At half-past seven I was ready. I heard the carriage drive up to the
door and the bell ring.
"Mary," called my husband at the bottom of the stair-case, in a
cheerful tone, "are you ready?"
"Ready to go where?" I asked on descending.
"To the theatre."
"I am ready for the concert," I answered in as composed a voice as I
could assume.
"_I_ am not going to the concert to-night, Mrs. Smith. I thought you
understood that," firmly replied my husband. "I am going to see
Fanny Ellsler. If you will go with me, I shall be very happy to have
your company. If not, I must go alone."
"And I am going to the Philharmonic. I thought you understood that,"
I replied, with equal resolution.
"Oh! very well," said he, not seeming to be at all disturbed. "Then
you can use the carriage at the door. I will walk to the theatre."
Saying this, Mr. Smith turned from me deliberately and walked away.
I heard him tell the driver of the carriage to take me to the
Musical Fund Hall; then I heard the street-door close, and then I
heard my husband's footsteps on the pavement as he left the house.
Without hesitating a moment for reflection, I followed to the door,
entered the carriage, and ordered the man to drive me--where? I had
no ticket for the concert; nor could I go alone!
"To the Musical Fund Hall, I believe, madam," he said, standing with
his fingers touching the rim of his hat.
I tried to think what I should do. To be conquered was hard. And it
was clear that I could not go alone.
"No," I replied, grasping hold of the first suggestion that came to
my mind. "Drive me to No.--Walnut street."
I had directed him to the house of my sister, where I thought I
would stay until after eleven o'clock, and then return home, leaving
my husband to infer that I had been to the concert. But long before
I had reached my sister's house, I felt so miserable that I deemed
it best to call out of the window to the driver, and direct him to
return. On arriving at home, some twenty minutes after I had left
it, I went up to my chamber, and there had a hearty crying spell to
myself. I don't know that I ever felt so bad before in my life. I
had utterly failed in this vigorous contest with my husband, who had
come off perfectly victorious. Many bitter things did I write
against him in my heart, and largely did I magnify his faults. I
believe I thought over every thing that occurred since we were
married, and selected therefrom whatever could justify the
conclusion that he was a self-willed, overbearing, unfeeling man,
and did not entertain for me a particle of affection.
It was clear that I had not been able to manage my spouse,
determined as I had been to correct all his faults, and make him one
of the best, most conciliating and loving of husbands, with whom my
wish would be law. Still I could not think of giving up. The thought
of being reduced to a tame, submissive wife, who could hardly call
her soul her own, was not for a moment to be entertained. On
reflection, it occurred to me that I had, probably, taken the wrong
method with my husband. There was a touch of stubbornness in his
nature that had arrayed itself against my too earnest efforts to
bend him to my will. A better way occurred. I had heard it said by
some one, or had read it somewhere, that no man was proof against a
woman's tears.
On the present occasion I certainly felt much more like crying than
laughing, and so it was no hard matter, I can honestly aver, to
appear bathed in tears on my husband's return between eleven and
twelve o'clock from the theatre. I cried from vexation as much as
from any other feeling.
When Mr. Smith came up into the chamber where I lay, I greeted his
presence with half a dozen running sobs, which he answered by
whistling the "Craccovienne!" I continued to sob, and he continued
to whistle for the next ten minutes. By that time he was ready to
get into bed, which he did quite leisurely, and laid himself down
upon his pillow with an expression of satisfaction. Still I sobbed
on, thinking that every sighing breath I drew was, in spite of his
seeming indifference, a pang to his heart. But, from this fond
delusion a heavily drawn breath, that was almost a snore, aroused
me. I raised up and looked over at the man--he was sound asleep.
A good hearty cry to myself was all the satisfaction I had, and then
I went to sleep. On the next morning, I met Mr. Smith at the
breakfast table with red eyes and a sad countenance. But he did not
seem to notice either.
"I hope you enjoyed yourself at the concert last night," said he. "I
was delighted at the theatre. Fanny danced divinely. Hers is truly
the poetry of motion!"
Now this was too much! I will leave it to any reader--any female
reader, I mean--whether this was not too much. I burst into a flood
of tears and immediately withdrew, leaving my husband to eat his
breakfast alone. He sat the usual time, which provoked me
exceedingly. If he had jumped up from the table and left the house,
I would have felt that I had made some impression upon him. But to
take things in this calm way! What had I gained? Nothing, as I could
see. After breakfast Mr. Smith came up to the chamber, and, seeing
my face buried in a pillow, weeping bitterly--I had increased the
flow of tears on hearing him ascending the stairs--said in a low
voice--
"Are you not well, Mary?"
I made no answer, but continued to weep. Mr. Smith stood for the
space of about a minute, but asked no further question. Then,
without uttering a word, he retired from the chamber, and in a
little while after I heard him leave the house. I cried now in good
earnest. It was plain that my husband had no feeling; that he did
not care whether I was pleased or sad. But I determined to give him
a fair trial. If I failed in this new way, what was I to do? The
thought of becoming the passive slave of a domestic tyrant was
dreadful. I felt that I could not live in such a state. When Mr.
Smith came home at dinner-time I was in my chamber, ready prepared
for a gush of tears. As he opened the door I looked up with
streaming eyes, and then hid my face in a pillow.
"Mary," said he, with much kindness in his voice, "what ails you?
Are you sick?" He laid his hand upon mine as he spoke.
