One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of
his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a
semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He
bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill—leaving the active
practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries—and
was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united
to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the
services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these.
Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his
study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center
of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old
gentleman’s study window. He was a great reader. He stared up
disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered,
wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the
morning.
“Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do
you bring this morning?” He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray
hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their
brightness but none of their penetration.
“Oh! I’m never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber—of
that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away.
I came to consult—no, not precisely to consult—to talk to you about
Edna. I don’t know what ails her.”
“Madame Pontellier not well,” marveled the Doctor. “Why, I saw her—I
think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street, the picture of
health, it seemed to me.”
“Yes, yes; she seems quite well,” said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward
and whirling his stick between his two hands; “but she doesn’t act
well. She’s odd, she’s not like herself. I can’t make her out, and I
thought perhaps you’d help me.”
“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor.
“Well, it isn’t easy to explain,” said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself
back in his chair. “She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.”
“Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We’ve got to
consider—”
“I know that; I told you I couldn’t explain. Her whole attitude—toward
me and everybody and everything—has changed. You know I have a quick
temper, but I don’t want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially
my wife; yet I’m driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after
I’ve made a fool of myself. She’s making it devilishly uncomfortable
for me,” he went on nervously. “She’s got some sort of notion in her
head concerning the eternal rights of women; and—you understand—we meet
in the morning at the breakfast table.”
The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick
nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned
fingertips.
“What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?”
“Doing! _Parbleu!_”
“Has she,” asked the Doctor, with a smile, “has she been associating of
late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women—super-spiritual
superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them.”
“That’s the trouble,” broke in Mr. Pontellier, “she hasn’t been
associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has
thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself,
moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she’s
peculiar. I don’t like it; I feel a little worried over it.”
This was a new aspect for the Doctor. “Nothing hereditary?” he asked,
seriously. “Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?”
“Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock.
The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his
weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his
race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky
farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret—you know Margaret—she has
all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a
vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now.”
“Send your wife up to the wedding,” exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a
happy solution. “Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will
do her good.”
“That’s what I want her to do. She won’t go to the marriage. She says a
wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing
for a woman to say to her husband!” exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming
anew at the recollection.
“Pontellier,” said the Doctor, after a moment’s reflection, “let your
wife alone for a while. Don’t bother her, and don’t let her bother you.
Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism—a
sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to
be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist
to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and
me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling.
Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your
wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn’t try to
fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone.
Send her around to see me.”
“Oh! I couldn’t do that; there’d be no reason for it,” objected Mr.
Pontellier.
“Then I’ll go around and see her,” said the Doctor. “I’ll drop in to
dinner some evening _en bon ami_.”
“Do! by all means,” urged Mr. Pontellier. “What evening will you come?
Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?” he asked, rising to take his
leave.
“Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me
Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may
expect me.”
Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:
“I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on
hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle
the ribbons. We’ll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,” he
laughed.
“No, I thank you, my dear sir,” returned the Doctor. “I leave such
ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your
blood.”
“What I wanted to say,” continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the
knob; “I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to
take Edna along?”
“By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don’t
contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month,
two, three months—possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.”
“Well, good-by, _à jeudi_,” said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out.
The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask,
“Is there any man in the case?” but he knew his Creole too well to make
such a blunder as that.
He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while
meditatively looking out into the garden.