One morning Johns went down to his office, opened his diary at the
proper date, and wrote therein as follows:
“This day I have decided things.”
No one reading this could possibly understand to what it referred, or
what bearing it had on Johns, or his surroundings. Even if Mrs. Johns,
who considered herself a very shrewd and far-seeing woman, had seen it,
it would have meant nothing, unless she could have read Johns’ mind,
which she did sometimes--at least she claimed she did.
Johns, after writing the above as stated, looked it over thoughtfully,
and smiling a sad smile, murmured to himself, “I wonder if I can do it
without too much friction.”
The facts in Johns’ life which led up to his making the mysterious
entry in his diary were his marriage, and all the happenings of three
years of married life with the well meaning, rather charming, but
somewhat obstreperous Mrs. Johns.
Fact is, Johns had begun to realize that he was henpecked, and had
decided to reform. For three years he had systematically spoiled Mrs.
Johns to such an extent that she was unhappy. She wept because she had,
like Alexander, no more worlds to conquer. She had developed into a
very talkative autocrat, or tyrant, or something very much like that.
She invaded every department of Johns’ life, regulated his smoking,
drinking, eating, sleeping, clothing, and even his speech. Johns
habitually dropped his “G’s” and Mrs. Johns habitually picked them up
for him. Before going out to spend an evening Mrs. Johns gave Johns
very explicit instructions relative to what he was to say to this one,
that one and the other one, and exact details of what he was not to
say; then on the return home Mrs. Johns would carefully point out the
many lapses she considered Johns had made and warned him against like
breaks.
Johns was pitied and despised by his former associates, and people
smiled when Mrs. Johns said, “Jack, dear,” and Johns said, “Yes, my
dear.” He was down and out; at least, it looked like it until he wrote:
“This day I have decided things,” in his diary.
It would be wrong to conclude from the foregoing that Johns was a meek,
pusilanimous, undersized, gentle and delicate man, without will or
energy. Such was not the case. Meekness was not in him. He weighed 13
stone 3, stood 6 feet “in his stockings,” wore a 7 hat, a 9 shoe, and
showed decision and pluck in business. But he loved peace to such an
extent that he would sacrifice nearly anything to procure it, and so
he had come to make the mistake of spoiling Mrs. Johns by deferring to
her in absolutely everything, in the fond belief that thereby he was
making home peaceful. After a three years’ experiment in this direction
he became wise to the fact that peace was not his.
Johns, among men, had always been called a “good fellow,” and he was
a good fellow; but not so good that he was an ass like some so-called
good fellows. He was easy going and good natured; but not the type of
the henpecked husband. He was a bad man to corner.
It must not be concluded either that Mrs. Johns was a vixen or a
virago. No; she was simply a woman who had been made too much of; one
whose path had been made so smooth that she had never been forced
to think very much about anything; one who had received no training
whatever in her development from a loving and gentle maiden to the
equally beautiful, but somewhat sterner, married woman of three years’
standing. Possibly also she had been badly advised by sundry old
women of her family who were satisfied that they were authorities on
the management of a husband, and that they knew all about the animal
man and his varieties. Mrs. Johns was also influenced in her method
with Johns by what she had seen in her own home, where her calm and
dignified, but rather shallow, mother walked on all the rights and
liberties of her father, who only claimed his own soul by stealth.
The foregoing is, of course, commonplace enough. Married people are to
be seen on all sides dragging out a miserable existence, just for want
of a little thought about the real cause of their wretchedness. Johns
did not propose to be of the many. He had given the matter thought and
saw wherein he was himself to blame for the discomfort in his life. He
decided to make a change, and as a preliminary wrote in his diary:
“This day I have decided things.”
