IX

Every light in the hall was ablaze; every lamp turned as high as it

could be without smoking the chimney or threatening explosion. The

lamps were fixed at intervals against the wall, encircling the whole

room. Some one had gathered orange and lemon branches, and with these

fashioned graceful festoons between. The dark green of the branches

stood out and glistened against the white muslin curtains which draped

the windows, and which puffed, floated, and flapped at the capricious

will of a stiff breeze that swept up from the Gulf.

It was Saturday night a few weeks after the intimate conversation held

between Robert and Madame Ratignolle on their way from the beach. An

unusual number of husbands, fathers, and friends had come down to stay

over Sunday; and they were being suitably entertained by their

families, with the material help of Madame Lebrun. The dining tables

had all been removed to one end of the hall, and the chairs ranged

about in rows and in clusters. Each little family group had had its say

and exchanged its domestic gossip earlier in the evening. There was now

an apparent disposition to relax; to widen the circle of confidences

and give a more general tone to the conversation.

Many of the children had been permitted to sit up beyond their usual

bedtime. A small band of them were lying on their stomachs on the floor

looking at the colored sheets of the comic papers which Mr. Pontellier

had brought down. The little Pontellier boys were permitting them to do

so, and making their authority felt.

Music, dancing, and a recitation or two were the entertainments

furnished, or rather, offered. But there was nothing systematic about

the programme, no appearance of prearrangement nor even premeditation.

At an early hour in the evening the Farival twins were prevailed upon

to play the piano. They were girls of fourteen, always clad in the

Virgin’s colors, blue and white, having been dedicated to the Blessed

Virgin at their baptism. They played a duet from “Zampa,” and at the

earnest solicitation of every one present followed it with the overture

to “The Poet and the Peasant.”

“_Allez vous-en! Sapristi!_” shrieked the parrot outside the door. He

was the only being present who possessed sufficient candor to admit

that he was not listening to these gracious performances for the first

time that summer. Old Monsieur Farival, grandfather of the twins, grew

indignant over the interruption, and insisted upon having the bird

removed and consigned to regions of darkness. Victor Lebrun objected;

and his decrees were as immutable as those of Fate. The parrot

fortunately offered no further interruption to the entertainment, the

whole venom of his nature apparently having been cherished up and

hurled against the twins in that one impetuous outburst.

Later a young brother and sister gave recitations, which every one

present had heard many times at winter evening entertainments in the

city.

A little girl performed a skirt dance in the center of the floor. The

mother played her accompaniments and at the same time watched her

daughter with greedy admiration and nervous apprehension. She need have

had no apprehension. The child was mistress of the situation. She had

been properly dressed for the occasion in black tulle and black silk

tights. Her little neck and arms were bare, and her hair, artificially

crimped, stood out like fluffy black plumes over her head. Her poses

were full of grace, and her little black-shod toes twinkled as they

shot out and upward with a rapidity and suddenness which were

bewildering.

But there was no reason why every one should not dance. Madame

Ratignolle could not, so it was she who gaily consented to play for the

others. She played very well, keeping excellent waltz time and infusing

an expression into the strains which was indeed inspiring. She was

keeping up her music on account of the children, she said; because she

and her husband both considered it a means of brightening the home and

making it attractive.

Almost every one danced but the twins, who could not be induced to

separate during the brief period when one or the other should be

whirling around the room in the arms of a man. They might have danced

together, but they did not think of it.

The children were sent to bed. Some went submissively; others with

shrieks and protests as they were dragged away. They had been permitted

to sit up till after the ice-cream, which naturally marked the limit of

human indulgence.

The ice-cream was passed around with cake—gold and silver cake arranged

on platters in alternate slices; it had been made and frozen during the

afternoon back of the kitchen by two black women, under the supervision

of Victor. It was pronounced a great success—excellent if it had only

contained a little less vanilla or a little more sugar, if it had been

frozen a degree harder, and if the salt might have been kept out of

portions of it. Victor was proud of his achievement, and went about

recommending it and urging every one to partake of it to excess.

