I had a good home, and everything pleasant, but I was alone. Some one
has asked the question: “What is home without a mother?” Mine was: “What
is home without a wife?” I had sadly failed in my first and only effort
to get a partner of my joys, a queen for my home, to my sorrow and
extreme chagrin and mortification. I had no ambition to encounter
another angry mother, though she had her rights, as I believed I had
mine. Burnt fingers make us chary of handling fire.
I had been in a number of happy homes, though excluded as I was, and had
seen a number of noble wives and mothers, who shed a divine light and
influence not only in their family circles, but on all around them.
Mr. Percy’s description of his mother and of his betrothed, gave me a
high ideal of the real and true woman. He never spoke of woman but with
respect, and I might say with reverence. The influence of his mother had
so formed him, that he could no more have injured a woman than he could
have hurt his own soul.
I think the opinion a man has of woman is a true index of his character.
I have never heard any one speak disparagingly of woman, but I have
asked myself, “What must he think of his own mother or sister?”
I had frequently met a young Eurasian woman. I always like the word
woman, for God made women; ladies are a society product, and are
somewhat like artificial flowers, painted and produced to order. There
are to be sure real ladies, but first of all they must be true women,
and as I have always preferred flowers of nature’s own making, so I have
a preference for a real woman, yet I will have to admit that even the
best of us may be deceived by appearances. I once saw some roses painted
so true to nature that butterflies came and lit upon them, and I could
imagine them saying to each other, “Fooled again!” So we imperfect
sighted mortals may be fooled with what we think are roses.
But to my story. The young woman was really handsome, and quite well
educated, though to be truthful, her education was somewhat artificial,
as the most of her life had been spent in a convent school. On her
father’s side of French descent; she was born of lawful wedlock, and in
a happy, well-to-do, prosperous family. Cupid shot me with one of his
best arrows soon after we became acquainted, and I think she was also
hit with the same kind of weapon from the quiver of the famous little
sportsman. There seemed to be a mutual sympathy for each other in our
wounded hearts. The result was, as it generally happens in such cases,
we concluded to cure each other’s wounds, by joining hands and hearts.
The wedding took place at the home of the bride, with great ceremony,
and a large gathering of friends, and then this Adam and his Eve
returned to their garden of Eden, and all went merry as a marriage bell.
It seemed as if I had now reached the acme of my desires, wealth enough,
a beautiful home, a fine library, flowers in our garden, and above all—a
wife. I had forgotten the story, as probably most of us have, that there
was a serpent even in the garden of Eden, and I never thought that one
could enter mine.
I had fine horses and carriages, so we could enjoy our drives. As I have
said, I subscribed liberally to all games and entertainments, so we had
frequent invitations, and were well received. We also gave our little
parties, which were well enjoyed. My wife was an excellent pianist, and
entertained our guests with music, in which some of them took part. One
of the most frequent callers was an Hon. a young officer of one of the
regiments, very gentlemanly in appearance, of a high society family,
well read, and one who had traveled and seen the world. He had a good
ear for music, and played well, so he and my wife had something in
common to interest them, with which I was well pleased. He not only
often dined with us alone and with others, but before our evening drives
he frequently took tea with us on our veranda, and we talked on various
subjects, for he was an excellent conversationalist, full of anecdotes
and incidents, which he related in a very fascinating manner. He had
style, a quick appreciation of things, and what interested me was his
remarks on moral and religious subjects, not connected with churches or
creeds, but in their widest meaning, and frequently with me alone he
spoke of the beauty of virtue and honor. He seemed to be a devoted
church-goer, belonged to the High Church party, was a stickler for
ecclesiastical forms, and often talked of the beauty of the services,
and the value of the sacraments.
Both my wife and myself were greatly pleased to have such an
acquaintance to relieve the monotony that rules even in our best India
stations. We had other friends whom we often saw, each excellent in his
way. We were happy and time passed rapidly. One of the largest
gatherings in the station was at the Birthday Ball, when guests came
from outside places. We attended the ball, though I could not dance, yet
I was very fond of music, and the social part. My wife excelled in
dancing and took great delight in it, so she had plenty of partners, one
of whom was our Hon. friend, and he was about the best dancer of them
all.
