The Awakening

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Chapter XXII

One morning on his way into town Mr. Pontellier stopped at the house of his old friend and family physician, Doctor Mandelet. The Doctor was a semi-retired physician, resting, as the saying is, upon his laurels. He bore a reputation for wisdom rather than skill—leaving the active practice of medicine to his assistants and younger contemporaries—and was much sought for in matters of consultation. A few families, united to him by bonds of friendship, he still attended when they required the services of a physician. The Pontelliers were among these.

Mr. Pontellier found the Doctor reading at the open window of his study. His house stood rather far back from the street, in the center of a delightful garden, so that it was quiet and peaceful at the old gentleman's study window. He was a great reader. He stared up disapprovingly over his eye-glasses as Mr. Pontellier entered, wondering who had the temerity to disturb him at that hour of the morning.

“Ah, Pontellier! Not sick, I hope. Come and have a seat. What news do you bring this morning?” He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration.

“Oh! I'm never sick, Doctor. You know that I come of tough fiber—of that old Creole race of Pontelliers that dry up and finally blow away. I came to consult—no, not precisely to consult—to talk to you about Edna. I don't know what ails her.”

“Madame Pontellier not well,” marveled the Doctor. “Why, I saw her—I think it was a week ago—walking along Canal Street, the picture of health, it seemed to me.”

“Yes, yes; she seems quite well,” said Mr. Pontellier, leaning forward and whirling his stick between his two hands; “but she doesn't act well. She's odd, she's not like herself. I can't make her out, and I thought perhaps you'd help me.”

“How does she act?” inquired the Doctor.

“Well, it isn't easy to explain,” said Mr. Pontellier, throwing himself back in his chair. “She lets the housekeeping go to the dickens.”

“Well, well; women are not all alike, my dear Pontellier. We've got to consider—“

“I know that; I told you I couldn't explain. Her whole attitude—toward me and everybody and everything—has changed. You know I have a quick temper, but I don't want to quarrel or be rude to a woman, especially my wife; yet I'm driven to it, and feel like ten thousand devils after I've made a fool of myself. She's making it devilishly uncomfortable for me,” he went on nervously. “She's got some sort of notion in her head concerning the eternal rights of women; and—you understand—we meet in the morning at the breakfast table.”

The old gentleman lifted his shaggy eyebrows, protruded his thick nether lip, and tapped the arms of his chair with his cushioned fingertips.

“What have you been doing to her, Pontellier?”

“Doing! Parbleu!”

“Has she,” asked the Doctor, with a smile, “has she been associating of late with a circle of pseudo-intellectual women—super-spiritual superior beings? My wife has been telling me about them.”

“That's the trouble,” broke in Mr. Pontellier, “she hasn't been associating with any one. She has abandoned her Tuesdays at home, has thrown over all her acquaintances, and goes tramping about by herself, moping in the street-cars, getting in after dark. I tell you she's peculiar. I don't like it; I feel a little worried over it.”

This was a new aspect for the Doctor. “Nothing hereditary?” he asked, seriously. “Nothing peculiar about her family antecedents, is there?”

“Oh, no, indeed! She comes of sound old Presbyterian Kentucky stock. The old gentleman, her father, I have heard, used to atone for his weekday sins with his Sunday devotions. I know for a fact, that his race horses literally ran away with the prettiest bit of Kentucky farming land I ever laid eyes upon. Margaret—you know Margaret—she has all the Presbyterianism undiluted. And the youngest is something of a vixen. By the way, she gets married in a couple of weeks from now.”

“Send your wife up to the wedding,” exclaimed the Doctor, foreseeing a happy solution. “Let her stay among her own people for a while; it will do her good.”

“That's what I want her to do. She won't go to the marriage. She says a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth. Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!” exclaimed Mr. Pontellier, fuming anew at the recollection.

“Pontellier,” said the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, “let your wife alone for a while. Don't bother her, and don't let her bother you. Woman, my dear friend, is a very peculiar and delicate organism—a sensitive and highly organized woman, such as I know Mrs. Pontellier to be, is especially peculiar. It would require an inspired psychologist to deal successfully with them. And when ordinary fellows like you and me attempt to cope with their idiosyncrasies the result is bungling. Most women are moody and whimsical. This is some passing whim of your wife, due to some cause or causes which you and I needn't try to fathom. But it will pass happily over, especially if you let her alone. Send her around to see me.”

