Part 1 - VII. Painful Disclosures.

by Kate Chopin

　　Painful Disclosures.Thérèse possessed an independence of thought exceptional enough whenconsidered in relation to her life and its surrounding conditions. Butas a woman who lived in close contact with her fellow-beings she waslittle given to the consideration of abstract ideas, except in so faras they touched the individual man. If ever asked to give her opinionof divorce, she might have replied that the question being one whichdid not immediately concern her, its remoteness had removed it fromthe range of her inquiry. She felt vaguely that in many cases it mightbe a blessing; conceding that it must not infrequently be a necessity,to be appealed to however only in an extremity beyond which endurancecould scarcely hold. With the prejudices of her Catholic educationcoloring her sentiment, she instinctively shrank when the themeconfronted her as one having even a remote reference to her own cleanexistence. There was no question with her of dwelling upon the matter;it was simply a thing to be summarily dismissed and as far as possibleeffaced from her remembrance.Thérèse had not reached the age of thirty-five without learning thatlife presents many insurmountable obstacles which must be accepted,whether with the callousness of philosophy, the revolt of weakness orthe dignity of self-respect. The following morning, the only signwhich she gave of her mental disturbance, was an appearance that mighthave succeeded a night of unrefreshing sleep.Hosmer had decided that his interview with Mrs. Lafirme should not beleft further to the caprice of accident. An hour or more before noonhe rode up from the mill knowing it to be a time when he would likelyfind her alone. Not seeing her he proceeded to make inquiry of theservants; first appealing to Betsy.“I don’ know whar Miss T’rèse,” with a rising inflection on the“whar.” “I yain’t seed her sence mornin’, time she sont Unc’ Hi’umyonda to old Morico wid de light bread an’ truck,” replied the verboseBetsy. “Aunt B’lindy, you know whar Miss T’rèse?”“How you want me know? standin’ up everlastin’ in de kitchen a bakin’light-bread fu’ lazy trash det betta be in de fiel’ wurkin’ a craplike people, stid o’ ’pendin’ on yeda folks.”Mandy, who had been a silent listener, divining that she had perhapsbetter make known certain information that was exclusively her ownpiped out:--“Miss T’rèse shet up in de parla; ’low she want we all lef ’er’lone.”Having as it were forced an entrance into the stronghold where Thérèsehad supposed herself secure from intrusion, Hosmer at once seatedhimself beside her.This was a room kept for the most part closed during the summer dayswhen the family lived chiefly on the verandas or in the wide open hallThere lingered about it the foreign scent of cool clean matting,mingled with a faint odor of rose which came from a curious Japanesejar that stood on the ample hearth. Through the green half-closedshutters the air came in gentle ripples, sweeping the filmy curtainsback and forth in irregular undulations. A few tasteful pictures hungupon the walls, alternating with family portraits, for the most partstiff and unhandsome, except in the case of such as were of so remotedate that age gave them a claim upon the interest and admiration of afar removed generation.It was not entirely clear to the darkies whether this room were not asort of holy sanctuary, where one should scarce be permitted tobreathe, except under compulsion of a driving necessity.“Mrs. Lafirme,” began Hosmer, “Melicent tells me that she made youacquainted last night with the matter which I wished to talk to youabout to-day.”“Yes,” Thérèse replied, closing the book which she had made a pretenseof reading, and laying it down upon the window-sill near which shesat; adding very simply, “Why did you not tell me long ago, Mr.Hosmer?”“God knows,” he replied; the sharp conviction breaking upon him, thatthis disclosure had some how changed the aspect of life for him.“Natural reluctance to speak of a thing so painful--nativereticence--I don’t know what. I hope you forgive me; that you will letit make no difference in whatever regard you may have for me.”“I had better tell you at once that there must be no repetition of--ofwhat you told me last night.”Hosmer had feared it. He made no protest in words; his revolt wasinward and showed itself only in an added pallor and increasedrigidity of face lines. He arose and went to a near window, peeringfor a while aimlessly out between the partly open slats.“I hadn’t thought of your being a Catholic,” he said, finally turningtowards her with folded arms.“Because you have never seen any outward signs of it. But I can’tleave you under a false impression: religion doesn’t influence myreason in this.”