The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in
New Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front
veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The
house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies,
were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers
and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana.
Within doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type.
The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful
draperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected
with judgment and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the
silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table were the
envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr.
Pontellier.
Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its
various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He
greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and
derived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a
rare lace curtain—no matter what—after he had bought it and placed it
among his household gods.
On Tuesday afternoons—Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier’s reception
day—there was a constant stream of callers—women who came in carriages
or in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance
permitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a
diminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A
maid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or
chocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome
reception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon
receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their
wives.
This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously
followed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings during
the week she and her husband attended the opera or sometimes the play.
Mr. Pontellier left his home in the mornings between nine and ten
o’clock, and rarely returned before half-past six or seven in the
evening—dinner being served at half-past seven.
He and his wife seated themselves at table one Tuesday evening, a few
weeks after their return from Grand Isle. They were alone together. The
boys were being put to bed; the patter of their bare, escaping feet
could be heard occasionally, as well as the pursuing voice of the
quadroon, lifted in mild protest and entreaty. Mrs. Pontellier did not
wear her usual Tuesday reception gown; she was in ordinary house dress.
Mr. Pontellier, who was observant about such things, noticed it, as he
served the soup and handed it to the boy in waiting.
“Tired out, Edna? Whom did you have? Many callers?” he asked. He tasted
his soup and began to season it with pepper, salt, vinegar,
mustard—everything within reach.
“There were a good many,” replied Edna, who was eating her soup with
evident satisfaction. “I found their cards when I got home; I was out.”
“Out!” exclaimed her husband, with something like genuine consternation
in his voice as he laid down the vinegar cruet and looked at her
through his glasses. “Why, what could have taken you out on Tuesday?
What did you have to do?”
“Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.”
“Well, I hope you left some suitable excuse,” said her husband,
somewhat appeased, as he added a dash of cayenne pepper to the soup.
“No, I left no excuse. I told Joe to say I was out, that was all.”
“Why, my dear, I should think you’d understand by this time that people
don’t do such things; we’ve got to observe _les convenances_ if we ever
expect to get on and keep up with the procession. If you felt that you
had to leave home this afternoon, you should have left some suitable
explanation for your absence.
“This soup is really impossible; it’s strange that woman hasn’t learned
yet to make a decent soup. Any free-lunch stand in town serves a better
one. Was Mrs. Belthrop here?”
“Bring the tray with the cards, Joe. I don’t remember who was here.”
The boy retired and returned after a moment, bringing the tiny silver
tray, which was covered with ladies’ visiting cards. He handed it to
Mrs. Pontellier.
“Give it to Mr. Pontellier,” she said.
Joe offered the tray to Mr. Pontellier, and removed the soup.
Mr. Pontellier scanned the names of his wife’s callers, reading some of
them aloud, with comments as he read.
“‘The Misses Delasidas.’ I worked a big deal in futures for their
father this morning; nice girls; it’s time they were getting married.
‘Mrs. Belthrop.’ I tell you what it is, Edna; you can’t afford to snub
Mrs. Belthrop. Why, Belthrop could buy and sell us ten times over. His
business is worth a good, round sum to me. You’d better write her a
note. ‘Mrs. James Highcamp.’ Hugh! the less you have to do with Mrs.
Highcamp, the better. ‘Madame Laforcé.’ Came all the way from
Carrolton, too, poor old soul. ‘Miss Wiggs,’ ‘Mrs. Eleanor Boltons.’”
He pushed the cards aside.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Edna, who had been fuming. “Why are you taking the
thing so seriously and making such a fuss over it?”
“I’m not making any fuss over it. But it’s just such seeming trifles
that we’ve got to take seriously; such things count.”
The fish was scorched. Mr. Pontellier would not touch it. Edna said she
did not mind a little scorched taste. The roast was in some way not to
his fancy, and he did not like the manner in which the vegetables were
served.
“It seems to me,” he said, “we spend money enough in this house to
procure at least one meal a day which a man could eat and retain his
self-respect.”
“You used to think the cook was a treasure,” returned Edna,
indifferently.
“Perhaps she was when she first came; but cooks are only human. They
need looking after, like any other class of persons that you employ.
Suppose I didn’t look after the clerks in my office, just let them run
things their own way; they’d soon make a nice mess of me and my
business.”
“Where are you going?” asked Edna, seeing that her husband arose from
table without having eaten a morsel except a taste of the
highly-seasoned soup.
“I’m going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.” He went into the
hall, took his hat and stick from the stand, and left the house.
She was somewhat familiar with such scenes. They had often made her
very unhappy. On a few previous occasions she had been completely
deprived of any desire to finish her dinner. Sometimes she had gone
into the kitchen to administer a tardy rebuke to the cook. Once she
went to her room and studied the cookbook during an entire evening,
finally writing out a menu for the week, which left her harassed with a
feeling that, after all, she had accomplished no good that was worth
the name.
But that evening Edna finished her dinner alone, with forced
deliberation. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed with some inward
fire that lighted them. After finishing her dinner she went to her
room, having instructed the boy to tell any other callers that she was
indisposed.
It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim
light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open
window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the
mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid
the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and
foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such
sweet, half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not
soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the
stars. They jeered and sounded mournful notes without promise, devoid
even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and
fro down its whole length without stopping, without resting. She
carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons,
rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking
off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying
there, she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her
small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the little
glittering circlet.
In a sweeping passion she seized a glass vase from the table and flung
it upon the tiles of the hearth. She wanted to destroy something. The
crash and clatter were what she wanted to hear.
A maid, alarmed at the din of breaking glass, entered the room to
discover what was the matter.
“A vase fell upon the hearth,” said Edna. “Never mind; leave it till
morning.”
“Oh! you might get some of the glass in your feet, ma’am,” insisted the
young woman, picking up bits of the broken vase that were scattered
upon the carpet. “And here’s your ring, ma’am, under the chair.”
Edna held out her hand, and taking the ring, slipped it upon her
finger.