Part XIX

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 menagere, 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 house-maid took charge of

the children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But the

housemaid, 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 then 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.