But I did not reply. I meant to punish him well for what he had done
as a lesson for the future. I next expected him to draw his arm
around me, and be very tender and sympathizing in his words and
tones. But no such thing! He quietly withdrew the hand he had placed
upon mine; and stood by me, I could feel, though not see, in a cold,
erect attitude.
"Are you not well, Mary?" he asked again.
I was still silent. A little while after I heard him moving across
the floor, and then the chamber door shut. I was once more alone.
When the bell rang for dinner, I felt half sorry that I had
commenced this new mode of managing my husband; but, as I had begun,
I was determined to go through with it. "He'll at least take care
how he acts in the future," I said. I did not leave my chamber to
join my husband at the dinner table. He sat his usual time, as I
could tell by the ringing of the bell for the servant to change the
plates and bring in the dessert. I was exceedingly fretted; and more
so by his returning to his business without calling up to see me,
and making another effort to dispel my grief.
For three days I tried this experiment upon my husband, who bore it
with the unflinching heroism of a martyr. I was forced, at last, to
come to; but I was by no means satisfied that my new mode was a
failure. For all Mr. Smith's assumed indifference, I knew that he
had been troubled at heart, and I was pretty well satisfied that he
would think twice before provoking me to another essay of tears.
Upon the whole, I felt pretty sure that I had discovered the means
of doing with him as I pleased.
A few weeks of sunshine passed--I must own that the sun did not look
so bright, nor feel so warm as it had done in former times--and then
our wills came once more into collision. But my tears fell upon a
rock. I could not see that they made the least perceptible
impression. Mr. Smith had his own way, and I cried about it until I
got tired of that sport, and in very weariness gave over. For the
space of a whole year I stood upon tears as my last defensible
position. Sometimes I didn't smile for weeks. But my husband
maintained his ground like a hero.
At last I gave up in despair. Pride, self-will, anger--all were
conquered. I was a weak woman in the hands of a strong-minded man.
If I could not love him as I wished to love him, I could at least
obey. In nothing did I now oppose him, either by resolute words or
tears. If he expressed a wish, whether to me agreeable or not, I
acquiesced.
One day, not long after this change in my conduct towards my
husband, he said to me, "I rather think, Mary, we will spend a
couple of weeks at Brandywine Springs, instead of going to Cape May
this season."
I replied, "Very well, dear;" although I had set my heart on going
to the Capes. My sister and her husband and a number of my friends
were going down, and I had anticipated a good deal of pleasure. I
did not know of a single person who was going to the Brandywine
Springs. But what was the use of entering into a contest with my
husband? He would come off the conqueror, spite of angry words or
ineffectual tears.
"The Springs are so much more quiet than the Capes," said my
husband.
"Yes," I remarked, "there is less gay company there."
"Don't you think you will enjoy yourself as well there as at the
Capes?"
Now this was a good deal for my husband to say. I hardly knew what
to make of it.
"If you prefer going there, dear, let us go by all means," I
answered. I was not affecting any thing, but was in earnest in what
I said.
Mr. Smith looked into my face for some moments, and with unusual
affection I thought.
"Mary," said he, "if you think the time will pass more pleasantly to
you at the Capes, let us go there by all means."
"My sister Jane is going to the Capes," I remarked, with some little
hesitation; "and so is Mrs. L--and Mrs. D--, and a good many
more of our friends. I did think that I would enjoy myself there
this season very much. But I have no doubt I shall find pleasant
society at the Springs."
"We will go to the Capes," said my husband promptly and cheerfully.
"No," said I, emulous now for the first time in a new cause. "I am
sure the time will pass agreeably enough at the Springs. And as you
evidently prefer going there, we will let the Capes pass for this
year."
"To the Capes, Mary, and nowhere else," replied my husband, in the
very best of humours. "I am sure you will enjoy yourself far better
there. I did not know your sister was going."
And to the Capes we went, and I did enjoy myself excellently well.
As for my husband, I never saw him in a better state of mind. To me
he was more like a lover than a husband. No, I will not say that
either, for I can't admit that a husband may not be as kind and
affectionate as a lover; for he can and will be if managed rightly,
and a great deal more so. Whenever I expressed a wish, it appeared
to give him pleasure to gratify it. Seeing this, instead of
suffering myself to be the mere recipient of kind attentions, I
began to vie with him in the sacrifice of selfish wishes and
feelings.
It is wonderful how all was changed after this. There were no more
struggles on my part to manage my husband, and yet I generally had
things my own way. Before I could not turn him to the right nor the
left, though I strove to do so with my utmost strength. Now I held
him only with a silken fetter, and guided him, without really
intending to do so, in almost any direction.
Several years have passed since that ever-to-be-remembered, happy
visit to Cape May. Not once since have I attempted any management of
my husband, and yet it is a rare thing that my wish is not, as it
used to be before we were married, his law. It is wonderful, too,
how he has improved. I am sure he is not the same man that he was
five years ago. But, perhaps, I see with different eyes. At any
rate, I am not the same woman; or, if the same, very unlike what I
then was.
So much for my efforts to manage a husband. Of the three ways so
faithfully tried, my fair readers will be at no loss to determine
which is best. I make these honest confessions for the good of my
sex. My husband, Mr. John Smith, will be no little surprised if this
history should meet his eye. But I do not believe it will interrupt
the present harmonious relations existing between us, but rather
tend to confirm and strengthen them.