“Then why did you come? Why didn’t you stay out there with the others?”
“I never thought of it.”
“Thought of what?”
“Of anything. What difference does it make?”
“I’m very tired,” she uttered, complainingly.
“I know you are.”
“You don’t know anything about it. Why should you know? I never was so
exhausted in my life. But it isn’t unpleasant. A thousand emotions have
swept through me to-night. I don’t comprehend half of them. Don’t mind
what I’m saying; I am just thinking aloud. I wonder if I shall ever be
stirred again as Mademoiselle Reisz’s playing moved me to-night. I
wonder if any night on earth will ever again be like this one. It is
like a night in a dream. The people about me are like some uncanny,
half-human beings. There must be spirits abroad to-night.”
“There are,” whispered Robert, “Didn’t you know this was the
twenty-eighth of August?”
“The twenty-eighth of August?”
“Yes. On the twenty-eighth of August, at the hour of midnight, and if
the moon is shining—the moon must be shining—a spirit that has haunted
these shores for ages rises up from the Gulf. With its own penetrating
vision the spirit seeks some one mortal worthy to hold him company,
worthy of being exalted for a few hours into realms of the
semi-celestials. His search has always hitherto been fruitless, and he
has sunk back, disheartened, into the sea. But to-night he found Mrs.
Pontellier. Perhaps he will never wholly release her from the spell.
Perhaps she will never again suffer a poor, unworthy earthling to walk
in the shadow of her divine presence.”
“Don’t banter me,” she said, wounded at what appeared to be his
flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate
note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not
tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said
nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was
exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp,
letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm,
but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as
though her thoughts were elsewhere—somewhere in advance of her body,
and she was striving to overtake them.
Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before
her door out to the trunk of a tree.
“Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?” he asked.
“I’ll stay out here. Good-night.”
“Shall I get you a pillow?”
“There’s one here,” she said, feeling about, for they were in the
shadow.
“It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about.”
“No matter.” And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath
her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of
relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not
much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with
no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose
which seemed to invade her whole body.
“Shall I stay with you till Mr. Pontellier comes?” asked Robert,
seating himself on the outer edge of one of the steps and taking hold
of the hammock rope which was fastened to the post.
“If you wish. Don’t swing the hammock. Will you get my white shawl
which I left on the window-sill over at the house?”
“Are you chilly?”
“No; but I shall be presently.”
“Presently?” he laughed. “Do you know what time it is? How long are you
going to stay out here?”
“I don’t know. Will you get the shawl?”
“Of course I will,” he said, rising. He went over to the house, walking
along the grass. She watched his figure pass in and out of the strips
of moonlight. It was past midnight. It was very quiet.
When he returned with the shawl she took it and kept it in her hand.
She did not put it around her.
“Did you say I should stay till Mr. Pontellier came back?”
“I said you might if you wished to.”
He seated himself again and rolled a cigarette, which he smoked in
silence. Neither did Mrs. Pontellier speak. No multitude of words could
have been more significant than those moments of silence, or more
pregnant with the first-felt throbbings of desire.
When the voices of the bathers were heard approaching, Robert said
good-night. She did not answer him. He thought she was asleep. Again
she watched his figure pass in and out of the strips of moonlight as he
walked away.
XI
“What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in
bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had
walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did
not reply.
“Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her.
“No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as
they looked into his.
“Do you know it is past one o’clock? Come on,” and he mounted the steps
and went into their room.
“Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone
by.
“Don’t wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through the door.
“You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What folly is
this? Why don’t you come in?”
“It isn’t cold; I have my shawl.”
“The mosquitoes will devour you.”
“There are no mosquitoes.”
She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience
and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She
would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of
submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as
we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life
which has been portioned out to us.
“Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time
fondly, with a note of entreaty.
“No; I am going to stay out here.”
“This is more than folly,” he blurted out. “I can’t permit you to stay
out there all night. You must come in the house instantly.”
With a writhing motion she settled herself more securely in the
hammock. She perceived that her will had blazed up, stubborn and
resistant. She could not at that moment have done other than denied and
resisted. She wondered if her husband had ever spoken to her like that
before, and if she had submitted to his command. Of course she had; she
remembered that she had. But she could not realize why or how she
should have yielded, feeling as she then did.
“Léonce, go to bed,” she said, “I mean to stay out here. I don’t wish
to go in, and I don’t intend to. Don’t speak to me like that again; I
shall not answer you.”
Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra
garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and
select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and
went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not
wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the
rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he
went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again
declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier
once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable
interval of time smoked some more cigars.
Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a
delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities
pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake
her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her
helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.
