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    The Awakening
    The Awakening
    The Awakening
    Ebook264 pages4 hours

    The Awakening

    By Kate Chopin

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    HarperCollins is proud to present its new range of best-loved, essential classics.

    ‘I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself.’

    Heralded as one of the first instances of feminist literature and rejected at its time of publication by the literary set on grounds of moral distaste, Kate Chopin’s The Awakening caused consternation in 1899.

    Constrained and confined by the limitations surrounding marriage and motherhood in the late 1800s, Edna Pontellier begins to challenge the notion of femininity through her thoughts and actions. Questioning her love for her husband, and opening herself up to the possibilities of other men and a life outside of societal convention leads to a gradual awakening of her desires.

    Chopin’s fascinating exploration of one woman challenging the expectation that surrounds her is powerful, daring and ultimately tragic in its conclusions.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins UK
    Release dateMay 31, 2012
    ISBN9780007480692
    Author

    Kate Chopin

    Kate Chopin was born in St. Louis, Missouri,In 1851. She began writing shortly after herHusband's death and, from 1889 until her ownDeath, her stories and other miscellaneousWritings appeared in Vogue, Youth's companion,Atlantic Monthly, Century, Saturday EveningPost, and other publications. In addition to The Awakening, Mrs. Chopin published another novel, At Fault, and two collections of short stories and sketches, Bayou Folk and A Night at Acadie. The publication of The Awakening in 1899 occasioned shocked and angry response from reviewers all over the country. The book was taken off the shelves of the St. Louis mercantile library and its author was barred from the fine arts club. Kate Chopin died in 1904.

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    Reviews for The Awakening

