Essential Novelists - Kate Chopin. August Nemo

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.

      XI

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      “WHAT ARE YOU DOING out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had walked up with Madame Lebrun and left her at the house. His wife did not reply.

      “Are you asleep?” he asked, bending down close to look at her.

      “No.” Her eyes gleamed bright and intense, with no sleepy shadows, as they looked into his.

      “Do you know it is past one o'clock? Come on,” and he mounted the steps and went into their room.

      “Edna!” called Mr. Pontellier from within, after a few moments had gone by.

      “Don't wait for me,” she answered. He thrust his head through the door.

      “You will take cold out there,” he said, irritably. “What folly is this? Why don't you come in?”

      “It isn't cold; I have my shawl.”

      “The mosquitoes will devour you.”

      “There are no mosquitoes.”

      She heard him moving about the room; every sound indicating impatience and irritation. Another time she would have gone in at his request. She would, through habit, have yielded to his desire; not with any sense of submission or obedience to his compelling wishes, but unthinkingly, as we walk, move, sit, stand, go through the daily treadmill of the life which has been portioned out to us.

      “Edna, dear, are you not coming in soon?” he asked again, this time fondly, with a note of entreaty.

      “No; I am going to stay out here.”

      “This is more than folly,” he blurted out. “I can't permit you to stay out there all night. You must come in the house instantly.”

      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.

      “Leonce, go to bed,” she said, “I mean to stay out here. I don't wish to go in, and I don't intend to. Don't speak to me like that again; I shall not answer you.”

      Mr. Pontellier had prepared for bed, but he slipped on an extra garment. He opened a bottle of wine, of which he kept a small and select supply in a buffet of his own. He drank a glass of the wine and went out on the gallery and offered a glass to his wife. She did not wish any. He drew up the rocker, hoisted his slippered feet on the rail, and proceeded to smoke a cigar. He smoked two cigars; then he went inside and drank another glass of wine. Mrs. Pontellier again declined to accept a glass when it was offered to her. Mr. Pontellier once more seated himself with elevated feet, and after a reasonable interval of time smoked some more cigars.

      Edna began to feel like one who awakens gradually out of a dream, a delicious, grotesque, impossible dream, to feel again the realities pressing into her soul. The physical need for sleep began to overtake her; the exuberance which had sustained and exalted her spirit left her helpless and yielding to the conditions which crowded her in.

      The stillest hour of the night had come, the hour before dawn, when the world seems to hold its breath. The moon hung low, and had turned from silver to copper in the sleeping sky. The old owl no longer hooted, and the water-oaks had ceased to moan as they bent their heads.

      Edna arose, cramped from lying so long and still in the hammock. She tottered up the steps, clutching feebly at the post before passing into the house.

      “Are you coming in, Leonce?” she asked, turning her face toward her husband.

      “Yes, dear,” he answered, with a glance following a misty puff of smoke. “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar.”

      XII

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      SHE SLEPT BUT A FEW hours. They were troubled and feverish hours, disturbed with dreams that were intangible, that eluded her, leaving only an impression upon her half-awakened senses of something unattainable. She was up and dressed in the cool of the early morning. The air was invigorating and steadied somewhat her faculties. However, she was not seeking refreshment or help from any source, either external or from within. She was blindly following whatever impulse moved her, as if she had placed herself in alien hands for direction, and freed her soul of responsibility.

      Most of the people at that early hour were still in bed and asleep. A few, who intended to go over to the Cheniere for mass, were moving about. The lovers, who had laid their plans the night before, were already strolling toward the wharf. The lady in black, with her Sunday prayer-book, velvet and gold-clasped, and her Sunday silver beads, was following them at no great distance. Old Monsieur Farival was up, and was more than half inclined to do anything that suggested itself. He put on his big straw hat, and taking his umbrella from the stand in the hall, followed the lady in black, never overtaking her.

      The little negro girl who worked Madame Lebrun's sewing-machine was sweeping the galleries with long,