After Mrs. Pontellier had danced twice with her husband, once with

Robert, and once with Monsieur Ratignolle, who was thin and tall and

swayed like a reed in the wind when he danced, she went out on the

gallery and seated herself on the low window-sill, where she commanded

a view of all that went on in the hall and could look out toward the

Gulf. There was a soft effulgence in the east. The moon was coming up,

and its mystic shimmer was casting a million lights across the distant,

restless water.

“Would you like to hear Mademoiselle Reisz play?” asked Robert, coming

out on the porch where she was. Of course Edna would like to hear

Mademoiselle Reisz play; but she feared it would be useless to entreat

her.

“I’ll ask her,” he said. “I’ll tell her that you want to hear her. She

likes you. She will come.” He turned and hurried away to one of the far

cottages, where Mademoiselle Reisz was shuffling away. She was dragging

a chair in and out of her room, and at intervals objecting to the

crying of a baby, which a nurse in the adjoining cottage was

endeavoring to put to sleep. She was a disagreeable little woman, no

longer young, who had quarreled with almost every one, owing to a

temper which was self-assertive and a disposition to trample upon the

rights of others. Robert prevailed upon her without any too great

difficulty.

She entered the hall with him during a lull in the dance. She made an

awkward, imperious little bow as she went in. She was a homely woman,

with a small weazened face and body and eyes that glowed. She had

absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty black lace with

a bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.

“Ask Mrs. Pontellier what she would like to hear me play,” she

requested of Robert. She sat perfectly still before the piano, not

touching the keys, while Robert carried her message to Edna at the

window. A general air of surprise and genuine satisfaction fell upon

every one as they saw the pianist enter. There was a settling down, and

a prevailing air of expectancy everywhere. Edna was a trifle

embarrassed at being thus signaled out for the imperious little woman’s

favor. She would not dare to choose, and begged that Mademoiselle Reisz

would please herself in her selections.

Edna was what she herself called very fond of music. Musical strains,

well rendered, had a way of evoking pictures in her mind. She sometimes

liked to sit in the room of mornings when Madame Ratignolle played or

practiced. One piece which that lady played Edna had entitled

“Solitude.” It was a short, plaintive, minor strain. The name of the

piece was something else, but she called it “Solitude.” When she heard

it there came before her imagination the figure of a man standing

beside a desolate rock on the seashore. He was naked. His attitude was

one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging

its flight away from him.

Another piece called to her mind a dainty young woman clad in an Empire

gown, taking mincing dancing steps as she came down a long avenue

between tall hedges. Again, another reminded her of children at play,

and still another of nothing on earth but a demure lady stroking a cat.

The very first chords which Mademoiselle Reisz struck upon the piano

sent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier’s spinal column. It was not the

first time she had heard an artist at the piano. Perhaps it was the

first time she was ready, perhaps the first time her being was tempered

to take an impress of the abiding truth.

She waited for the material pictures which she thought would gather and

blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She saw no pictures

of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair. But the very passions

themselves were aroused within her soul, swaying it, lashing it, as the

waves daily beat upon her splendid body. She trembled, she was choking,

and the tears blinded her.

Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff, lofty bow,

she went away, stopping for neither thanks nor applause. As she passed

along the gallery she patted Edna upon the shoulder.

“Well, how did you like my music?” she asked. The young woman was

unable to answer; she pressed the hand of the pianist convulsively.

Mademoiselle Reisz perceived her agitation and even her tears. She

patted her again upon the shoulder as she said:

“You are the only one worth playing for. Those others? Bah!” and she

went shuffling and sidling on down the gallery toward her room.

But she was mistaken about “those others.” Her playing had aroused a

fever of enthusiasm. “What passion!” “What an artist!” “I have always

said no one could play Chopin like Mademoiselle Reisz!” “That last

prelude! Bon Dieu! It shakes a man!”

It was growing late, and there was a general disposition to disband.

But some one, perhaps it was Robert, thought of a bath at that mystic

hour and under that mystic moon.

X

At all events Robert proposed it, and there was not a dissenting voice.