The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the
world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from
silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and
the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.
Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She
tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into
the house.
“Are you coming in, Léonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her
husband.
“Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of
smoke. “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.”
XII
She slept but a few hours. They were troubled and feverish hours,
disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving
only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something
unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning.
The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However,
she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either
external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse
moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction,
and freed her soul of responsibility.
Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A
few, who intended to go over to the _Chênière_ for mass, were moving
about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were
already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday
prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was
following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and
was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He
put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the
hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.
The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun’s sewing-machine was
sweeping the galleries with long, absent-minded strokes of the broom.
Edna sent her up into the house to awaken Robert.
“Tell him I am going to the _Chênière_. The boat is ready; tell him to
hurry.”
He had soon joined her. She had never sent for him before. She had
never asked for him. She had never seemed to want him before. She did
not appear conscious that she had done anything unusual in commanding
his presence. He was apparently equally unconscious of anything
extraordinary in the situation. But his face was suffused with a quiet
glow when he met her.
They went together back to the kitchen to drink coffee. There was no
time to wait for any nicety of service. They stood outside the window
and the cook passed them their coffee and a roll, which they drank and
ate from the window-sill. Edna said it tasted good.
She had not thought of coffee nor of anything. He told her he had often
noticed that she lacked forethought.
“Wasn’t it enough to think of going to the _Chênière_ and waking you
up?” she laughed. “Do I have to think of everything?—as Léonce says
when he’s in a bad humor. I don’t blame him; he’d never be in a bad
humor if it weren’t for me.”
They took a short cut across the sands. At a distance they could see
the curious procession moving toward the wharf—the lovers, shoulder to
shoulder, creeping; the lady in black, gaining steadily upon them; old
Monsieur Farival, losing ground inch by inch, and a young barefooted
Spanish girl, with a red kerchief on her head and a basket on her arm,
bringing up the rear.
Robert knew the girl, and he talked to her a little in the boat. No one
present understood what they said. Her name was Mariequita. She had a
round, sly, piquant face and pretty black eyes. Her hands were small,
and she kept them folded over the handle of her basket. Her feet were
broad and coarse. She did not strive to hide them. Edna looked at her
feet, and noticed the sand and slime between her brown toes.
Beaudelet grumbled because Mariequita was there, taking up so much
room. In reality he was annoyed at having old Monsieur Farival, who
considered himself the better sailor of the two. But he would not
quarrel with so old a man as Monsieur Farival, so he quarreled with
Mariequita. The girl was deprecatory at one moment, appealing to
Robert. She was saucy the next, moving her head up and down, making
“eyes” at Robert and making “mouths” at Beaudelet.
The lovers were all alone. They saw nothing, they heard nothing. The
lady in black was counting her beads for the third time. Old Monsieur
Farival talked incessantly of what he knew about handling a boat, and
of what Beaudelet did not know on the same subject.
Edna liked it all. She looked Mariequita up and down, from her ugly
brown toes to her pretty black eyes, and back again.
“Why does she look at me like that?” inquired the girl of Robert.
“Maybe she thinks you are pretty. Shall I ask her?”
“No. Is she your sweetheart?”
“She’s a married lady, and has two children.”
“Oh! well! Francisco ran away with Sylvano’s wife, who had four
children. They took all his money and one of the children and stole his
boat.”
“Shut up!”
“Does she understand?”
“Oh, hush!”
“Are those two married over there—leaning on each other?”
“Of course not,” laughed Robert.
“Of course not,” echoed Mariequita, with a serious, confirmatory bob of
the head.
The sun was high up and beginning to bite. The swift breeze seemed to
Edna to bury the sting of it into the pores of her face and hands.
Robert held his umbrella over her. As they went cutting sidewise
through the water, the sails bellied taut, with the wind filling and
overflowing them. Old Monsieur Farival laughed sardonically at
something as he looked at the sails, and Beaudelet swore at the old man
under his breath.
Sailing across the bay to the _Chênière Caminada_, Edna felt as if she
were being borne away from some anchorage which had held her fast,
whose chains had been loosening—had snapped the night before when the
mystic spirit was abroad, leaving her free to drift whithersoever she
chose to set her sails. Robert spoke to her incessantly; he no longer
noticed Mariequita. The girl had shrimps in her bamboo basket. They
were covered with Spanish moss. She beat the moss down impatiently, and
muttered to herself sullenly.
“Let us go to Grande Terre to-morrow?” said Robert in a low voice.
“What shall we do there?”
“Climb up the hill to the old fort and look at the little wriggling
gold snakes, and watch the lizards sun themselves.”
