Kate Chopin published The Awakening in 1899 and watched it destroy her career. Critics found it immoral; she was essentially blacklisted from the literary society that had welcomed her earlier, safer work. The novel was largely forgotten until the 1960s and 1970s, when feminist scholars recovered it as a foundational text of American women’s literature – a novel that had said, sixty years before the second wave, what it was like to be a woman in possession of desires that her society had not given her permission to have.
Edna Pontellier is the wife of a prosperous Louisiana Creole businessman, Leonce Pontellier, and the mother of two young sons. In the summer of 1899, the family is vacationing on Grand Isle, a resort on the Gulf of Mexico. There, Edna begins to wake up to herself: to her capacity for sensation, to her own desires, to the constriction of the role that her marriage and her society have assigned her.
The awakening has multiple catalysts. Robert Lebrun, a young Creole man who makes a practice of summer attachments to married women and then withdraws before anything inappropriate can happen, attaches himself to Edna and discovers, to his alarm, that she takes it seriously. Mademoiselle Reisz, a pianist whose artistic commitment has made her a social outcast, becomes Edna’s model of a woman who lives by her own internal law. Alcee Arobin, a man of dubious reputation, becomes her lover.
Edna begins to refuse her social role. She stops receiving callers on her reception day. She moves out of her husband’s house into a small cottage she calls the pigeon house. She takes up painting. She refuses to explain herself to anyone. And she finds, ultimately, that the freedom she can claim within her society’s limits is not the freedom she wants, and that the freedom she wants is not available to her.
The sea in the novel is freedom and dissolution simultaneously. Edna learns to swim during the novel’s opening section, and this moment of physical autonomy – of moving through water by her own power – is the beginning of her awakening. The sea recurs throughout as the novel’s primary symbol, calling to her, promising something beyond the limits of her defined life.
The ending, in which Edna walks into the sea, has been interpreted as suicide, as liberation, as the only exit available to a woman who cannot live within the terms her world offers and cannot survive outside them. Chopin does not specify; she renders Edna’s final experience with a lyricism that refuses to assign it a moral.
Chopin writes Edna’s interior life with a precision and sympathy that was unprecedented in American fiction of the period. Edna is not a saint and not a martyr. She is a person becoming aware of herself as a person – aware of her desires, her boredom, her capacity for both cruelty and love – and discovering that this awareness is not welcome in the world she inhabits. The novel does not argue that she makes correct choices. It argues that she is entitled to make choices at all.
Chopin writes with a lyricism that reflects the Gulf Coast landscape and Edna’s awakening sensuality. Her sentences have a warmth and a rhythmic quality that suits the novel’s concern with physical sensation and desire. The Louisiana Creole culture she describes with affection and precision is one she knew well from her years in New Orleans.
Readers interested in the history of women’s literature, in the American South, in novels about self-discovery and its costs, or in any novel that remains genuinely difficult to categorize morally will find The Awakening essential. It is 116 pages long and contains more sustained argument about the condition of women than most novels ten times its length.
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