“Do you think then that a man who has had such misfortune, should bedebarred the happiness which a second marriage could give him?”“No, nor a woman either, if it suit her moral principle, which I holdto be something peculiarly one’s own.”“That seems to me to be a prejudice,” he replied. “Prejudices may beset aside by an effort of the will,” catching at a glimmer of hope.“There are some prejudices which a woman can’t afford to part with,Mr. Hosmer,” she said a little haughtily, “even at the price ofhappiness. Please say no more about it, think no more of it.”He seated himself again, facing her; and looking at him all hersympathetic nature was moved at sight of his evident trouble.“Tell me about it. I would like to know every thing in your life,” shesaid, feelingly.“It’s very good of you,” he said, holding a hand for a moment over hisclosed eyes. Then looking up abruptly, “It was a painful enoughexperience, but I never dreamed that it could have had this last blowin reserve for me.”“When did you marry?” she asked, wishing to start him with the storywhich she fancied he would feel better for the telling.“Ten years ago. I am a poor hand to analyze character: my own oranother’s. My reasons for doing certain things have never been quiteclear to me; or I have never schooled myself to inquiry into my ownmotives for action. I have been always thoroughly the business man. Idon’t make a boast of it, but I have no reason to be ashamed of theadmission. Socially, I have mingled little with my fellow-beings,especially with women, whose society has had little attraction for me;perhaps, because I have never been thrown much into it, and I wasnearly thirty when I first met my wife.”“Was it in St. Louis?” Thérèse asked.“Yes. I had been inveigled into going on a river excursion,” he said,plunging into the story, “Heaven knows how. Perhaps I was feelingunwell--I really can’t remember. But at all events I met a friend whointroduced me early in the day to a young girl--Fanny Larimore. Shewas a pretty little thing, not more than twenty, all pink and whiteand merry blue eyes and stylish clothes. Whatever it was, there wassomething about her that kept me at her side all day. Every word andmovement of hers had an exaggerated importance for me. I fancied suchthings had never been said or done quite in the same way before.”“You were in love,” sighed Thérèse. Why the sigh she could not havetold.“I presume so. Well, after that, I found myself thinking of her at themost inopportune moments. I went to see her again and again--my firstimpression deepened, and in two weeks I had asked her to marry me. Ican safely say, we knew nothing of each other’s character. Aftermarriage, matters went well enough for a while.” Hosmer here arose,and walked the length of the room.“Mrs. Lafirme,” he said, “can’t you understand that it must be apainful thing for a man to disparage one woman to another: the womanwho has been his wife to the woman he loves? Spare me the rest.”“Please have no reservations with me; I shall not misjudge you in anycase,” an inexplicable something was moving her to know what remainedto be told.“It wasn’t long before she attempted to draw me into what she calledsociety,” Hosmer continued. “I am little versed in defining shades ofdistinction between classes, but I had seen from the beginning thatFanny’s associates were not of the best social rank by any means. Ihad vaguely expected her to turn from them, I suppose, when shemarried. Naturally, I resisted anything so distasteful as beingdragged through rounds of amusement that had no sort of attractionwhatever for me. Besides, my business connections were extending, andthey claimed the greater part of my time and thoughts.“A year after our marriage our boy was born.” Here Hosmer ceasedspeaking for a while, seemingly under pressure of a crowding ofpainful memories.“The child whose picture you have at the office?” asked Thérèse.“Yes,” and he resumed with plain effort: “It seemed for a while thatthe baby would give its mother what distraction she sought sopersistently away from home; but its influence did not last and shesoon grew as restless as before. Finally there was nothing that unitedus except the child. I can’t really say that we were united throughhim, but our love for the boy was the one feeling that we had incommon. When he was three years old, he died. Melicent had come tolive with us after leaving school. She was a high-spirited girl fullof conceits as she is now, and in her exaggerated way became filledwith horror of what she called the mésalliance I had made. After amonth she went away to live with friends. I didn’t oppose her. I sawlittle of my wife, being often away from home; but as feebly observantas I was, I had now and again marked a peculiarity of manner about herthat vaguely troubled me. She seemed to avoid me and we grew more andmore divided.