    3.5/5

    2,625 ratings103 reviews

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    • 2/5
      This spare 19th century novel tells the story of Edna Pontellier of New Orleans, who discovers she wants something more out of life. She is married to a prosperous and respectable stockbroker, but takes a lover when her husband is away on business. The story isn't that simple of simplistic, but it's close. Chopin's evocation of place and person leave something to be desired, and takes our understanding of the mores of the time very much for granted.This doesn't seem like enough of a literary or social transgression to ruin its author's career, but that's what it apparently did. Perhaps it's the lead character's attitude throughout, that was just too much to countenance. Not recommended, not from this quarter.
    • 2/5
      An appeasing novella, but dated and lacking in many instances. Altogether, did not enjoy very much.
    • 5/5
      This is a landmark work, ahead of its time, and with themes on marriage, adultery, and most importantly the pursuit of one’s own identity and control of one’s own life in spite of societal pressure which resonate today. In 1899, a woman questioning her feelings of sadness in a marriage and then doing something about it was shocking, both to characters in the novel (her husband thinks she’s losing her mind when she moves out, and her own father suggests to his son-in-law that authority and coercion are needed), and to readers, who rejected and vilified The Awakening, leading Chopin to spend the remaining five years of her life in relative seclusion prior to her premature death at the age of 54.Powerful stuff and very well written, with the Louisiana setting adding to its charm. Deserves a higher average rating on LT!Quotes:On adultery, and seduction, I love the light touch of these words, and how they scandalized the world at the time:“His hand strayed to her beautiful shoulders, and he could feel the response of her flesh to his touch. He seated himself beside her and kissed her lightly upon the shoulder. ‘I thought you were going away,’ she said, in an uneven voice.‘I am, after I have said good night.’‘Good night,’ she murmured.He did not answer, except to continue to caress her. He did not say good night until she had become supple to his gentle, seductive entreaties.”On divorce, and ‘owning oneself’, again, shocking at the time:“She took his face between her hands and looked into it as if she would never withdraw her eyes more. She kissed him on the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks and the lips.‘You have been a very, very foolish boy, wasting your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr. Pontellier setting me free! I am no longer one of Mr. Pontellier’s possessions to dispose of or not. I give myself where I choose. If he were to say, ‘Here, Robert, take her and be happy; she is yours,’ I should laugh at you both.”On infatuation:“As Edna walked along the street she was thinking of Robert. She was still under the spell of her infatuation. She had tried to forget him, realizing the inutility of remembering. But the thought of him was like an obsession, ever pressing itself upon her. It was not that she dwelt upon details of their acquaintance, or recalled in any special or peculiar way his personality; it was his being, his existence, which dominated her thought, fading sometimes as if it would melt into the mist of the forgotten, reviving again with an intensity which filled her with an incomprehensible longing.”On love, and separation:“Does he write to you? Never a line. Does he send you a message? Never a word. It is because he loves you, poor fool, and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him or to belong to him.”On marriage, and settling:“She was a grown young woman when she was overtaken by what she supposed to be the climax of her fate. It was when the face and figure of a great tragedian began to haunt her imagination and stir her senses. The persistence of the infatuation lent it an air of genuineness. The hopelessness of it colored it with the lofty tones of a great passion.…Her marriage to Leonce Pontellier was purely an accident, in this respect resembling many other marriages which masquerade as the decrees of Fate. …. He pleased her; his absolute devotion flattered her. She fancied there was a sympathy of thought and taste between them, in which fancy she was mistaken. …The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who worshipped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the realm of romance and dreams.”On self-knowledge, on awakening:“A certain light was beginning to dawn dimly within her – the light which, showing the way, forbids it.At that early period it served but to bewilder her. It moved her to dreams, to thoughtfulness, to the shadowy anguish which had overcome her the midnight when she had abandoned herself to tears. In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being……The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inner contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.”And this one:“It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier’s mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.”And:“…perhaps it is better to wake up after all, even to suffer, rather than to remain a dupe to illusions all one’s life.”Lastly, I like this description of a night walk to the beach:“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 a mystery and the softness of sleep.”
    • 4/5
      I know this book supposed to be about the woman's sexual awakening and her awakening to the fact that, as a good wife and mother she's expected to subsume herself in the happiness of her family and she refuses to do such a thing. I was a little disappointed, though, that the only way she could think of expressing herself and asserting her individuality was through romance which I find to be many a woman's downfall and far from the meaning of life.
    • 5/5
      Probably one of the most important books I've read... and I always forget about it! Forced to read in high school I fell in love with literature. And then, re-read as an adult... as a writer... simply unforgettable. I turn to it again and again for work with transitions and scenery. Brilliant.
    • 4/5
      I read this book in either junior high or high school and, even though my circumstances were very different than the protagonist's, I identified so strongly with the feeling of being confined and restricted and just wanting to break free.
    • 4/5
      Well written romantic. feminist tragedy. Considered a classic. The main character needed a good therapist. :-)
    • 4/5
      I really like this.
    • 4/5
      The writing is superb - all these elements - images, events, phrases - that lead the reader to consider the theme of waking up in all the many ways that one can "wake up". Long essays can and have been written on the ideas contained in this novel, so I won't attempt - but a few impressions. Edna has woken up and she is determined to be her own person - so much so that she would rather not be than be something she hasn't chosen. That is certainly taking the idea to its extreme extrapolation. While the book feels very real in some respects, there is a sense of unreality about Edna's single minded pursuit of individuality. Lots to think about in this novel.
    • 2/5
      Edna Pontellier starts out as an ordinary housewife with a kindly husband and two children. Her life is insipid and dull, but see that she is contented in it only because she knows nothing else. However, when she falls in love with Robert Lebrun, she awakens to her latent sexuality and begins to wish for freedom from the restraints of family, of duty, of domesticity. As Edna becomes aware of her liberty and power as a woman, she fights the role that she has been thrust into. She wishes to free herself from all responsibilities that chain her from the true emancipation she desires. However, Edna's only freedom is in choosing her bonds. Edna finds that she is still captive when she tries to shake off restraint. Though she feels her marriage to be no bar to her enjoyment of life, her love for Robert and the responsibility for her children become the tightest manacles of all.
      The writing is lyrical, but although I sympathize with Edna's struggle, her feeling of being trapped between two worlds, I also find that her willful selfishness makes her a somewhat unsympathetic character. Torn between two worlds, her act of "bravery" is succumbing to passion; she behaves like a child instead of an adult.
      The Awakening is a classic; its dreamy, poetic writing and evocative imagery is strong, but I was unable to actually like the characters.
    • 4/5
      A married woman has an awakening of spirit after falling in love with a young man on a vacation by the seaside, which leads her to new social and spiritual freedoms. It's interesting that despite her husband's insistence that his wife must be ill to behave this way, many of her friends and allies (and some strangers/acquaintances) remain true and support her. Told with sparse prose, this story is considered a strong feminist tale, and considering the period in which it was written, it certainly is. Though it's old fashioned by today's standards, it's still a beautiful, touching story.
    • 3/5
      This is a story of Edna Pontellier, a affluent middle aged woman who is depressed and is going through mid life crisis. She readily fall in love with younger men and encourages other men. This book when it was published in 1899 had created a great scandal but today it will just count as a sad story of a depressed woman.
    • 5/5
      I was first introduced to this book at the library. Students would pour in with their required reading assignment in hand and would flock to this book. I think they chose it because it was short and it had the potential to have sex scenes in it. Those are both terrible reasons to pick up this book. In many not so subtle ways the book immediately demonstrates that Mr. Pontellier is quite a jerk. That general theme reminds me a lot of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse where the men bluster and have expectations that aren’t to be questioned. There is the expectation of women to take care of everything to please her husband, as if that was the only purpose of a wife. The situation translates so well over time where women were viewed as objects, robots, there to serve a function. Anyone who rebelled against this was thought to tear at the seams of good society. However, just like many other classics (Madame Bovary) the woman who is unhappy with this domestic arrangement makes mistakes in just hoping for a change. Those mistakes always lead to tragic results. I really enjoyed the book for the lyrical language and the plight of poor Mrs. Pontellier. The Awakening is the prototype of feminist novels and I am sorry I put it off for so long.Favorite passages:"In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her. This may seem like a ponderous weight of wisdom to descend upon the soul of a young woman of twenty-eight--perhaps more wisdom than the Holy Ghost is usually pleased to vouchsafe to any woman. p. 18"The voice of the sea is seductive; never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander for a spell in abysses of solitude; to lose itself in mazes of inward contemplation. The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace." p. 18"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." p. 35"and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself--her present self--was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect." p. 44"The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant; was hers, to torture her as it was doing then with the biting conviction that she had lost that which she had held, that she had been denied that which her impassioned, newly awakened being demanded." p. 48"Mr Pontellier had been a rather courteous husband so long as he met a certain submissiveness in his wife But her and unexpected line of conduct completely bewildered him It shocked him her absolute disregard for her duties a wife angered him. When Mr Pontelier became rude Edna grew insolent She had resolved never to take another step backward" p. 75"It sometimes entered Mr Pontellier's to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could plainly that she was not herself. That is he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world." p. 80"Or else she stayed indoors and nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It was not despair but it seemed to her as if life were passing by leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled." p.100"She felt as if a mist had been lifted from her eyes enabling her to look upon and comprehend the significance of life that monster made up of beauty and brutality." p. 125 "Every step which she took toward relieving herself from obligations added to her strength and expansion as an individual. She began to look with her own eyes to see and to apprehend the deeper undercurrents of life." p. 150"She had pictured him seeking her at the very first hour and he had lived under the same sky since day before yesterday while only by accident had he stumbled upon her." p. 175"You have been a very very foolish boy your time dreaming of impossible things when you speak of Mr Pontellier setting me free. I am no longer one of Mr possessions to dispose of or not give myself where I choose If he were to say "Here Robert take her and be happy; she is yours!" I should laugh at you both." p. 185
    • 2/5
      Dry and painful to read. The Awakening, a droll recounting of personal mistakes, will surely put anyone to sleep who attempts to read it.
    • 4/5
      Rating: 4 of 5I'm quite surprised by how much Edna still resonates even in today's world. The ending felt rushed, even five more pages would've deepened its impact. Overall, I enjoyed this story for what it was."The acme of bliss, which would have been a marriage with the tragedian, was not for her in this world. As the devoted wife of a man who worshiped her, she felt she would take her place with a certain dignity in the world of reality, closing the portals forever behind her upon the realm of romance and dreams (p. 18)."
    • 2/5
      Read in Mrs. Eagleton's women-author-centered senior English class, along with "The Yellow Wallpaper" and...Nine Stories? Perhaps not women-centered after all, although she did make a great deal of Esme as a budding feminist (wtf).