“Oh! I couldn't do that; there'd be no reason for it,” objected Mr. Pontellier.

“Then I'll go around and see her,” said the Doctor. “I'll drop in to dinner some evening en bon ami.

“Do! by all means,” urged Mr. Pontellier. “What evening will you come? Say Thursday. Will you come Thursday?” he asked, rising to take his leave.

“Very well; Thursday. My wife may possibly have some engagement for me Thursday. In case she has, I shall let you know. Otherwise, you may expect me.”

Mr. Pontellier turned before leaving to say:

“I am going to New York on business very soon. I have a big scheme on hand, and want to be on the field proper to pull the ropes and handle the ribbons. We'll let you in on the inside if you say so, Doctor,” he laughed.

“No, I thank you, my dear sir,” returned the Doctor. “I leave such ventures to you younger men with the fever of life still in your blood.”

“What I wanted to say,” continued Mr. Pontellier, with his hand on the knob; “I may have to be absent a good while. Would you advise me to take Edna along?”

“By all means, if she wishes to go. If not, leave her here. Don't contradict her. The mood will pass, I assure you. It may take a month, two, three months—possibly longer, but it will pass; have patience.”

“Well, good-by, a jeudi, “ said Mr. Pontellier, as he let himself out.

The Doctor would have liked during the course of conversation to ask, “Is there any man in the case?” but he knew his Creole too well to make such a blunder as that.

He did not resume his book immediately, but sat for a while meditatively looking out into the garden.

Frequently Asked Questions about Chapter XXII from The Awakening

What happens in Chapter 22 of The Awakening?

Mr. Léonce Pontellier visits Doctor Mandelet, the family’s semi-retired physician, to discuss his wife’s changed behavior. He complains that Edna has abandoned her domestic duties, dropped her social acquaintances, stopped hosting her weekly Tuesdays at home, and taken to walking alone through New Orleans, sometimes returning after dark. He also mentions her “notions concerning the eternal rights of women” and her refusal to attend her sister’s upcoming wedding. Doctor Mandelet advises Léonce to leave Edna alone and promises to drop by for dinner to observe her himself. After Pontellier leaves, the doctor privately wonders whether another man is involved.

Why does Mr. Pontellier consult Doctor Mandelet about Edna?

Mr. Pontellier treats Edna’s growing independence as though it were a medical condition. He tells Doctor Mandelet, “She’s odd, she’s not like herself,” framing her abandonment of housekeeping and social obligations as symptoms rather than deliberate choices. Kate Chopin uses this framing to expose how 19th-century patriarchal culture pathologized female autonomy—a woman asserting her own will was understood not as self-determination but as illness or emotional disturbance requiring a physician’s intervention.

What does Doctor Mandelet's advice reveal about gender roles in The Awakening?

Doctor Mandelet calls women “a very peculiar and delicate organism” and dismisses Edna’s behavior as a “passing whim.” While he is more perceptive than Léonce—he quietly suspects an affair—his advice to simply wait out her mood still reduces Edna’s awakening to a temporary condition. Kate Chopin shows through this exchange that even the wisest male authority figure in the novel cannot conceive of a woman’s inner transformation as permanent or legitimate. Both men discuss Edna without her present, underscoring the patriarchal dynamic in which women are spoken about rather than spoken to.

Why does Edna refuse to attend her sister's wedding in The Awakening?

Edna tells her husband that “a wedding is one of the most lamentable spectacles on earth.” This refusal signals her deepening rejection of the institution of marriage and the social conventions that surround it. Having begun to awaken to her own desires and individuality, Edna now views the marriage ceremony as a performative trap rather than a celebration. Mr. Pontellier is scandalized—“Nice thing for a woman to say to her husband!”—which reveals that he interprets her remark as a personal insult rather than recognizing the broader philosophical stance she is articulating.

What is the dramatic irony in Chapter 22 of The Awakening?

The central dramatic irony is that the reader already knows about Edna’s emotional relationship with Robert Lebrun, her visits to Mademoiselle Reisz, and her artistic and spiritual awakening—while Mr. Pontellier and Doctor Mandelet remain entirely in the dark. Mandelet comes closest to the truth when he privately wonders, “Is there any man in the case?” but “knew his Creole too well to make such a blunder as that.” Chopin locks the reader into the men’s limited perspective for the entire chapter, making their ignorance all the more pointed against what has already been revealed.