The business of the day being done, Johns started for home. On the way
he bought himself a hat, and put it on. He had never bought a hat since
he was married, without the style, price and color, being passed on by
Mrs. Johns. He dropped into his club, played a game of bridge and had
a glass of wine with a friend, much to the astonishment of the boys;
for all these things were known to be objectionable to Mrs. Johns. If
Johns’ name was mentioned in club circles, men smiled and said he had
taken the veil. Leaving the club, Johns took a hansom and drove home,
smoking a cigar, which hansom and cigar were other things objectionable
to Mrs. Johns.
At first thought, the behavior of Johns may seem to have been
positively brutal, in doing with malice prepense so many things
objectionable to his wife. But there was some wisdom in his course, as
will appear.
To relate such an incident as the action of Johns in the hearing of
ladies would be productive of sundry indignant sniffs and snorts, and
such remarks as, “I would like to have seen him try it on me;” but
the sniffs, snorts and remarks would all come from the same type of
women--old stagers, not young, inexperienced things, like Mrs. Johns,
just turned twenty-three.
When Johns arrived at his home, Mrs. Johns was on the verandah
waiting. She was not looking very agreeable, for Johns was late for
dinner--an unpardonable offence.
Mrs. Johns saw the cigar, saw the hansom, saw the hat, smelled the wine
as Johns kissed her, and saw the time by her tiny wrist watch. Her
first impression was that Johns was intoxicated; but a second look into
his eye, and a consideration of his general bearing, told her he was
quite sober. She was quite perplexed, non-plused, and, in consequence,
mad, very mad, and hurt, too. Beyond all, however, she was curious to
know what it all meant. She concluded, finally, that Johns had met one
of his horrid former friends, and had been “showing off.”
Mrs. and Mr. Johns, like well-behaved people, walked silently and
decorously into dinner and sat down, both thoughtful. Johns had
nothing to say, until cross-examination opened by the plaintiff. Mrs.
Johns had lots to say; but was undecided where to commence in order
to make the most of her efforts. She did not wish to seem puzzled or
curious, so refrained from asking questions. She sullenly waited,
hoping that Johns would venture to report and offer explanations,
thus giving her an opening. But Johns did nothing of the kind. He
silently and complacently proceeded to take his soup, which was very
exasperating, altogether too much, in fact, for Mrs. Johns, who finally
cast discretion to the winds and allowed her pent-up anger to have its
way. She stormed and raved, and abused poor Johns till she was spent,
Johns meanwhile making vain attempts to calm her and explain just in
the way he had planned to do; but he got no chance till Mrs. Johns
broke down and gave way to tears. Then Johns explained how he had been
thinking about the many things his wife worried herself with, and how
he had decided that she had too much to think of; and that he had done
all the things he ought not to have done, like the miserable sinner
mentioned in the prayer book, just to illustrate the number of things
she was attempting to regulate, all to no end, because she only made
him uncomfortable and failed to achieve happiness for herself. He put
the matter very nicely and coolly, without losing his temper; but the
kind of oil he attempted to throw on the troubled waters of Mrs. Johns’
temper did not seem to be the right kind of oil, for she waxed frantic
under his disclosures, and said things of all kinds, many of them quite
untrue, among which last she said that she did not love Johns, never
did love him, and never would; that she despised him; that he was a
low, uncouth, and uncultured brute, and that it was only for the sake
of appearances that she had remained with him and tried to make him fit
for polite society, and that he was just like other men, selfish and
thoughtless after a few years’ marriage.
Women say this kind of thing every day to men whom they worship, and
never expect to be taken at par and never should be. The value of a
statement by a woman is entirely different to the value of a statement
by a man.
At this point Johns made a grave mistake. He took his wife’s
intemperate utterances at par. He was deeply grieved to learn what he
thought was the real condition of her mind, and, believing, that all
happiness was gone for him, and that there was no use continuing the
painful scene, he made for his hat, intending to leave the house.
Mrs. Johns, seeing his move, ran to him and clung about his neck,
saying: “Don’t go out Jack; please don’t go; you have never done this
before; stay and be what you have always been to me; forgive me for
saying such wicked things; they are not true, Jack; I do not mean them
at all.”