      For some reason I thought this book was super-funny and liked to read it while imagining robust Creole accents in my head.
    • 2/5
      I understand Mrs. P's 'Awakening' to her true self and identity and wants, but I don't think I have read about such a selfish and irresponsible character since Madame Bovary! It is really interesting how the two books take such similar twists ( that end with me feeling similar irritation and disrespect for the main characters), and yet I still really like both books; it is very infuriating to read a book and be upset by the turn of events because the characters are ridiculously simple minded and yet not be able to say you hate it! So yes, I liked this book, but golly it is so melodramatic and if Mrs. P is not bipolar then no one must be!
    • 3/5
      This book falls under the sub-genre of 'books about women whose lives end tragically when society limits them in their choice of who they may love.' There are many great books in this category - Madame Bovary, The Age of Innocence, and Anna Karenina - just to name a few. Although I liked this story, I didn't feel the same empathy as I did with other great heroines. I have to say that it might have been because the audio narration was flat - the different character voices didn't display the angst that the protagonist, Edna Pontellier was experiencing. I have heard wonderful reviews of this book - and might have to give it another shot.
    • 2/5
      I'm more than a little annoyed. The first part of this book was just... well, you're just ambling along, and nothing is really happening. You get about halfway through, and then our main character, Edna, finally starts to--dun dun DUNNNN!--awaken. And it causes quite the stir and it makes things much more entertaining because she's doing what she wants, when she wants, and nobody can stop her or tell her otherwise what she can and can't do, or what she will and won't do. She follows no one else's desires but her own and it's only her judgment that reigns supreme. Hell, she goes so far as to almost have a lover even!

