Out in the World CHAPTER 2.
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After the wedding day — after the honeymoon came the sober reality — the plain facts of married life; and none escape them. The worshiped divinity steps down from her pedestal, and becomes a woman; still fair, beloved, and worshiped — but not at the old distance. We repeat these unwelcome sentences — unwelcome to many, because the words will bear to them a meaning beyond their literal sense.
It was not long before the divinity of Carl Jansen's new home stepped down before his eyes, and revealed herself as human, in whom were human weaknesses and human faults. The all-compliant lover was not merged, gracefully, into the all-compliant husband. Why should there be wooing — after winning and possession? A new order of things must follow marriage; an entire change of relation between the woman and the man. Before, the will of Madeline was his law; now, his will must be her law. There is a vast difference between the two relations; and the substitution of the one for the other cannot take place without a jar. If Jansen had been less selfish, and thence clearer seeing — able to change in perception, his standpoint for that occupied by his young wife — the shadow of a cloud, dark enough to hold a tempest in its bosom, need not have fallen so quickly upon their lives. But, he had a cold, inflexible nature, which, to the world, veiled itself under warm and soft exteriors — and had so veiled itself to the maiden, Madeline.
To her, he had ever seemed warm and yielding. Nothing hard, icy, or exacting, had appeared in all the happy months of waiting for the blissful day that was to make them one. She felt that he was all tenderness, all love; and that she could rest on his manly strength, and hide herself, like a tired child, when life had weary or sad moments, in sweet abandonment on his bosom.
Alas for her disappointment! She awoke with a startle — a shock — a wound. She arose shuddering — yet in anger, and with a new consciousness of strength. There had been disturbances in her sleep — a troubled sense of pain and wrong — strange dreams that hurt and frightened her — a kind of vague nightmare, changing all at once to a gibbering phantom on her bosom, when she awoke with a cry — awoke, never to sleep the old tranquil sleep again!
Let us come to particulars. The awaking was in this way. Keep in mind the two characters with which we are dealing. The one undisciplined, impulsive, self-willed, independent; the other cold, orderly, inflexible, and sensitive to the world's opinion — how will he appear to others? He governed his life in its social aspect. She rarely, if ever, thought about what others might say or think of her — while he felt himself to be under constant observation.
It was five months after their marriage. During that time, the young husband had been gradually changing in the eyes of his wife, and putting on new forms of character. The honeymoon had scarcely passed, before a jar was felt. Pain and surprise followed — vague questionings — bewilderment, doubt — Madeline pondered the fact, notcomprehending it — pondered it sitting in the edge of a shadow that was advancing, black and cold upon her life.
Another jar — more questioning — deeper bewilderment — strange doubts — the shadow still advancing. What was meant? What portended? She had entered a new region, and was losing her way. The path along which her feet had moved in dancing measure, grew all at once narrower, and she began looking to her steps; and then, as her eyes from a vague instinct of danger, ran forwards — the path lost itself to vision. She trembled and grew afraid — then sat down and wept. And this happened before two months had passed since the bridal kiss lay sweet upon her lips.
How imperfectly do we understand each other. We move side by side, dwell in the same household, commune together, enter into the most intimate and sacred relations — and yet, continually misapprehend and falsely interpret one another. Each is a mystery — a human temple, into the inner recesses of which, none but God may enter. In just the degree that we selfishly live our own lives — that is, seek our own pleasures, and do our own will — are we in danger of misapprehending and misinterpreting others. Their acts, (all we really see of them,) if they fail to square with our rule of thinking — if they touch our sense of propriety, or interfere with our comfort or convenience — are read against them as signs of perverseness, moral defection, wrong intent, or evil desire; and we respond, in our action, to the assumed meaning of theirs.
In so responding, were the truth really known to us, we would find ourselves wrong two out of three times. But we too rarely get down to the truth in these things. Our reactions upon assumed perverseness or evil — are met by counter-reactions; and we grow blinder and falser in our judgments. Pride and anger rise up to cloud still more our better reason, and too often, alas! we lift the hand to punish — where there has been no sin. If men and women made it a rule always to suppose good instead of evil, concerning thedoubtful actions of those to whom they bear intimate relations — there would be peace and unity with tens and tens of thousand, who now perversely wound and hinder one another — turning the honey of their lives, into vinegar and gall!
Both Jansen and his wife were strongly marked as to individuality of character, living so completely in their own ideas of life, as to render adequate sympathy with the peculiar ideas and sympathies of another, nearly impossible. Herein lay the ground of danger. This was the barrier to unity and happiness. He was always guarding and hiding from theworld his weaknesses and peculiarities — dropping down a veil when he appeared abroad — questioning as to how it would sound or look, before the impulse to speak or act found expression. She, on the contrary, was a standing revelation of herself. Never on her guard — never asking what this one or the other might say or think — ruled by her impulses — sunny, showery, petulant, tender, passionate. Her heart beat along the surface of her life, and you might count the pulsations. It was this perpetual revelation of herself that constituted the veil of mystery, beyond which the eyes of Jansen could not penetrate — caused his misinterpretations, and stimulated his impatience. He could not understandher character — far less, sympathize with her.