Here Johns made another mistake, he thought it was all over. He assured
his wife that he loved her, and received like assurances from her. He
kissed her, and she tossed his hair with loving fingers and smiled.
Then as they sat together on a tete-a-tete sofa in the drawing room she
sweetly said: “Now, John, promise me that you will never do anything
like that again. You know I am always right about things, and so
promise me that you will never go to the club again, or smoke horrid
cigars, or play cards, or drink wine, or be late for dinner, or wear
clothes I do not like, or, or, or anything.” Johns paused. If he had
said, “Yes, dear,” he would have been ruined for life, and Mrs. Johns
would have loved him less and less as years went by, and would have
despised him always; but he did not say, “Yes, dear.” On the contrary,
he said, “No, dear; I cannot promise so much.” And he explained as well
as he could why he could not make foolish blanket promises, covering
all his future life in all its petty details, and he tried to make her
see how unreasonable she would be to insist on such a demand promissory
note. He exampled husbands she knew, who notoriously hood-winked and
humbugged their wives with wicked and foolish lies, because they were
afraid to be themselves. He pictured to her the forlorn state of her
father as a horrible specimen of petticoat government. He was eloquent,
and he thought convincing, in his plea for some liberty. If Mrs. Johns
had had half the common sense she prided herself on having, she would
have accepted his explanation. She would have seen that it was just as
foolish to expect to manage all the details of a man’s doings, comings
and goings, wearings and tastes, as it would be for a man to offer
to do the same for a woman; but, of course, no person, man or woman,
is quite as wise as they believe themselves to be, and besides, Mrs.
Johns was still mad and thought she was in a contest for her liberty,
instead of seeing that she was attacking her husband’s liberty.
She became cold and dignified, and calmly told Johns that he was a
calculating, unsympathetic brute, and that she would forthwith return
to her ma.
Johns begged her not to be hasty. He prayed her to think it over; but
he was forced by the stubborn, spoiled woman, to choose between a
general promise to give up all liberty of thought, speech and action,
or allow her to go back to her mother.
Mrs. Johns, without delay or preparation, went to her mother, and
remained exactly eight days, receiving during that time eight letters
from Johns; but refraining from reply.
During these eight days Mrs. Johns made great progress in wisdom. She
made many useful discoveries, and thought much. She discovered that
living with mother was not half as pleasant as living with Johns; that
home was not what it used to be in her single days; that mother was
very self-opinionated; that Johns could write much more interesting
letters than she thought he could; that there are several kinds of love
and several kinds of love letters; and that Johns knew how to write
them all; that Johns was not so pliable as she had imagined he was; and
that, anyway, she would rather love a man who had character enough to
assert himself than a weakling.
On the eighth day of her separation from Johns, Mrs. Johns was sitting
alone in her mother’s drawing room in the dusk of the evening musing
on things in general, on her lot in particular, and on the revolt of
Johns. She had the last letter from Johns tightly clasped in her hand,
and she surprised herself saying aloud, “Poor Jack.” A week prior she
would have murmured, “Poor me.” She was also surprised to feel tear
drops in her eyes, and to find that resentment against Johns had no
more place in her heart. She knelt down by the grate fire, and by
its light she noticed the time on her wrist watch--half-past five.
If she had been at her own home, Jack would be in or just coming in;
he would be putting his arm around her and kissing her. What had he
done, anyway, that was so dreadful, that she should leave him? He was
certainly the best behaved man she knew. What was he doing now?
A sudden impulse seized her. She rushed to her room, and hastily donned
a wrap, and hurried out towards her own home, wondering what she was
going to do, what she was going to say, and what she was going to see;
but nothing seemed to matter except that she must see Jack.