      But there's the flaw in Edna. She ALMOST does things, she never goes the full length, never completely embraces her decisions. Every single thing she does seems half-hearted! Oh wooow, you decided not to listen to your husband and to do what you like. Great! Good! Won't make a difference either way! But you didn't divorce him. You didn't give him a chance to remarry and get a new wife and mother for his kids if you didn't want to do either of those jobs anymore. And what about you moving out of the house, Edna? You took all your things and didn't use any of your husband's money. Nice move of independence! But you moved down the street, in the same neighborhood, perfectly in reach of your husband. If you REALLY wanted to leave this life behind, why not change towns? Change states? Heck, you didn't have to move DOWN THE BLOCK. What kind of person does that when they're trying to show their independence?! Down the block. SHEESH. Could ANYONE make a more pathetic move as a show of INDEPENDENCE? *Rolls eyes* On top of that! She tries to take a lover, twice. And yet, as far as we know, she never gets as far as even SLEEPING with them! Mind you, I'm not complaining about that. I think cheating on your husband is a despicable action, especially since in Edna's case it was HER choice to marry him. If you commit yourself to something like that, and then have two kids with the man, then you PROBABLY know what you're getting yourself into, and you should at LEAST have the dang decency to be RESPONSIBLE for it! D:< It annoys me that she just shrugs that off!! But come on, all this infidelity talk aside, if you're going to be "Oh so naughty~" as to take a lover to show your husband he means nothing to you, then COME ON. What kinda half-hearted effort is it to not even sleep with the man. -3-

      And she just does this over and over and over. All these pathetic efforts to rebel against whoever it is she's trying to prove a point to, and they never quite send the message. She never goes far enough, and I'm not sure if it's because she just doesn't have the capability to be that forward, or if she was never planning to be that obstinate in the first place. *Shrugs* It just leads to this ridiculous feeling of growing and peaking irritation at the end of the book with the STUPID decision she makes to "solve" everything once and for all. *Rolls eyes* I'm not going to tell you what the ending is, since I don't believe in spoilers, however, know this: Her solution is just as ridiculous as all her efforts have been before, and, in my eyes, it's the ULTIMATE STUPID ACTION A PERSON COULD TAKE. She ought to be slapped for being such an idiot!!!!

      This book, while I get the message it was trying to send, juts does a poor, POOR job of conveying a woman of any strength at all. The ending completely destroys whatever message that the book is trying to send, and Edna's overall determination to BE PATHETIC and make that choice is influenced by what? By the fact that the guy that she's loved for, oh, how long? Since... JUST THIS WEEK (if we're to go by how she felt at the start of the book, for not even a year passes from beginning to end)!! The point is, she makes a majorly LIFE-CHANGING, STUPID decision... JUSTBECAUSESOMEGUYDOESN'TWANTTOMAKEBABIESWITHHER. =__= .......my intense annoyance is RADIATING INTO A NUCLEAR BOMB.

      I am IMMENSELY upset at this book for the message it sends. For an author who was supposedly of the feminist persuasion, she sure does a pathetic job of arguing for her beliefs! What a crock!