There was not one but was ready to follow when he led the way. He did

not lead the way, however, he directed the way; and he himself loitered

behind with the lovers, who had betrayed a disposition to linger and

hold themselves apart. He walked between them, whether with malicious

or mischievous intent was not wholly clear, even to himself.

The Pontelliers and Ratignolles walked ahead; the women leaning upon

the arms of their husbands. Edna could hear Robert’s voice behind them,

and could sometimes hear what he said. She wondered why he did not join

them. It was unlike him not to. Of late he had sometimes held away from

her for an entire day, redoubling his devotion upon the next and the

next, as though to make up for hours that had been lost. She missed him

the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as

one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about

the sun when it was shining.

The people walked in little groups toward the beach. They talked and

laughed; some of them sang. There was a band playing down at Klein’s

hotel, and the strains reached them faintly, tempered by the distance.

There were strange, rare odors abroad—a tangle of the sea smell and of

weeds and damp, new-plowed earth, mingled with the heavy perfume of a

field of white blossoms somewhere near. But the night sat lightly upon

the sea and the land. There was no weight of darkness; there were no

shadows. The white light of the moon had fallen upon the world like the

mystery and the softness of sleep.

Most of them walked into the water as though into a native element. The

sea was quiet now, and swelled lazily in broad billows that melted into

one another and did not break except upon the beach in little foamy

crests that coiled back like slow, white serpents.

Edna had attempted all summer to learn to swim. She had received

instructions from both the men and women; in some instances from the

children. Robert had pursued a system of lessons almost daily; and he

was nearly at the point of discouragement in realizing the futility of

his efforts. A certain ungovernable dread hung about her when in the

water, unless there was a hand near by that might reach out and

reassure her.

But that night she was like the little tottering, stumbling, clutching

child, who of a sudden realizes its powers, and walks for the first

time alone, boldly and with over-confidence. She could have shouted for

joy. She did shout for joy, as with a sweeping stroke or two she lifted

her body to the surface of the water.

A feeling of exultation overtook her, as if some power of significant

import had been given her to control the working of her body and her

soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She

wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.

Her unlooked-for achievement was the subject of wonder, applause, and

admiration. Each one congratulated himself that his special teachings

had accomplished this desired end.

“How easy it is!” she thought. “It is nothing,” she said aloud; “why

did I not discover before that it was nothing. Think of the time I have

lost splashing about like a baby!” She would not join the groups in

their sports and bouts, but intoxicated with her newly conquered power,

she swam out alone.

She turned her face seaward to gather in an impression of space and

solitude, which the vast expanse of water, meeting and melting with the

moonlit sky, conveyed to her excited fancy. As she swam she seemed to

be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself.

Once she turned and looked toward the shore, toward the people she had

left there. She had not gone any great distance—that is, what would

have been a great distance for an experienced swimmer. But to her

unaccustomed vision the stretch of water behind her assumed the aspect

of a barrier which her unaided strength would never be able to

overcome.

A quick vision of death smote her soul, and for a second of time

appalled and enfeebled her senses. But by an effort she rallied her

staggering faculties and managed to regain the land.

She made no mention of her encounter with death and her flash of

terror, except to say to her husband, “I thought I should have perished

out there alone.”

“You were not so very far, my dear; I was watching you,” he told her.

Edna went at once to the bath-house, and she had put on her dry clothes

and was ready to return home before the others had left the water. She

started to walk away alone. They all called to her and shouted to her.

She waved a dissenting hand, and went on, paying no further heed to

their renewed cries which sought to detain her.

“Sometimes I am tempted to think that Mrs. Pontellier is capricious,”

said Madame Lebrun, who was amusing herself immensely and feared that

Edna’s abrupt departure might put an end to the pleasure.

“I know she is,” assented Mr. Pontellier; “sometimes, not often.”

Edna had not traversed a quarter of the distance on her way home before

she was overtaken by Robert.

“Did you think I was afraid?” she asked him, without a shade of

annoyance.

“No; I knew you weren’t afraid.”

“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.