A Respectable Woman Notes | Grade 12 Short Stories Unit 2 Notes | Kate Chopin

A Respectable Woman

Respectable-women

Short Stories Notes – All Units

Click On Arrow Button To Change Page.

UnitStoriesAuthor
1Neighbours NotesTim Winton
2A Respectable Woman NotesKate Chopin
3A Devoted SonAnita Desai
4The Treasure in the ForestH. G. Wells
5My Old HomeLu Xun
6The Half-closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Sinking SunShankar Lamichhane
7A Very Old Man with Enormous WingsGabriel Garcia Marquez

Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected his friend,
Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation.
They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time had also been
passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation. She was looking forward
to a period of unbroken rest, now, and undisturbed tete-a-tete with her husband, when
he informed her that Gouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two.
This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her husband’s
college friend; was now a journalist, and in no sense a society man or “a man about
town,” which were, perhaps, some of the reasons she had never met him. But she had
unconsciously formed an image of him in her mind. She pictured him tall, slim, cynical;
with eyeglasses, and his hands in his pockets; and she did not like him. Gouvernail was

slim enough, but he wasn’t very tall nor very cynical; neither did he wear eyeglasses
nor carry his hands in his pockets. And she rather liked him when he first presented
himself.
But why she liked him she could not explain satisfactorily to herself when she partly
attempted to do so. She could discover in him none of those brilliant and promising
traits which Gaston, her husband, had often assured her that he possessed. On the
contrary, he sat rather mute and receptive before her chatty eagerness to make him
feel at home and in face of Gaston’s frank and wordy hospitality. His manner was as
courteous toward her as the most exacting woman could require; but he made no direct
appeal to her approval or even esteem.
Once settled at the plantation he seemed to like to sit upon the wide portico in the shade
of one of the big Corinthian pillars, smoking his cigar lazily and listening attentively to
Gaston’s experience as a sugar planter.
“This is what I call living,” he would utter with deep satisfaction, as the air that swept
across the sugar field caressed him with its warm and scented velvety touch. It pleased
him also to get on familiar terms with the big dogs that came about him, rubbing
themselves sociably against his legs. He did not care to fish, and displayed no eagerness
to go out and kill grosbecs when Gaston proposed doing so.
Gouvernail’s personality puzzled Mrs. Baroda, but she liked him. Indeed, he was a
lovable, inoffensive fellow. After a few days, when she could understand him no better
than at first, she gave over being puzzled and remained piqued. In this mood, she
left her husband and her guest, for the most part, alone together. Then finding that
Gouvernail took no manner of exception to her action, she imposed her society upon
him, accompanying him in his idle strolls to the mill and walks along the batture. She
persistently sought to penetrate the reserve in which he had unconsciously enveloped
himself.
“When is he going—your friend?” she one day asked her husband. “For my part, he
tires me frightfully.”
“Not for a week yet, dear. I can’t understand; he gives you no trouble.”
“No. I should like him better if he did; if he were more like others, and I had to plan
somewhat for his comfort and enjoyment.”
Gaston took his wife’s pretty face between his hands and looked tenderly and laughingly
into her troubled eyes.
They were making a bit of toilet sociably together in Mrs. Baroda’s dressing-room.
“You are full of surprises, ma belle,” he said to her. “Even I can never count upon how
you are going to act under given conditions.” He kissed her and turned to fasten his
cravat before the mirror.
“Here you are,” he went on, “taking poor Gouvernail seriously and making a
commotion over him, the last thing he would desire or expect.”

“Commotion!” she hotly resented. “Nonsense! How can you say such a thing?
Commotion, indeed! But, you know, you said he was clever.”
“So he is. But the poor fellow is run down by overwork now. That’s why I asked him
here to take a rest.”
“You used to say he was a man of ideas,” she retorted, unconciliated. “I expected him
to be interesting, at least. I’m going to the city in the morning to have my spring gowns
fitted. Let me know when Mr. Gouvernail is gone; I shall be at my Aunt Octavie’s.”
That night she went and sat alone upon a bench that stood beneath a live oak tree at the
edge of the gravel walk.
She had never known her thoughts or her intentions to be so confused. She could
gather nothing from them but the feeling of a distinct necessity to quit her home in the
morning.
Mrs. Baroda heard footsteps crunching the gravel; but could discern in the darkness
only the approaching red point of a lighted cigar. She knew it was Gouvernail, for her
husband did not smoke. She hoped to remain unnoticed, but her white gown revealed
her to him. He threw away his cigar and seated himself upon the bench beside her;
without a suspicion that she might object to his presence.
“Your husband told me to bring this to you, Mrs. Baroda,” he said, handing her a filmy,
white scarf with which she sometimes enveloped her head and shoulders. She accepted
the scarf from him with a murmur of thanks, and let it lie in her lap.
He made some commonplace observation upon the baneful effect of the night air at the
season. Then as his gaze reached out into the darkness, he murmured, half to himself:
“‘Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! Still nodding night—’”
She made no reply to this apostrophe to the night, which, indeed, was not addressed
to her.
Gouvernail was in no sense a diffident man, for he was not a self-conscious one. His
periods of reserve were not constitutional, but the result of moods. Sitting there beside
Mrs. Baroda, his silence melted for the time.
He talked freely and intimately in a low, hesitating drawl that was not unpleasant to
hear. He talked of the old college days when he and Gaston had been a good deal to
each other; of the days of keen and blind ambitions and large intentions. Now there
was left with him, at least, a philosophic acquiescence to the existing order—only a
desire to be permitted to exist, with now and then a little whiff of genuine life, such as
he was breathing now.
Her mind only vaguely grasped what he was saying.
Her physical being was for the moment predominant. She was not thinking of his
words, only drinking in the tones of his voice. She wanted to reach out her hand in
the darkness and touch him with the sensitive tips of her fingers upon the face or the

lips. She wanted to draw close to him and whisper against his cheek—she did not care
what—as she might have done if she had not been a respectable woman.
The stronger the impulse grew to bring herself near him, the further, in fact, did she
draw away from him. As soon as she could do so without an appearance of too great
rudeness, she rose and left him there alone.
Before she reached the house, Gouvernail had lighted a fresh cigar and ended his
apostrophe to the night.
Mrs. Baroda was greatly tempted that night to tell her husband—who was also her
friend—of this folly that had seized her. But she did not yield to the temptation. Besides
being a respectable woman she was a very sensible one; and she knew there are some
battles in life which a human being must fight alone.
When Gaston arose in the morning, his wife had already departed. She had taken an
early morning train to the city. She did not return till Gouvernail was gone from under
her roof.
There was some talk of having him back during the summer that followed. That is,
Gaston greatly desired it; but this desire yielded to his wife’s strenuous opposition.
However, before the year ended, she proposed, wholly from herself, to have Gouvernail
visit them again. Her husband was surprised and delighted with the suggestion coming
from her.
“I am glad, chereamie, to know that you have finally overcome your dislike for him;
truly he did not deserve it.”
“Oh,” she told him, laughingly, after pressing a long, tender kiss upon his lips, “I have
overcome everything! You will see. This time I shall be very nice to him.”

Leave a Comment