      Listen, it's a decent book. It's short, it's easy to read, and it's really not hard to get through, regardless the way the main character acts. It's not as unbearably pathetic and moronic as are many of the books being written today with similarly half-assed main female leads. If you want to check it out, then I say go for it! It's a book that's a decent enough read, if you're not going to give any credit to storyline or the message it's sending, which, essentially beats the purpose for why the book is written, but hey, who's checking now-a-days anyway. It's still a far cry better written and less painful than some of the similar-in-theme stories written today, and at least Edna gets an ending that suits her pathetic nature, unlike in stories today where the Stupid Girls get the "Good Endings" and so on.

      Read it! But don't buy it before you've checked it out. It just may be your cup of tea, but then again, it also may not be. You'll have to experience it for yourself before you decide.
    • 5/5
      As much as I enjoyed "A Doll's House," I actually enjoyed this one even more. It is amazing to me to read about women who finally decide to leave their gilded cage and in turn do something so dramatic. I don't want to give the ending away for those who haven't read it yet, but suffice it to say that it is very intense and a beautiful tragedy. I have read this many times and I still enjoy it each time.
    • 2/5
      Really did not sympathize with the protagonist.
    • 1/5
      SHUDDER! Egads, I had to read this again and again in my undergrad literature career. Each time I found the main character not only unsympathetic, but revolting. Gah! And no, I'm not handing in my feminist card just because I hate this book!
    • 3/5
      Written just before the turn of the century (1899), this book was a bold statement by Kate Chopin. It was on banned books lists for years because the author dared to give voice to the unspoken ideas that women have lives, minds, thoughts and desires that cannot be dictated by the men in their lives. Some have called it the original of the "romance" genre. As far as literature goes, I found it difficult in the beginning and it totally failed to stir any real emotion for the characters. As far as history goes and a look into the lives and minds of the women in our past, it is worthy of the time spent. Enlightening, but not terribly entertaining.
    • 3/5
      I read this in high school as an English class assignment. On its own, it seemed like an okay book. The character, Edna, is a bit irritating in terms of characters who let things happen to them, but the way she takes control of her own destiny and the fallout from doing so is interesting, especially in the context of the time period. My own reaction to the book was colored by the fact that an English class has to tear it apart and find every ounce of symbolism that may or may not exist, but I think as a book on its own, it could be very enjoyable.
    • 4/5
      The Awakening is a defining work of feminism. It features the awakening of Edna Pontellier from her role as a traditional wife, mother, and woman in Louisiana.After taking a trip to a resort for a summer, she falls in love with the handsome Robert Lebrun, who in turn falls in love with her. Upon returning to her world, she determines that her life is not to be made up by societal roles, or by any sort of label, and one by one, she sheds the layers of her former self.Chopin's prose here wishes to free women from their labels, and let the world know that they are not property, or childbearers, or arm candy, but are in fact living, breathing people with the same rights as men.This book is recommended for readers of feminist literature (such as Charlotte Perkins Gillman).
    • 5/5
      I absolutely fell in love with book when I first read it in 11th grade. I love Edna and her persistence to become independent from her family. She goes on to live by herself and leave her family behind, which was considered sacrilegious during Edna's life.
    • 3/5
      The Awakening. Kate Chopin. 1899. I feel like I might be the last person on earth to have read this book. I must have sent it and/or critical information about the book to at least one library each of the 33 years I worked at APLS. As most people know, “the awakening” is Edna Pontellier ‘s slowly growing awareness of herself as a woman who is dissatisfied with her life as a wife, mother, and a member of a rather rigid society. It is classified as an early feminist novel, but it so much more. I not only enjoyed reading about Edna, I really enjoyed the New Orleans setting. I’ll read more of Chopin.
    • 4/5
      I read this book because I'd heard it was an early example of feminist literature. In that aspect, I was not disappointed. Writing in the late 1800s, Kate Chopin describes a young woman's dissatisfaction with her roles as wife and mother and wanting something different from what society expected her to want.As a novel, I thought the book was beautifully written. Edna Pontellier, the main character, was portrayed with great depth and in many ways, I identified with her sense of longing and questioning the cultural "givens" of her times. Her husband, Leonce, wasn't as richly portrayed, but I had some sympathy for him as well. After all, he too was trying to conform to the normes of his culture. I found him, at worst, benign, and not oppressive.In the end, the story left me depressed. I wish something other than a man had awakened Edna's need to examine her marriage. And most of all, I wish Edna had been able to enrich her life rather than end it.
    • 4/5
      This was an English class assigned read, but really I think it might have been the nicest one all year. Despite how much I disliked the character of Edna, the book itself brought up excellent points and was written exceedingly well. Definitely worth the time spent on it.
    • 3/5
      Good read. A woman trapped in a role as mother and wife and is not content. Taking into consideration that it was first published in 1899, this novel speaks volumes on women and self identity.

