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 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 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 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 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 naïveté. 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 bête, 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 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.