At the end of five months — after a troubled sleep, in which strange dreams had hurt and frightened the young wife — there came a full awakening. The stealthy, intruding, suffocating, weird nightmare, suddenly revealed, as we have said, its hideous form, and she sprung from sleep, with a cry of fear. It was in this way:
Beautiful, gifted, fascinating in manner, social, and gratified with the attentions that were lavished upon her — Mrs. Jansen was not in the least inclined to withdraw herself from the pleasant circles wherein she had shone as a star. Now, this did not please her husband. He wanted her more for himself, and felt disturbed when he saw her enjoying the company of other men. Hindrances had been thrown in her way which only annoyed, instead of impeding her. He watched her narrowly when in society, and she was constantly detecting the half-suspicious glances of his cold, wary eyes, a circumstance that did not cause reflection or concession — but only awakened pride, and led her farther away from the paths in which he desired her to walk.
Carl Jansen was a merchant, living and doing business in the city of New York. As our story has nothing to do with his business life, we shall not weary the reader with dry descriptions of his store, his clerks, or his customers. In regard to personal appearance, a few words must suffice. In stature, he was five feet, eight inches — not stout — straight and symmetrical. He was always well dressed; had dark, fine hair, a little wavy; and clearly defined, smooth eyebrows, handsomely arched. Eyes nearly black. Side whiskers, just a little wavy, like his hair, and similar as to color. His profile was almost classic, and like chiseled marble in its pure outlines; but the face itself was nearly as pale and cold as marble. "A perfect face," was often said, when the eyes first rested thereon; but, the more you studied it, the less you were satisfied — the less perfect it seemed. There wasdefect in something which gave the sign of a true and noble manhood. You had an impression of narrowness instead of breadth — of littleness instead of grandeur. It was a face, the calm surface of which was rarely broken. There might be a tempest below — but few signs thereof would be revealed in his placid countenance. He knew, perfectly, the art of hiding what he felt; of restraining the flow of passionate blood before it put a stain of betrayal on his cheek. Such men get credit for virtues not always possessed.
Carl Jansen left his store one evening in November, a little before six o'clock. It was almost dark. He took a coach in Broadway, just above Wall Street. Two or three vacant places remained — one at the forward part of the stage, to which he passed. Before reaching John Street, the coach had its complement of twelve passengers. The last man who entered, was a person well know to Jansen. A gentleman sitting next to him recognized this person as he came in and made room for him. He did not observe Jansen. There was some defect in the lamp, and it went out soon after passing the Astor House; in consequence, the faces of the passengers were all in deep shadow.
The last comer had not observed our merchant, who sat crowded into the corner of the seat, and who, being a smaller man than his immediate neighbor, was quite concealed. The two men were, it soon appeared, intimate acquaintances. The one known to Jansen was named Guyton. He was a small Wall Street broker, of no very fair reputation — but a specious, insinuating, shrewd, self-determined man, who was making his way in the world, and did not mean to fail through lack of wit and effort. He had a smooth tongue, a gracious manner, a rhinoceros skin, and a conscience without scruple.
"You will be at the club tonight?" Jansen heard his immediate neighbor say to Guyton, as they were passing Barclay street.
"No; I have something better than the club on hand."
"Ah! What?"
The two men drew close together, speaking almost into each other's ears. The rattle of the coach prevented their voices from being heard by the passengers sitting opposite; but, Guyton's face being turned towards Mr. Jansen, he by leaning and hearkening with an almost breathless attention, managed to get nearly every word that was spoken. "A party at Mrs. Woodbine's. Were you not invited?"
"The Woodbines and I don't take to each other. They are very nice people, no doubt; but, a little stuck-up, since Woodbine ventured into the California trade, and came out winner instead of loser."
"It's the way of the world, you know," said Guyton. "But they give fine entertainments, and you meet some charming people there."
"Who?"
"There is one in particular. Do you know Carl Jansen?"
"Of Maiden Lane?"
"Yes, at least, I know of him."
"Have you met his wife?"
"Never."
"They've only been married a few months. But she is lovely! "She wears the sunniest face you ever looked upon. A perfect enchantress! I am going to meet her."
"You are!" Jansen did not fail to note the surprised tone in which this response was made.
"Yes, she's the attraction. I wish you could hear her sing. She has the most perfect voice I ever heard in a woman. It is divine."
"Does the lady respond to your admiration?"