    Book preview

    The Awakening - Kate Chopin

    CHAPTER 1

    A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over:

    "Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s all right!"

    He could speak a little Spanish, and also a language which nobody understood, unless it was the mocking bird that hung on the other side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out upon the breeze with maddening persistence.

    Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper with any degree of comfort, arose with an expression and an exclamation of disgust. He walked down the gallery and across the narrow bridges which connected the Lebrun cottages one with the other. He had been seated before the door of the main house. The parrot and the mocking bird were the property of Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier had the privilege of quitting their society when they ceased to be entertaining.

    He stopped before the door of his own cottage, which was the fourth one from the main building and next to the last. Seating himself in a wicker rocker which was there, he once more applied himself to the task of reading the newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted with the market reports, and he glanced restlessly over the editorials and bits of news which he had not had time to read before quitting New Orleans the day before.

    Mr. Pontellier wore eye glasses. He was a man of forty, of medium height and rather slender build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown and straight, parted on one side. His beard was neatly and closely trimmed.

    Once in a while he withdrew his glance from the newspaper and looked about him. There was more noise than ever over at the house. The main building was called the house, to distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering and whistling birds were still at it. Two young girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet from Zampa upon the piano. Madame Lebrun was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high key to a yard boy whenever she got inside the house, and directions in an equally high voice to a dining room servant whenever she got outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad always in white with elbow sleeves. Her starched skirts crinkled as she came and went. Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady in black was walking demurely up and down, telling her beads. A good many persons of the pension had gone over to the Chênière Caminada in Beaudelet’s lugger to hear mass. Some young people were out under the water oaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier’s two children were there—sturdy little fellows of four and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about with a far-away, meditative air.

    Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade that was advancing at snail’s pace from the beach. He could see it plainly between the gaunt trunks of the water oaks and across the stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far away, melting hazily into the blue of the horizon. The sunshade continued to approach slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun. When they reached the cottage, the two seated themselves with some appearance of fatigue upon the upper step of the porch, facing each other, each leaning against a supporting post.

    What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such heat! exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the morning seemed long to him.

    You are burnt beyond recognition, he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of personal property which has suffered some damage. She held up her hands, strong, shapely hands, and surveyed them critically, drawing up her lawn sleeves above the wrists. Looking at them reminded her of her rings, which she had given to her husband before leaving for the beach. She silently reached out to him, and he, understanding, took the rings from his vest pocket and dropped them into her open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers; then clasping her knees, she looked across at Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled upon her fingers. He sent back an answering smile.

    What is it? asked Pontellier, looking lazily and amused from one to the other. It was some utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It did not seem half so amusing when told. They realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up, saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein’s hotel and play a game of billiards.

    Come go along, Lebrun, he proposed to Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that he preferred to stay where he was and talk to Mrs. Pontellier.

    Well, send him about his business when he bores you, Edna, instructed her husband as he prepared to leave.

    Here, take the umbrella, she exclaimed, holding it out to him. He accepted the sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended the steps and walked away.

    Coming back to dinner? his wife called after him. He halted a moment and shrugged his shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know; perhaps he would return for the early dinner and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon the company which he found over at Klein’s and the size of the game. He did not say this, but she understood it, and laughed, nodding good-by to him.

    Both children wanted to follow their father when they saw him starting out. He kissed them and promised to bring them back bonbons and peanuts.

    CHAPTER 2

    Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes were quick and bright; they were a yellowish brown, about the color of her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly upon an object and holding them there as if lost in some inward maze of contemplation or thought.

    Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair. They were thick and almost horizontal, emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was captivating by reason of a certain frankness of expression and a contradictory subtle play of features. Her manner was engaging.

    Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes because he could not afford cigars, he said. He had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier had presented him with, and he was saving it for his after-dinner smoke.