As she neared the familiar door she automatically put her hand into her
bag for her key. It was there. Trembling now and eager, she opened the
door and slipped in. All was quiet. Without expecting to see any one,
she pushed her head between the portieres of the drawing room door, and
peeped in. Horrors! Some one was there, and looking right at her. What
Mrs. Johns saw was certainly unexpected and disconcerting. It was big
Jack Johns, lying stretched on the best sofa, his head bolstered with
the best sofa pillows, and puffing clouds of smoke from a pipe about
her lovely drawing room. What she said was, “Why, Jack!” and Jack said,
“You, Florry! Have you come back to hubby to be a good girl?”
Mrs. Johns’ reply was tears for a few seconds. Then she said: “Oh,
Jack, I thought I could come back; but I see I cannot, because you do
not love me or you would never have smoked in my drawing room, put your
feet on the sofa, and your head on the best sofa pillows in the house.”
Johns, now sitting up, laughed, drew his wife down beside him on the
sofa and replied:
“Why, darling, it would be as wise for me to say that you do not love
me or you would not mention such things as sofa cushions and sofas in
the same breath with love. What does anything matter, dear, if two
people love each other? If you love me, it is because I am myself, as
I love you because you are your own dear self. I love you, faults and
all, and you must love me faults and all, too. The way for us to be
happy is for each to allow the other nearly as much liberty as though
we were single. Love cannot stand continuous worry about small things.
You know very well that I would not have desecrated your drawing room
had you been here; but you being gone from me, drawing room, cushions
or sofa had no value to me, other than the comfort they could afford
me. Come now, is it a new start?”
“Oh, Jack, you do not understand,” said Mrs. Johns. “But I do
understand,” replied Johns. “I understand very plainly, indeed, that we
could never be happy in the way we were going. I could not be happy in
one continued round of obeying orders, so like a private in a regiment
of soldiers; and you could not be happy with a man you had to worry
over and fuss about all the time as if he were a child. In that way
we would worry each other out of all comfort in life, as I see many
couples foolishly do. Let us be different from other couples.”
Mrs. Johns was thinking: “Where have you been, Jack, the last eight
nights?” she asked.
“Why, I do not remember, dear, exactly;” answered Johns, “to the club
mostly, and down town and around.”
“There, I knew it,” cried Mrs. Johns, “I knew you had been around, and
you know how I hate men who go around.”
“But don’t be hasty, dear,” said Johns. “Where have you been? Have you
not been around during the past eight days?”
“Yes, I have, Jack, but you know a woman’s around, and a man’s around,
are not alike,” sobbed Mrs. Johns.
“No; no more than their clothes are alike, thank heaven,” said Johns.
“And where is the maid?” asked Mrs. Johns.
“Fired,” replied Johns.
“Discharged!” exclaimed Mrs. Johns. “Oh, Jack, you are dreadful. Where
will I get another? You are turning out so different to what you used
to be; so different to what I expected. I don’t believe I love you any
more.”
“Try a little,” said Johns, kissing her without her offering much
resistance. “Try,” kisses, “try again,” more kisses. Oh, it was
disgusting the way she gave in.
“You are different too, dear;” continued Johns, “so different from
the pliable, unsophisticated young thing of twenty I courted. At
twenty-three you are quite old and domineering, and it does not become
you a bit to become domineering. It makes lines on your face to be
domineering. Will we go down to the cafe for dinner?”
“I don’t know, John.” “Well, I know,” said Johns. “Go and get your
things on and we will take dinner at the Place Viger, anyway, without
conditions; perhaps people have begun to talk already about your being
away.”
“Jack,” said Mrs. Johns, with arms about his neck, “you are a horrid,
practical beast, and I love you. I’ll be back in a minute,” and she ran
upstairs to dress for dinner at the Place Viger. She was a dear woman,
and Johns knew it.
Twenty years have passed since that dinner at the Place Viger, and Mrs.
Johns has now assorted little Johns; six, from 2 feet high to 5 feet 6;
and all Johns’ friends swear she is the best fellow in the world, and
all her own friends say she is a charming hostess, a good wife, a fond
mother, a sweet woman, or a true friend, according to the degree of
intimacy they enjoy. Fact is, she is all of these things.
[Illustration]