Chapter XIX

by Kate Chopin

　　Edna could not help but think that it was very foolish, verychildish, to have stamped upon her wedding ring and smashed thecrystal vase upon the tiles. She was visited by no more outbursts,moving her to such futile expedients. She began to do as she likedand to feel as she liked. She completely abandoned her Tuesdays athome, and did not return the visits of those who had called upon her.She made no ineffectual efforts to conduct her household enbonne 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 ashe met a certain tacit submissiveness in his wife. But her new andunexpected line of conduct completely bewildered him. It shockedhim. Then her absolute disregard for her duties as a wife angeredhim. When Mr. Pontellier became rude, Edna grew insolent. She hadresolved never to take another step backward."It seems to me the utmost folly for a woman at the head of ahousehold, and the mother of children, to spend in an atelier dayswhich would be better employed contriving for the comfort of herfamily.""I feel like painting," answered Edna. "Perhaps I shan'talways feel like it.""Then in God's name paint! but don't let the family go to thedevil. There's Madame Ratignolle; because she keeps up her music,she doesn't let everything else go to chaos. And she's more of amusician than you are a painter.""She isn't a musician, and I'm not a painter. It isn't onaccount 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 hiswife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could seeplainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see thatshe was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitiousself which we assume like a garment with which to appear before theworld.Her husband let her alone as she requested, and went away tohis office. Edna went up to her atelier--a bright room in the topof the house. She was working with great energy and interest,without accomplishing anything, however, which satisfied her evenin the smallest degree. For a time she had the whole householdenrolled in the service of art. The boys posed for her. They thoughtit amusing at first, but the occupation soon lost its attractivenesswhen they discovered that it was not a game arranged especially fortheir entertainment. The quadroon sat for hours before Edna'spalette, patient as a savage, while the house-maid took charge ofthe children, and the drawing-room went undusted. But thehousemaid, too, served her term as model when Edna perceived that theyoung woman's back and shoulders were molded on classic lines, andthat her hair, loosened from its confining cap, became aninspiration. While Edna worked she sometimes sang low the littleair, "Ah! si tu savais!"It moved her with recollections. She could hear again theripple of the water, the flapping sail. She could see the glint ofthe moon upon the bay, and could feel the soft, gusty beating ofthe hot south wind. A subtle current of desire passed through herbody, 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 beingseemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, theluxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then towander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discoveredmany a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she foundit good to dream and to be alone and unmolested.There were days when she was unhappy, she did not knowwhy,--when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be aliveor dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium andhumanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitableannihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave fanciesto stir her pulses and warm her blood.