Chapter IV

by Kate Chopin

　　It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier todefine to his own satisfaction or any one else's wherein his wifefailed in her duty toward their children. It was something whichhe felt rather than perceived, and he never voiced the feelingwithout subsequent regret and ample atonement.If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst atplay, 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 evesand the sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were,they pulled together and stood their ground in childish battles withdoubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed againstthe other mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as ahuge encumbrance, only good to button up waists and pantiesand to brush and part hair; since it seemed to be a law of societythat hair must be parted and brushed.In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. Themotherwomen seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy toknow them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings whenany harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. Theywere women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands,and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves asindividuals and grow wings as ministering angels.Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was theembodiment of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband didnot adore her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture.Her name was Adele Ratignolle. There are no words to describe hersave the old ones that have served so often to picture the bygoneheroine of romance and the fair lady of our dreams. There wasnothing subtle or hidden about her charms; her beauty was allthere, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that comb norconfining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were like nothingbut sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one couldonly think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit inlooking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did notseem to detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose,gesture. One would not have wanted her white neck a mite less fullor her beautiful arms more slender. Never were hands moreexquisite than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when shethreaded her needle or adjusted her gold thimble to her tapermiddle finger as she sewed away on the little night-drawersor fashioned a bodice or a bib.Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs. Pontellier, and oftenshe 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 fromNew Orleans. She had possession of the rocker, and she was busilyengaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of night-drawers.She had brought the pattern of the drawers for Mrs. Pontellierto cut out--a marvel of construction, fashioned to enclose a baby'sbody so effectually that only two small eyes might look out fromthe garment, like an Eskimo's. They were designed for winter wear,when treacherous drafts came down chimneys and insidious currentsof deadly cold found their way through key-holes.Mrs. Pontellier's mind was quite at rest concerning thepresent material needs of her children, and she could not see theuse of anticipating and making winter night garments the subject ofher summer meditations. But she did not want to appear unamiableand uninterested, so she had brought forth newspapers, which shespread upon the floor of the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle'sdirections she had cut a pattern of the impervious garment.Robert was there, seated as he had been the Sunday before, andMrs. Pontellier also occupied her former position on the upperstep, leaning listlessly against the post. Beside her was a box ofbonbons, which she held out at intervals to Madame Ratignolle.That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection, but finallysettled upon a stick of nougat, wondering if it were not too rich;whether it could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle had beenmarried seven years. About every two years she had a baby. Atthat time she had three babies, and was beginning to think of afourth one. She was always talking about her "condition." Her"condition" was in no way apparent, and no one would have known athing about it but for her persistence in making it the subject ofconversation.Robert started to reassure her, asserting that he had known alady who had subsisted upon nougat during the entire--but seeingthe color mount into Mrs. Pontellier's face he checked himself andchanged the subject.Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a Creole, was notthoroughly at home in the society of Creoles; never before had shebeen thrown so intimately among them. There were only Creoles thatsummer at Lebrun's. They all knew each other, and felt like onelarge family, among whom existed the most amicable relations. Acharacteristic which distinguished them and which impressed Mrs.Pontellier most forcibly was their entire absence of prudery.Their freedom of expression was at first incomprehensible to her,though she had no difficulty in reconciling it with a loftychastity which in the Creole woman seems to be inborn andunmistakable.Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock with which sheheard Madame Ratignolle relating to old Monsieur Farival theharrowing story of one of her accouchements, withholding nointimate detail. She was growing accustomed to like shocks, butshe could not keep the mounting color back from her cheeks.Oftener than once her coming had interrupted the droll story withwhich Robert was entertaining some amused group of married women.A book had gone the rounds of the pension. When it cameher turn to read it, she did so with profound astonishment. Shefelt moved to read the book in secret and solitude, though none ofthe others had done so,--to hide it from view at the sound ofapproaching footsteps. It was openly criticised and freelydiscussed at table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being astonished,and concluded that wonders would never cease.