A few days before Dorothy returned to Nashville we spent an evening
together, first at Reverdy's home, later in a walk through the country.
It was moonlight of middle November, and the air was mild with a late
accession of Indian summer. I sensed in Dorothy a complete erasure of
everything in my life that had stayed her coming to me as my bride. It
was not so much what she said as it was her attitude, her tone of voice,
her whole manner. But my own troubles had formed a nuclear hardness of
thinking in me, which like a lodestar attracted what was for me, and
left quiet and at a distance what was not mine.
I was delighted to be with Dorothy, but I did not stand with her on the
basis of my former emotional interest. In a way she symbolized the false
standards, the languorous aristocracy of the South. She was a presence
of romantic music, a warmth that produces dreams. She was not the
intense light that shone around Abigail. I had a letter from Abigail in
my pocket. Parts of it wedged themselves through Dorothy's words as she
rattled on more and more. I might as well have been thinking of my
troubles; but in point of fact it was of Abigail.
Dorothy was not like Reverdy, nor was she like Sarah. If she had only
been! A pathos was on me in this walk. The wind was blowing. The forest
trees murmured like agitated water. The moon sailed high, and Dorothy
walked by my side and talked. There was an evident struggle in her to
bring me to her, to evoke the old ardor which had reached for her. But
we returned to Reverdy's at last, and there had been no touch of hands,
no tenderness. She stood momentarily at the gate. I gave her my hand,
and with an impassive goodnight, she turned to the door and I went my
way.
Then regret came over me. Had I wounded her? And if I had, could I win
her back? Did I wish to? I could not entirely bring myself to relinquish
Dorothy for good. But did I really care for Abigail? I took out her
letter and began to read it again in order to clear my thoughts: "Dear
James: You must be beginning to perceive that day by day you are
accomplishing certain things and thus forming your life. I admire
greatly the way you took hold of the farm and the success that you have
had with it; and I admire too the loyalty with which you have stood by
your duty. Now I cannot help but urge you to come to Chicago. I feel
something of a draw at times to return to the East; but, on the other
hand, this growing town has an increasing fascination for me. It is
already enlivened and bettered by many eastern people; and you would
find a more interesting atmosphere than where you live now. I think some
of the southern people who have settled middle Illinois are as fine as
any one I have ever known; but I do not like the habits and the
principles that go along with the southern institutions. If you could
sell the farm you could use the money to make a very large fortune in
Chicago. The campaign has interested me very greatly; it has been
riotous and colorful and full of extravagance. There is no real truth in
all this business. It is the lesser reality of deals and bargains,
wheedling, persuasion, and vote-getting. And no one has the gift of
specious logic and stump hypnotism better than Douglas. To me he is one
of the greatest of small men. Have you read Emerson or Lowell yet? Here
are new men of real thoughtfulness whose minds are upon the truth which
does not fade with passing events. These questions about Texas and
Oregon, about tariffs, about Whigs and Democrats, what are they but the
cackle of the moment? And yet there is something pathetic about Douglas.
Why does he not settle to the solid study and experiences of the law?
Why this catching at this and the other opportunity? Mr. Williams says
that Mr. Douglas has just accepted the Secretary of Stateship for
Illinois. What an absurd thing for a lawyer to do! His career is so
changeable, so flashy. He leaves himself open to the charge of scheming,
grabbing, all sorts of things, though all the while he may be doing the
best he can. Forgive my opinions, I love to express them to you. I look
upon you as a fresh mind who can value the truth of things about it.
Douglas may become a very great figure; but I can't help but believe
that his restless life may bring him to disaster. Let us hope it won't.
Meantime I wish for happiness for you. Your letters are very interesting
and I am always glad to get them. Write me as often as you can, give me
pictures of your life, the people. And do move to Chicago. Your friend,
Abigail."
I read this letter over more than once with reference to its
characterization of Douglas. I could not share her opinions. Why could
she not see that Douglas had always done his best? After all, what of
the law? Douglas could not be patient with the rules that related to a
land title while his thoughts were far afield in plans for the
territorial greatness of his country. Meantime he had to earn his bread.
He had never stooped to dishonor, to chicanery. He had caught at the
driftwood of supporting offices in his swimming of the new stream of
primitive life. He was poor. He had enemies. His eye was upon an
eminence. He had to make the best of the materials at hand.
I understood Douglas' difficulties because I had had difficulties of my
own. I had not faced the world with poverty. But I had faced it with
Zoe. I had not battled in issues which were influenced by the negro, but
I had a social experience which Zoe had made and complicated for me. If
Douglas was now in an office that belittled him, I was sorry, for I was
his friend in all loyalty.