She gazed away toward Grande Terre and thought she would like to be
alone there with Robert, in the sun, listening to the ocean’s roar and
watching the slimy lizards writhe in and out among the ruins of the old
fort.
“And the next day or the next we can sail to the Bayou Brulow,” he went
on.
“What shall we do there?”
“Anything—cast bait for fish.”
“No; we’ll go back to Grande Terre. Let the fish alone.”
“We’ll go wherever you like,” he said. “I’ll have Tonie come over and
help me patch and trim my boat. We shall not need Beaudelet nor any
one. Are you afraid of the pirogue?”
“Oh, no.”
“Then I’ll take you some night in the pirogue when the moon shines.
Maybe your Gulf spirit will whisper to you in which of these islands
the treasures are hidden—direct you to the very spot, perhaps.”
“And in a day we should be rich!” she laughed. “I’d give it all to you,
the pirate gold and every bit of treasure we could dig up. I think you
would know how to spend it. Pirate gold isn’t a thing to be hoarded or
utilized. It is something to squander and throw to the four winds, for
the fun of seeing the golden specks fly.”
“We’d share it, and scatter it together,” he said. His face flushed.
They all went together up to the quaint little Gothic church of Our
Lady of Lourdes, gleaming all brown and yellow with paint in the sun’s
glare.
Only Beaudelet remained behind, tinkering at his boat, and Mariequita
walked away with her basket of shrimps, casting a look of childish ill
humor and reproach at Robert from the corner of her eye.
XIII
A feeling of oppression and drowsiness overcame Edna during the
service. Her head began to ache, and the lights on the altar swayed
before her eyes. Another time she might have made an effort to regain
her composure; but her one thought was to quit the stifling atmosphere
of the church and reach the open air. She arose, climbing over Robert’s
feet with a muttered apology. Old Monsieur Farival, flurried, curious,
stood up, but upon seeing that Robert had followed Mrs. Pontellier, he
sank back into his seat. He whispered an anxious inquiry of the lady in
black, who did not notice him or reply, but kept her eyes fastened upon
the pages of her velvet prayer-book.
“I felt giddy and almost overcome,” Edna said, lifting her hands
instinctively to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her
forehead. “I couldn’t have stayed through the service.” They were
outside in the shadow of the church. Robert was full of solicitude.
“It was folly to have thought of going in the first place, let alone
staying. Come over to Madame Antoine’s; you can rest there.” He took
her arm and led her away, looking anxiously and continuously down into
her face.
How still it was, with only the voice of the sea whispering through the
reeds that grew in the salt-water pools! The long line of little gray,
weather-beaten houses nestled peacefully among the orange trees. It
must always have been God’s day on that low, drowsy island, Edna
thought. They stopped, leaning over a jagged fence made of sea-drift,
to ask for water. A youth, a mild-faced Acadian, was drawing water from
the cistern, which was nothing more than a rusty buoy, with an opening
on one side, sunk in the ground. The water which the youth handed to
them in a tin pail was not cold to taste, but it was cool to her heated
face, and it greatly revived and refreshed her.
Madame Antoine’s cot was at the far end of the village. She welcomed
them with all the native hospitality, as she would have opened her door
to let the sunlight in. She was fat, and walked heavily and clumsily
across the floor. She could speak no English, but when Robert made her
understand that the lady who accompanied him was ill and desired to
rest, she was all eagerness to make Edna feel at home and to dispose of
her comfortably.
The whole place was immaculately clean, and the big, four-posted bed,
snow-white, invited one to repose. It stood in a small side room which
looked out across a narrow grass plot toward the shed, where there was
a disabled boat lying keel upward.
Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she
supposed he would soon be back, and she invited Robert to be seated and
wait for him. But he went and sat outside the door and smoked. Madame
Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She
was boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.
Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes,
removing the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and
arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her
shoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the
high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange,
quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the
sheets and mattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a
little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She
looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them
one after the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw
for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh.
She clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell
asleep.
She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the
things about her. She could hear Madame Antoine’s heavy, scraping tread
as she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were
clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the
grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking
under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and
heavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on—Tonie’s slow, Acadian
drawl, Robert’s quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French
imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of
the other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses.
When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and
soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine’s step
was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had
gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over
her; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar.
Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of
the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon
was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the
shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading
from a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become
of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as
she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows.
Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had
placed a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the
powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the
little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her
eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed.
When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room.
She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread
upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for
one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate.
Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white
teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down.
Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the
low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she
was awake and up.
An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined
her under the orange tree.
“How many years have I slept?” she inquired. “The whole island seems
changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and
me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die?
and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?”
He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder.