seaside, which leads her to new social and spiritual freedoms. It's interesting that despite her husband's insistence that his wife must be ill to behave this way, many of her friends and allies (and some strangers/acquaintances) remain true and support her. Told with sparse prose, this story is considered a strong feminist tale, and considering the period in which it was written, it certainly is. Though it's old fashioned by today's standards, it's still a beautiful, touching story.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Kate Chopin's [The Awakening] challenges the norm. For it's time--1899--the book flew in the face of acceptable classical writing. While I am sure there were dime novels which expressed scandalous behavior, this novel was clearly written for the more selective reader of the time. How shocking!! I immagine it made the rounds of the preferred social circles rather quickly. Much as did [Peyton Placce] during the lat 50s. I like a writer who steps out of the box, and I believe this is exactly what Chopin dared to do. Goodby Austen. Goodby Bronte. You've come a long way baby!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Early feminist work. Important but depressing.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I really like this.

Book preview

The Awakening and Other Stories - Kate Chopin

The Awakening

_________

I

A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over:

"Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!"

He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mockingbird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence.

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 bridges 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 the house, 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 Zampa 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 Chênière Caminada in Beaudelet’s lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water-oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier’s two children were there—sturdy 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 snail’s pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. 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.

What folly! To bathe at such an hour in such heat! exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him.

You are burnt beyond recognition, 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.

What is it? 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 Klein’s hotel and play a game of billiards.

Come go along, Lebrun, he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier.

Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna, instructed her husband as he prepared to leave.

Here, take the umbrella, she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away.

Coming back to dinner? 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 Klein’s and the size of the game. He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by 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.

II

Mrs. Pontellier’s 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 water—it had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the Chênière; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to The Poet and the Peasant.

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, the house 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 "Quartier Français," it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.

Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father’s 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.

I see Léonce isn’t coming back, 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 Klein’s.

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.

III

It was eleven o’clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Klein’s 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 mother’s 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. Pontellier’s 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 husband’s 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 soul’s 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 Klein’s hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction.

It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet! she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.

Oh! We’ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear, he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by.

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 good-by 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 bits—the finest of fruits, patés, 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.

IV

It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or anyone else’s 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 mother’s 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-woman. The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels.

Many of them were delicious in the rôle; one of them was the embodiment of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adèle Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.

Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and went over to sit with her in the

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