“One day I returned home rather early. Melicent was with me. We foundFanny in the dining-room lying on the sofa. As we entered, she lookedat us wildly and in striving to get up grasped aimlessly at the backof a chair. I felt on a sudden as if there were some awful calamitythreatening my existence. I suppose, I looked helplessly at Melicent,managing to ask her what was the matter with my wife. Melicent’s blackeyes were flashing indignation. ‘Can’t you see she’s been drinking.God help you,’ she said. Mrs. Lafirme, you know now the reason whichdrove me away from home and kept me away. I never permitted my wife towant for the comforts of life during my absence; but she sued fordivorce some years ago and it was granted, with alimony which Idoubled. You know the miserable story now. Pardon me for dragging itto such a length. I don’t see why I should have told it after all.”Thérèse had remained perfectly silent; rigid at times, listening toHosmer often with closed eyes.He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing for a while tillfinally: “Your--your wife is still quite young--do her parents livewith her?”“Oh no, she has none. I suppose she lives alone.”“And those habits; you don’t know if she continues them?”“I dare say she does. I know nothing of her, except that she receiptsfor the amount paid her each month.”The look of painful thought deepened on Thérèse’s face but herquestions having been answered, she again became silent.Hosmer’s eyes were imploring her for a look, but she would not answerthem.“Haven’t you a word to say to me?” he entreated.“No, I have nothing to say, except what would give you pain.”“I can bear anything from you,” he replied, at a loss to guess hermeaning.“The kindest thing I can say, Mr. Hosmer, is, that I hope you haveacted blindly. I hate to believe that the man I care for, woulddeliberately act the part of a cruel egotist.”“I don’t understand you.”“I have learned one thing through your story, which appears very plainto me,” she replied. “You married a woman of weak character. Youfurnished her with every means to increase that weakness, and shut herout absolutely from your life and yourself from hers. You left herthen as practically without moral support as you have certainly donenow, in deserting her. It was the act of a coward.” Thérèse spoke thelast words with intensity.“Do you think that a man owes nothing to himself?” Hosmer asked, inresistance to her accusation.“Yes. A man owes to his manhood, to face the consequences of his ownactions.”Hosmer had remained seated. He did not even with glance follow Thérèsewho had arisen and was moving restlessly about the room. He had solong seen himself as a martyr; his mind had become so habituated tothe picture, that he could not of a sudden look at a different one,believing that it could be the true one. Nor was he eager to accept aview of the situation that would place him in his own eyes in acontemptible light. He tried to think that Thérèse must be wrong; buteven admitting a doubt of her being right, her words carried anelement of truth that he was not able to shut out from his conscience.He felt her to be a woman with moral perceptions keener than his ownand his love, which in the past twenty-four hours had grown tooverwhelm him, moved him now to a blind submission.“What would you have me do, Mrs. Lafirme?”“I would have you do what is right,” she said eagerly, approachinghim.“O, don’t present me any questions of right and wrong; can’t you seethat I’m blind?” he said, self accusingly. “What ever I do, must bebecause you want it; because I love you.”She was standing beside him and he took her hand.“To do a thing out of love for you, would be the only comfort andstrength left me.”“Don’t say that,” she entreated. “Love isn’t everything in life; thereis something higher.”“God in heaven, there shouldn’t be!” he exclaimed, passionatelypressing her hand to his forehead, his cheek, his lips.“Oh, don’t make it harder for me,” Thérèse said softly, attempting towithdraw her hand.It was her first sign of weakness, and he seized on it for hisadvantage. He arose quickly--unhesitatingly--and took her in his arms.For a moment that was very brief, there was danger that the task ofrenunciation would not only be made harder, but impossible, for both;for it was in utter blindness to everything but love for each other,that their lips met.The great plantation bell was clanging out the hour of noon; the hourfor sweet and restful enjoyment; but to Hosmer, the sound was like thevoice of a derisive demon, mocking his anguish of spirit, as hemounted his horse, and rode back to the mill.