I had frequently to be absent for several days, to visit my villages,
and to look after my investments. I regretted these absences for my
wife’s sake, as she was timid at night, and besides she appeared fond of
my company, as I know I was of hers. One day, as I was about to leave,
our Hon. friend called, and during our conversation asked me if he could
take my wife out driving during my absence. I replied that I would be
most pleased to have him do so, and suggested that they should use the
phaeton, as it would be more comfortable than a cart, and the horses
needed exercise. During my absence I congratulated myself on our
happiness and prosperity, and thought with pride of the pleasant
reception of my wife in the station.
So the months passed with nothing to cloud my happiness. One day when I
was in the garden, looking over my trees and flowers, pruning a limb
here and there, my head man or durwan, an elderly Hindu, whom I had kept
in my service for years, followed me around. I saw by his manner that he
had something to say to me, so I asked “What is it, Ram Kishn?” He
replied, “I have been with the Sahib for years and have eaten his salt,
and I would shed my blood for him.”
“I know that, Ram Kishn, but what do you wish to say?”
“Sahib!” he said with hesitation, “I have often thought of telling you
something, but I was afraid. I have seen something that even we poor
ignorant idol worshipers—Kam ackl, bhut parast log, as the Sahibs call
us, think is not right.”
I quickly asked, “Has somebody been stealing my fruit or flowers, or the
bearer been cheating with the grain?”
“No, Sahib! nothing of that kind, something worse than that.”
I began to be impatient and said, “Out with it then, what is it?”
“Sahib, you know I love you, and think much of your izzat, honor. I
would let you beat me, or you might put your feet upon me,” and he threw
himself upon the ground toward me. I began to be alarmed, thinking there
must be something serious, or he would not act in that way, for he was a
very reliable, sensible man. I told him to get up, and urged him to tell
me what he meant. He said, “I would rather die than say it, but I tell
you for the sake of your honor, I must tell you.” ‘Well, then tell it,’
I urged.
Said he, “If the sahib will not kill me with the knife in his hand.”
I hurled the knife away, and said, “There goes the knife,” and then I
folded my arms and stood waiting. He went on:
“Now, if the Sahib will not call me a liar, or the son of a dog, or
curse me.”
I held up my right hand and said: “Ram Kishn! I will eat an oath before
God, that I will not touch you with my hands or feet, neither will I
harm you with my words, if you tell me what you mean.”
After a few moments, he said, “Sahib, you know the young Sahib who comes
here often, and sings with the Mem Sahib, who goes out with her in the
phaeton when you are absent?” I nodded my head in reply. “Well, when you
are gone to your villages—how can I tell it, Sahib? he comes late at
night when the lights are all out, and the Mem Sahib lets him in, and he
does not go away till early next morning.”
I staggered and fell. He rushed to me moaning, “Sahib, forgive me, what
have I done? I have killed you!” Then he helped me to a seat in the
arbor.
It seemed my heart had stopped, and I was choking. He stood with the
palms of his hands together, bending towards me, and the tears running
down his cheeks.
For some time we were silent. I could not think, it seemed that I had
fallen from some house or tree and was insensible. After awhile I said.
“Ram Kishn, I don’t doubt that you believe what you say, but there must
be some mistake. It is impossible, impossible.”
Then he said, “Sahib, do not say a word, not even to the Mem Sahib. I am
the only one of the servants who knows this, for don’t I watch on the
front veranda when the Sahib is absent?”
“But, what shall I do?” I asked, for I was in such a dazed stupor that I
could not think.
He replied, “The Sahib is going away to-night. Go, but do not go far
from the station, and return here to this arbor at twelve o’clock. Do
not come before that time, or the servants will be about, and we do not
want them to know anything of this, and then we’ll see that which is to
happen, will happen.” I told him I would do as he said, and that he
should order the sais to have the cart ready at five o’clock, and to
have the bearer put in my luggage. He replied that it should be just as
I ordered.