    This seemed quite proper and natural on his part. In coloring he was not unlike his companion. A clean-shaved face made the resemblance more pronounced than it would otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of care upon his open countenance. His eyes gathered in and reflected the light and languor of the summer day.

    Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan that lay on the porch and began to fan herself, while Robert sent between his lips light puffs from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly: about the things around them; their amusing adventure out in the water—it had again assumed its entertaining aspect; about the wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the Chênière; about the children playing croquet under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who were now performing the overture to The Poet and the Peasant.

    Robert talked a good deal about himself. He was very young, and did not know any better. Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for the same reason. Each was interested in what the other said. Robert spoke of his intention to go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune awaited him. He was always intending to go to Mexico, but some way never got there. Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in a mercantile house in New Orleans, where an equal familiarity with English, French and Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and correspondent.

    He was spending his summer vacation, as he always did, with his mother at Grand Isle. In former times, before Robert could remember, the house had been a summer luxury of the Lebruns. Now, flanked by its dozen or more cottages, which were always filled with exclusive visitors from the "Quartier Français," it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the easy and comfortable existence which appeared to be her birthright.

    Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father’s Mississippi plantation and her girlhood home in the old Kentucky blue-grass country. She was an American woman, with a small infusion of French which seemed to have been lost in dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who was away in the East, and who had engaged herself to be married. Robert was interested, and wanted to know what manner of girls the sisters were, what the father was like, and how long the mother had been dead.

    When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was time for her to dress for the early dinner.

    I see Léonce isn’t coming back, she said, with a glance in the direction whence her husband had disappeared. Robert supposed he was not, as there were a good many New Orleans club men over at Klein’s.

    When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her room, the young man descended the steps and strolled over toward the croquet players, where, during the half-hour before dinner, he amused himself with the little Pontellier children, who were very fond of him.

    CHAPTER 3

    It was eleven o’clock that night when Mr. Pontellier returned from Klein’s hotel. He was in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who was in bed and fast asleep when he came in. He talked to her while he undressed, telling her anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he had gathered during the day. From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and whatever else happened to be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep, and answered him with little half utterances.

    He thought it very discouraging that his wife, who was the sole object of his existence, evinced so little interest in things which concerned him, and valued so little his conversation.

    Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved them very much, and went into the adjoining room where they slept to take a look at them and make sure that they were resting comfortably. The result of his investigation was far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the youngsters about in bed. One of them began to kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.

    Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the information that Raoul had a high fever and needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and went and sat near the open door to smoke it.

    Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr. Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the child was consuming at that moment in the next room.

    He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother’s place to look after children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business. He could not be in two places at once; making a living for his family on the street, and staying at home to see that no harm befell them. He talked in a monotonous, insistent way.

    Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep.

    Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir. Blowing out the candle, which her husband had left burning, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin mules at the foot of the bed and went out on the porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock gently to and fro.

    It was then past midnight. The cottages were all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from the hallway of the house. There was no sound abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour. It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.

    The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes that the damp sleeve of her peignoir no longer served to dry them. She was holding the back of her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have told why she was crying. Such experiences as the foregoing were not uncommon in her married life. They seemed never before to have weighed much against the abundance of her husband’s kindness and a uniform devotion which had come to be tacit and self-understood.

    An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.

    The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in dispelling a mood which might have held her there in the darkness half a night longer.

    The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in good time to take the rockaway which was to convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He was returning to the city to his business, and they would not see him again at the Island till the coming Saturday. He had regained his composure, which seemed to have been somewhat impaired the night before. He was eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively week in Carondelet Street.

    Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money which he had brought away from Klein’s hotel the evening before. She liked money as well as most women, and accepted it with no little satisfaction.

    It will buy a handsome wedding present for Sister Janet! she exclaimed, smoothing out the bills as she counted them one by one.

    Oh! we’ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear, he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her good-by.

    The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his legs, imploring that numerous things be brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even nurses, were always on hand to say good-by to him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old rockaway down the sandy road.

    A few days later a box arrived for Mrs. Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her husband. It was filled with friandises, with luscious and toothsome bits—the finest of fruits, patés, a rare bottle or two, delicious syrups, and bonbons in abundance.

    Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with the contents of such a box; she was quite used to receiving them when away from home. The patés and fruit were brought to the dining-room; the bonbons were passed around. And the ladies, selecting with dainty and discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.

    CHAPTER 4

    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 rôle; 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 keyholes.

    Mrs. Pontellier’s

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