The Awakening

and Selected

Short Stories

by 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 mocking-bird 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 eye-glasses. 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 Cheniere Caminada in Beaudelet's

lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the

wateroaks 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 Cheniere; 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 Francais,"

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 Leonce 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 goodby 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, pates, 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 pates 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 any one 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 eves

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

motherwomen 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 role; 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 Adele 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 afternoons.

She was sitting there the afternoon of the day the box arrived from

New Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busily

engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers.

She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellier

to cut out--a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby's

body so effectually that only two small eyes might look out from

the garment, like an Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear,

when treacherous drafts came down chimneys and insidious currents

of deadly cold found their way through key-holes.

Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning the

present material needs of her children, and she could not see the

use of anticipating and making winter night garments the subject of

her summer meditations. But she did not want to appear unamiable

and uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which she

spread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle's

directions she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment.

Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, and

Mrs. Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upper

step, leaning listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box of

bonbons, which she held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.

That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finally

settled upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich;

whether it could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had been

married seven years. About every two years she had a baby. At

that time she had three babies, and was beginning to think of a

fourth one. She was always talking about her "condition." Her

"condition" was in no way apparent, and no one would have known a

thing about it but for her persistence in making it the subject of

conversation.

Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known a

lady who had subsisted upon nougat during the entire--but seeing

the color mount into Mrs. Pontellier's face he checked himself and

changed the subject.

Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was not

thoroughly at home in the society of Creoles; never before had she

been thrown so intimately among them. There were only Creoles that

summer at Lebrun's. They all knew each other, and felt like one

large family, among whom existed the most amicable relations. A

characteristic which distinguished them and which impressed Mrs.

Pontellier most forcibly was their entire absence of prudery.

Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her,

though she had no difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty

chastity which in the Creole woman seems to be inborn and

unmistakable.

Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which she

heard Madame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival the

harrowing story of one of her accouchements, withholding no

intimate detail. She was growing accustomed to like shocks, but

she could not keep the mounting color back from her cheeks.

Oftener than once her coming had interrupted the droll story with

which Robert was entertaining some amused group of married women.

A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it came

her turn to read it, she did so with profound astonishment. She

felt moved to read the book in secret and solitude, though none of

the others had done so,--to hide it from view at the sound of

approaching footsteps. It was openly criticised and freely

discussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being astonished,

and concluded that wonders would never cease.

V

They 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 naivete. 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 bete, 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