I sat for awhile, and then started for a walk, somewhere, anywhere, I
did not know, or care. I did not wish to see my wife, as I could not
trust myself to meet her just then. As I expected, when I returned, she
had gone out with her Hon. friend for a drive in the phaeton, so I
started in the direction of my villages. I halted at a village several
miles from the station, telling the sais that I was ill, and very ill I
was, too. How long the hours were! How slowly the minutes crept! I held
my watch in my hand, counted the tick, ticks, as if every one was
taunting me with my wretchedness. So I waited and ate grief for my
dinner. Eleven o’clock came, and I turned towards home. Home! How
suddenly it had changed to Hell! I formed no plans. I doubted, I feared,
I hoped. Nearing the station I went by a back lane to the stables, and
taking the luggage myself, went through the garden to the arbor. There I
found Ram Kishn. To show his sympathy in the dark, he took both my hands
in his and pressed them without uttering a word. After some moments of
silence I whispered, “Ram Kishn, is it,” and interrupting me, he said,
“We’ll see, sahib, come with me.” I followed him to a side door which we
entered, for it seems that he had quietly unfastened this door. He lit
the night lantern, and drew the slide to hide the light, and we silently
groped our way to our bedroom, yes, our bedroom. As we entered it, he
drew the slide, and there upon my bed, our bed, they were both asleep in
each other’s arms!
If I had been dazed before, I was paralyzed now. It was well that I had
formed no plan and taken no weapon, but it would have been useless, as I
could not raise my arms. I could not think; my power of speech was gone.
In an instant, at the glow of the light, they both awoke with a scream
of fright. I turned and left the room.
Often since that terrible moment I have thought of what I might, could,
would or should have done. That is always the way. Most people can think
afterward, when it is too late for thinking. But it was well that my
guardian angel or something kept me from taking a pistol or even a stick
in my hand. It has all passed, except the sad remembrance, and I console
myself with the thought that when one has done his best, that whatever
is, is best.
I went out into the darkness, wishing that it could engulf and hide me
forever. On and on for miles down the metaled road, thinking, but all my
thoughts ran into a delirium.
When the morning sun shone into my face, I found myself seated on the
sand by the roadside looking toward home. Home! I had none. It had
vanished in the darkness. Strange, is it not, that after a lapse of
years old scenes will suddenly flash upon one? It is true that a
thousand times I had thought of my mother, but at that moment I saw the
dear little mama, with those beautiful eyes wide open, looking, looking
while her heart was breaking, dying! I could realize her bitter sorrow,
for was not my heart breaking too?
These thoughts of her brought me to life again, to the maddening reality
of my own condition. I arose and went back to my infamy and disgrace. I
felt but little anger, as the consciousness of my degradation
overwhelmed me, and despair paralyzed all my feelings.
As I entered the house, I saw my wife—how I hated that word then—seated
in the drawing room. She did not look at me, and I passed on into my
private room. When I came out again, she sprang toward me, but I
retreated, saying, “Don’t come to me, never touch me again.” She threw
herself upon the floor, wailing and begging me to forgive her. My heart
was stone, my whole body dead to her. After a while she took a seat and
I listened in silence, while she told me all. How the Hon. had flattered
her, deceived and so seduced her, that at the Birthday Ball, after a
waltz together, he had taken her into the kala jagah—well is it named
the black place—and then had taken liberties with her, and then on and
on—why repeat the hateful story?
By the time she had finished I had formed my plan, and said this to her,
“Your Hon. seducer will probably not tell of this. The only one else who
knows it is Ram Kishn, and he will not tell, and we need not say
anything. We can live in hell here, and that is enough, without telling
others to have them add fuel to the flames. You can have that side of
the house entirely to yourself. One of the rooms you can use as a dining
room, and you can have the carriage for your evening drives. I will keep
this side of the house for myself, and we’ll live as never seeing each
other.”
The thought of the pleasant life we had passed, and of this horrible
life coming, made me exclaim, “What infamous crimes were my ancestors
guilty of, that I should be cursed like this? Why should I be damned for
the sins of that villainous father of mine?”
At this she asked, “Am I not to be your wife again?”
“My wife!” I exclaimed; “No, never, never again. Your purity is gone.
You are polluted for me. You have violated all your rights, not by a
sudden passion, but deliberately, time and again. You took advantage of
my absence. You have done your best to degrade me, to ruin me, and to
pollute yourself. You have not the slightest claim on me for any rights
or privileges. As for love, such as I had for you yesterday, my heart is
now dead to you. I forgive you, pity you, and will provide every comfort
for you, but you are not my wife except in name, and never can be.”
