The Awakening and Selected Short Stories - Page 10/161

It would have been a difficult matter for Mr. Pontellier to define to

his own satisfaction or anyone else's wherein his wife failed in her

duty toward their children. It was something which he felt rather than

perceived, and he never voiced the feeling without subsequent regret and

ample atonement.

If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble whilst at play, 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 eyes and the

sand out of his mouth, and go on playing. Tots as they were, they pulled

together and stood their ground in childish battles with doubled

fists and uplifted voices, which usually prevailed against the other

mother-tots. The quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge encumbrance,

only good to button up waists and panties and to brush and part hair;

since it seemed to be a law of society that hair must be parted and

brushed.

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a mother-woman. The mother-women

seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them,

fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or

imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized

their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy

privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as

ministering angels.

Many of them were delicious in the role; one of them was the embodiment

of every womanly grace and charm. If her husband did not adore her,

he was a brute, deserving of death by slow torture. Her name was Adele

Ratignolle. There are no words to describe her save the old ones that

have served so often to picture the bygone heroine of romance and the

fair lady of our dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden about her

charms; her beauty was all there, flaming and apparent: the spun-gold

hair that comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue eyes that were

like nothing but sapphires; two lips that pouted, that were so red one

could only think of cherries or some other delicious crimson fruit in

looking at them. She was growing a little stout, but it did not seem to

detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture. One would

not have wanted her white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms

more slender. Never were hands more exquisite than hers, and it was a

joy to look at them when she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold

thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed away on the little

night-drawers or fashioned a bodice or a bib.