Anyone who was required to complete a first-year English module with a name like “history of women’s literature” has probably heard of this novel, which was one of the very early examples of the English-language Discontented Wife sub-genre. (Emma Bovary beat it there, but you know. The French.) Thanks to my old habit of recording the date and location of my book purchases along with my name on the title page, I can confidently state that I bought this in 2003 from a second-hand bookstore in Ashfield that is now, tragically, a real estate agent. Until a couple of weeks ago, I had never read it.
This is a short novel, a novella, really. It follows a few months in the life of Edna Pontellier, married to a basically decent (though criminally unobservant) man, mother of two (male) children, who almost overnight begins to wonder who it was that made those decisions for her. Part of the plot involves her falling in “love” with a young man she meets while on holiday with her family, but it really felt like the love story was tacked on as a catalyst for the protagonist’s….well, awakening. Mostly what she wants is a (pre-Woolf) space of her own to pursue her own interests, much to the bewilderment of her husband.
This novel is set in Louisiana in the 1890s – not exactly a haven of liberal enlightenment. The background to the main events is rife with casual racism, which makes for some uncomfortable reading: when was the last time you saw words like “mulatto” and “quadroon” used non-ironically? I think one of the real difficulties I have as a twenty-first century reader is that, on the one hand, comments that would have seemed perfectly natural to a contemporary audience now sound like sharp twangs and cause a significant distraction from the main thrust of the narrative. On the other hand, using more politically correct language, or reflecting acceptable values, would presumably be glaring anachronisms that would have essentially the same effect. I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe don’t have been racist in the first place?
Did I enjoy this? …I guess? It’s more of a case of appreciating its importance. I’m glad I read it, and grateful for the doors it opened in literature.