She fell back in a swoon, and I called her ayah, waiting woman, and left
the room.
What else could I do? Since then I have often thought of what I did, and
my conscience has never condemned me. I acted toward her as I would have
had her act toward me if the circumstances were changed. Had I broken my
loyalty to her in but one instance, she would have been right in dealing
with me as I dealt with her. I do not believe in two codes, one for
erring men, and another for erring women. If men demand virtue in their
wives, and cast them off when they fall, then let the men apply the same
law to themselves. The man who has commerce with more than one woman, is
as guilty as the woman who has had commerce with more than one man. If
immorality is wrong in a woman, why not in a man? Why should the man
have the right to transmit the curse of sensualism or debased appetite
to his children more than the woman? Why should a woman in marriage take
up a damaged article of a man, any more than a man a disreputable woman
for a wife?
Asks a Danish novelist, “Is a woman who has had no relationships with a
man before marriage entitled to expect the same in her husband? Is a man
who has had relationships with other women before marriage entitled to
complain of his wife who has had such relationships?” Another gives this
paragraph—a conversation of a father with his daughter. “There,” he
says, “is woman’s noblest calling.” “As what?” asks the daughter. “As
what! Have you not listened? As—as the ennobling influence in marriage,
as that which makes men pure, as—” “As soap?” she suggests. “Soap?” asks
he, “what makes you think of soap?” “You make out that marriage is a
great laundry for men. We girls are to stand ready, each at her wash-tub
with her piece of soap. Is that how you mean it?”
Once conversing with a young man, a full-blooded European in high
position, from a remark of mine he was led to ask, “Do you think that
children will inherit the disease of their father?” “Inevitably,” I
replied, “and I do not believe that God himself can or will avert this
natural law.” He replied, with a tremor in his voice, “I am very sorry
to hear you say that, as I am going to be married in a few days.” I
changed the subject, and made another remark, when he asked, “Don’t you
believe in the blood of Jesus to atone for our sins?” “No,” said I, “not
at all.” “Well!” he exclaimed, “if I did not believe in that, I do not
know what I should do.”
His was a strange mixture of practice and belief, like vice and virtue
sleeping in each other’s arms in the same bed. Living in the midst of
sin, diseased, and about to commit the meanest of frauds by marrying a
pure, noble girl, and yet professing to believe in Jesus, the purest of
men, who denounced lust in the severest terms, and taught that even
lustful desire was as criminal as adultery. Why should there not be
pure-minded, physically clean men, for fathers, as well as pure-minded
and beautiful women for mothers?
Why not, in the name of all that is just and holy, demand of men the
same chastity that they demand of women?
I know this is not the rule in “society”; that there are many men who
claim to be men of honor, gentlemen, and many of them professing
Christians, who glibly talk about the beauty of chastity and virtue, and
yet who feed in every pasture as if they had a right there, but if their
wives step aside, then the devil is to pay, and all that.
I acted according to my sense of justice—one law for both sexes, so how
could I have done otherwise than I did?
What of the Hon. gentleman, an officer in her majesty’s service? I might
have shot him, and been hung for it, as that is justice according to
English law. I might have exposed him and created a scandal, to be
myself despised as a cuckold, and he be patted on the back by his
gentlemen comrades, or laughed at for being caught. Such an escapade, by
what I have read and heard, is winked at by mothers in English
“society,” and constituents would not hesitate in making such a man a
member of Parliament. “Young men will sow their wild oats,” is their
excuse. “It is only an exuberance of gaiety—a youthful indiscretion,”
say they.
An English writer, a member of Parliament, so the statement is not to be
doubted, said in a newspaper article that “An Englishman is never so
happy as when stealing his neighbor’s wife,” so the Hon. may still be
happy stealing other men’s wives, as he stole mine. But then she was
only an “Eurasian,” the wife of that “damned Eurasian,” and so fit game
for an Hon. or any other gentleman.
I went to Ram Kishn, and he followed me into the arbor where we could be
alone. I told him what I had done. He replied, “Sahib, I am a poor,
ignorant, bhut parast, and have no more sense than if I was brother to a
donkey, yet I think you are doing right.” “Now, Ram Kishn,” I inquired,
“you will never tell a word of this?” He thrust out his tongue, with his
teeth upon it, as if to say, if it ever utters a word may it be bitten
off. And his tongue ever remained true and unbitten.
