Edna
could not help but think that it was very foolish, very childish, to have
stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed the crystal vase upon the tiles. She
was visited by no more outbursts, moving her to such futile expedients. She
began to do as she liked and to feel as she liked. She completely abandoned her
Tuesdays at home, and did not return the visits of those who had called upon
her. She made no ineffectual efforts to conduct her household
en bonne
ménagère, going and coming as it suited her fancy, and, so far as she
was able, lending herself to any passing caprice.
Mr. Pontellier had been a
rather courteous husband so long as he met a certain tacit submissiveness in his
wife. But her new and unexpected line of conduct completely bewildered him. It
shocked him. Then her absolute disregard for her duties as a wife angered him.
When Mr. Pontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent.
She had resolved never to take another step backward.
"It seems to me the utmost
folly for a woman at the head of a household, and the mother of children, to
spend in an atelier days which would be better employed contriving for the
comfort of her family."
"I feel like painting,"
answered Edna. "Perhaps I shan't always feel like it."
"Then in God's name paint!
but don't let the family go to the devil. There's Madame Ratignolle; because she
keeps up her music, she doesn't let everything else go to chaos. And she's more
of a musician than you are a painter."
"She isn't a musician, and
I'm not a painter. It isn't on account of painting that I let things go."
"On account of what, then?"
"Oh! I don't know. Let me
alone; you bother me."
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.
Her husband let her alone as
she requested, and went away to his office. Edna went up to her atelier - a
bright room in the top of the house. She was working with great energy and
interest, without accomplishing anything, however, which satisfied her even in
the smallest degree. For a time she had the whole household enrolled in the
service of art. The boys posed for her. They thought it amusing at first, but
the occupation soon lost its attractiveness when they discovered that it was not
a game arranged especially for their entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours
before Edna's palette, patient as a savage, while the housemaid took charge of
the children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But the house-maid, too,
served her term as model when Edna perceived that the young woman's back and
shoulders were molded on classic lines, and that her hair, loosened from its
confining cap, became an inspiration.
While Edna worked she sometimes sang low the little air, "Ah! si tu
savais!"
It moved her with
recollections. She could hear again the ripple of the water, the flapping sail.
She could see the glint of the moon upon the bay, and could feel the soft, gusty
beating of the hot south wind. A subtle current of desire passed through her
body, weakening her hold upon the brushes and making her eyes burn.
There were days when she was
very happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when
her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the
luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked them to wander alone
into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner,
fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and
unmolested.
There were days when she was
unhappy, she did not know why, - when it did not seem worth while to be glad or
sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her
like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly
toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave
fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.