Just then, in making way for a coming coach, the one in which they were riding turned short towards the pavement, and the hind wheels grinding against the curbstone, drowned the voice that answered; and so the eager, tingling ears of the surprised husband did not catch the reply. What he did hear from Guyton's companion, was not calculated to soothe his feelings. The sentence was this:
"A little vanity in so good looking a fellow as you are, may be pardoned. If, however, an old stager's advice is worth anything, let me suggest prudence. Trouble is apt to come of these things. Honesty is found to be the best policy in the long run, whether a man's gold or his wife is considered. You'd better come to the club."
"No, thank you! Not cheap beer — when I can get the flavor of wine."
"How is Lake Erie today?" Guyton's companion changed the subject.
"Flat," was answered.
"Hudson River?"
"Advanced a half a point. If you have a few thousands to spare, now is your time. It's on the upward move."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so."
Jansen shrunk back into his corner of the stage with a mingled feeling of pain, anger and mortification. Nothing more of what passed between the two men reached his ears. Did asuspicion concerning his wife cross his mind? No — not the shadow of a suspicion. He believed her to be true and pure, and it almost maddened him to think that the breath of such a man as Guyton should fall upon her cheek. The particular attentions of this man to Madeline on two or three recent occasions had not escaped his observation. He understood something of their meaning now.
But, how was he to deal with Madeline? How can he save her from contact with a person whose eyes he saw, in imagination, looking at her with the lust of a sensualist and a villain? The two men left the stage before him, and, unembarrassed by their presence, he pondered this now question, that seemed more difficult of solution with every repeated effort to reach an answer. Madeline herself had proved an enigma. He had, so far, failed to comprehend her character. She did not seem to reflect — had no worldly wisdom — no suspicions — no prudence. Her feelings were her leaders, and carried her wherever they would. Every effort so far made, whether gentle or firm, to hold her back from the social life in which she found so much enjoyment, had been fruitless. The feeble arguments he could educe on the side of "moping at home," as she said, were to her as weak as gossamer. She blew them away at a breath.
"Life was given us to enjoy, Carl," she sometimes answered him in playful seriousness, "and we cannot enjoy it alone. The heart is social. It must have friends. Home is sweet — but the sweetest and purest lake that ever smiled back into the blue sky, or reflected the light of stars, will grow vile and death-breeding, if its waters be not renewed and agitated by the influx of streams. Because we have created a home, shall we retire into it and selfishly shut the door — letting none pass over our threshold nor crossing it ourselves? This would indeed be folly! No, no, Carl! We must not imitate the folly that is making so many homes in our land little better than gloomy cloisters. Does the marriage vow involve a renunciation of the world? Is the wife a simple devotee? — a nun? — I must be pardoned for thinking differently."
Carl might as profitably have talked to the wind — as to argue against his wife. All this was, with her, a matter of perception. She saw it; and reasons to the contrary were to her as words without meaning. In all his efforts to draw her to his way of thinking — where it ran counter to what she saw and felt to be right — he had, so far, entirely failed. There was either a playful setting of him aside, or a more sober — but resolute, advance along the ways in which she saw it right to go. These were not perverse, doubtful, or dangerous ways; but simply the old ways amid social pleasures wherein she had walked for a few bright years; where Carl had walked also; and where they had met as lovers. In his eyes she had graced these ways once — was their most beautiful -ornament — but now, she seemed out of her sphere there. It had been well enough for the maiden — but was not for the wife. The conversation just heard in the coach, confirmed all his objections to her love of society. But he was not clear as to the propriety of reporting this conversation — at least not for the present. His experience with Madeline caused him to hesitate. He was never certain of the way in which she would respond to a communication in any manner bearing upon her conduct. In most cases, she had acted in clear opposition to his way of thinking.
Carl Jansen, on reaching home, found his wife in the midst of elaborate dressing preparations, though it was yet full two hours before Mrs. Woodbine's guests would begin to present themselves. His face did not light up with its accustomed smiles on meeting her. He was too sober — too annoyed — for smiles. His eyes clear and cold at all times, were particularly cold now; his face clouded; his lips compressed with unusual firmness. His presence, to the warm, light heart of Madeline, fell like a shadow.
"What's the matter? Are you sick?" she asked, resting her eyes on his face, and trying to read every line of expression.
He said something about a slight headache; but his manner was reserved. As this was not the first time her husband had come home in a strange mood on a like occasion, Madeline partly guessed the cause. A state of irritation followed. Jansen saw this change of feeling writing itself in her tell-tale eyes and face, and it sobered and discouraged him still more. Excess of feeling, while it blinded her, stimulated her self-will. He had gained experience of this already.
"There is no use in opposition," he said to himself. "She will go, spite of anything I can say."
He might have told her of what he had heard in the coach. But, that would have been no reason for her remaining at home; only for a guarded demeanor towards Mr. Guyton. As the communication of this incident, at the time, would effect nothing, Jansen felt constrained still to keep it in his own possession. He would, of course, not lose sight of Madeline for a moment — would linger near her as much as possible; and watch Guyton with eagle eyes. In this spirit, he went with his wife to Mrs. Woodbine's.
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