We two lived in this way in a divided house, not a home. Talk about hell
fire! It could not be worse than what I endured and suffered during the
long and dreary months while we lived and died a living death in every
day. I provided everything I could for her comfort, the best of
servants, the choicest kinds of food, books, magazines and illustrated
papers. She had her drives, but alone, the carriage was for her and no
one else. We seldom met, and then only for a word or two, when I asked
if she needed anything. I think, as she became conscious of her sin
against me, she respected me for the course I took.
She fell ill. I got the best medical attendance and nurses. The end was
approaching, and then she sent for me, and confessed again that she had
wronged me, and almost cursed that Hon. gentleman who, by his pious talk
and seductive flatteries, had led her astray, and held her in his power,
spellbound and powerless as the serpent holds the poor, weak bird, and
destroyed our love and home. Why should she not curse him? “For cursed
be the heart that had the heart to do it.” She did not blame me for what
I had done. My kindness and consideration had made her love me more than
ever. She had repented with bitter tears, until her heart was broken,
and now, at the close of her life, ending so sadly, she wanted my
forgiveness, which I gave most freely. She begged a parting farewell
kiss, which I had no desire to refuse, and she departed, once the life
of my life, but now no more.
Did I not suffer, and for her? Did I not live down in the valley of
despair, and under the shadow of death, all those months and for her
sake? I would have given all I possessed, even life itself, to have
restored her to me as she once was—my wife.
I buried her body in a beautiful spot in the cemetery, in silence, as
not a prayer or funeral note was uttered, for I had been so damnably
wronged by my Christian father, and this Hon. Christian gentleman who
had murdered my love, whom I had often seen, hail fellow, well met, with
the chaplain, and had noticed in church piously reciting the prayers,
that I hated everything associated with him, and wished to have neither
priest nor prayers.
My wish is, that if there be a devil, he may get this seducer and give
him his just dues, as I would wish to see a murderer caught and hung. I
believe in justice to sinners as well as to saints.
Some might say, “Why not have charity?” and my reply would be,
“Urge neither charity nor shame to me,
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,
My charity is outrage, life my shame
And in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”
The last mark of respect I could show her was to erect a beautiful
monument on her grave, inscribed with “Mary, the wife of Charles
Japhet,” which the world may read, though it has never known the secret
of our lives until now. Though she had ceased to be in my heart my wife,
still she was and ever will be my wife in name.
Years have passed since that awful, memorable event. I have often tried
to analyze and comprehend my feelings and condition at that time. I had
such implicit, absolute confidence in the virtue of my wife that I would
have risked my soul in proof of it. I had such respect for that man that
nothing but overwhelming proof could have convinced me of his lack of
integrity. I was rather proud of his acquaintance, pleased with what I
considered his polite attentions to my wife. I would have felt it
degrading, not only to them, but to myself, to have entertained the
slightest suspicion of the least impropriety.
This was my condition before the fearful awakening came. Then it came so
suddenly, like a flash of lightning before my eyes, that I was
bewildered, stupefied. For the moment I could not realize anything,
either that I existed or could think or feel—paralyzed is the best word
I can use,—in thought and feeling.
Then there flashed through me a contempt, a thorough disgust for those
two things as if they were but slimy toads in the mire that were beneath
my notice, and too nasty for me to touch or look at. With this latter
feeling overpowering me, I escaped from what, had I remained a moment
more, would have become a revenge, and I would have committed a terrible
deed, not a crime, in killing them both, if I could. I think I would
have been justified in doing this, and yet, and yet, there would have
been a fearful remembrance of it ever afterward. I wonder why I acted as
I did, and still am heartily glad that I did not act otherwise.
Mr. Jasper was my kindest friend when the shadow of death was over my
house. He walked beside me to the cemetery, and stood beside me in the
silence at the grave, and returned with me in the carriage. He scarcely
spoke a word in all that time, but I felt the sympathy of his heart. The
shadow of death brooded within my house, the stillness was awful, almost
beyond endurance, and I was terribly alone. I could well apply the lines
of Shelley to myself:
“As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.”