Whenever I think of love and marriage I think of Wray. That clerkly
figure. That clerkly mind. He was among the first people I met when
I came to New York and, like so many of the millions seeking to make
their way, he was busy about his affairs. Fortunately, as I saw it,
with the limitations of the average man he had the ambitions of the
average man. At that time he was connected with one of those large
commercial agencies which inquire into the standing of business men,
small and large, and report their findings, for a price, to other
business men. He was very much interested in his work and seemed
satisfied that should he persist in it he was certain to achieve what
was perhaps a fair enough ambition: a managership in some branch of
this great concern, which same would pay him so much as five or six
thousand a year. The thing about him that interested me, apart from a
genial and pleasing disposition, was the fact that with all his wealth
of opportunity before him for studying the human mind, its resources
and resourcefulness, its inhibitions and liberations, its humor,
tragedy, and general shiftiness and changefulness, still he was largely
concerned with the bare facts of the differing enterprises whose
character he was supposed to investigate. Were they solvent? Could and
did they pay their bills? What was their capital stock? How much cash
did they have on hand?... Such was the nature of the data he needed,
and to this he largely confined himself.
Nevertheless, by turns he was amused or astonished or made angry or
self-righteous by the tricks, the secretiveness, the errors and the
downright meanness of spirit of so many he had to deal with. As for
himself, he had the feeling that he was honest, straightforward, not
as limited or worthless as some of these others, and it was on this
score that he was convinced he would succeed, as he did eventually,
within his limitations, of course. What interested me and now makes me
look upon him always as an excellent illustration of the futility of
the dream of exact or even suitable rewards was his clerkly and highly
respectable faith in the same. If a man did as he should do, if he were
industrious and honest and saving and courteous and a few more of those
many things we all know we ought to be, then in that orderly nature of
things which he assumed to hold one must get along better than some
others. What—an honest, industrious, careful man not do better than one
who was none of these things—a person who flagrantly disregarded them,
say? What nonsense. It must be so. Of course there were accidents and
sickness, and men stole from one another, as he saw illustrated in his
daily round. And banks failed, and there were trusts and combinations
being formed that did not seem to be entirely in tune with the
interests of the average man. But even so, all things considered, the
average man, if he did as above, was likely to fare much better than
the one who did not. In short, there was such a thing as approximate
justice. Good did prevail, in the main, and the wicked were punished,
as they should be.
And in the matter of love and marriage he held definite views also. Not
that he was unduly narrow or was inclined to censure those whose lives
had not worked out as well as he hoped his own would, but he thought
there was a fine line of tact somewhere in this matter of marriage
which led to success there quite as the qualities outlined above led,
or should lead, to success in matters more material or practical. One
had to understand something about women. One had to be sure that when
one went a-courting one selected a woman of sense as well as of charm,
one who came of good stock and hence would be possessed of good taste
and good principles. She need not be rich; she might even be poor.
And one had to be reasonably sure that one loved her. So many that
went a-courting imagined they loved and were loved when it was nothing
more than a silly passing passion. Wray knew. And so many women were
designing, or at least light and flighty; they could not help a serious
man to succeed if they would. However, in many out-of-the-way corners
of the world were the really sensible and worthy girls, whom it was an
honor to marry, and it was one of these that he was going to choose.
Yet even there it was necessary to exercise care: one might marry a
girl who was too narrow and conventional, one who would not understand
the world and hence be full of prejudices. He was for the intelligent
and practical and liberal girl, if he could find her, one who was his
mental equal.
It was when he had become secretary to a certain somebody that he
encountered in his office a girl who seemed to him to embody nearly
all of the virtues or qualities which he thought necessary. She was
the daughter of very modestly circumstanced parents who dwelt in the
nearby suburb of O——, and a very capable and faithful stenographer, of
course. If you had seen the small and respectable suburb from which she
emanated you would understand. She was really pretty and appeared to be
practical and sensible in many ways, but still very much in leash to
the instructions and orders and tenets of her home and her church and
her family circle, three worlds as fixed and definite and worthy and
respectable in her thought as even the most enthusiastic of those who
seek to maintain the order and virtue of the world would have wished.
According to him, as he soon informed me—since we exchanged nearly all
our affairs whenever we met, she was opposed to the theatre, dancing,
any form of night dining or visiting in the city on weekdays, as well
as anything that in her religious and home world might be construed as
desecration of the Sabbath. I recall him describing her as narrow “as
yet,” but he hoped to make her more liberal in the course of time. He
also told me with some amusement and the air of a man of the world
that it was impossible for him to win her to so simple an outing as
rowing on the Sabbath on the little river near her home because it
was wrong; on the contrary, he had to go to church with her and her
parents. Although he belonged to no church and was mildly interested in
socialism, he kept these facts from her knowledge. The theatre could
not even be mentioned as a form of amusement and she could not and
would not dance; she looked upon his inclination for the same as not
only worldly but loose and sinful. However, as he told me, he was very
fond of her and was doing his best to influence and enlighten her. She
was too fine and intelligent a girl to stick to such notions. She would
come out of them.
By very slow degrees (he was about his business of courting her all of
two or three years) he succeeded in bringing her to the place where she
did not object to staying downtown to dinner with him on a weekday,
even went with him to a sacred or musical concert of a Sunday night,
but all unbeknown to her parents or neighbors, of course. But what he
considered his greatest triumph was when he succeeded in interesting
her in books, especially bits of history and philosophy that he
thought very liberal and which no doubt generated some thin wisps of
doubt in her own mind. Also, because he was intensely fond of the
theatre and had always looked upon it as the chiefest of the sources
of his harmless entertainment, he eventually induced her to attend one
performance, and then another and another. In short, he emancipated her
in so far as he could, and seemed to be delighted with the result.
With their marriage came a new form of life for both of them, but more
especially for her. They took a small apartment in New York, a city
upon which originally she had looked with no little suspicion, and they
began to pick up various friends. It was not long before she had joined
a literary club which was being formed in their vicinity, and here she
met a certain type of restless, pushing, seeking woman for whom Wray
did not care—a Mrs. Drake and a Mrs. Munshaw, among others, who, from
the first, as he afterward told me, he knew could be of no possible
value to any one. But Bessie liked them and was about with them here,
there, and everywhere.
It was about this time that I had my first suspicion of anything
untoward in their hitherto happy relations. I did not see him often
now, but when I did visit them at their small apartment, could not
help seeing that Mrs. Wray was proving almost too apt a pupil in the
realm in which he had interested her. It was plain that she had been
emancipated from quite all of her old notions as to the sinfulness of
the stage, and in regard to reading and living in general. Plainly,
Wray had proved the Prince Charming, who had entered the secret garden
and waked the sleeping princess to a world of things she had never
dreamed of. She had reached the place where she was criticizing certain
popular authors, spoke of a curiously enlightened history of France
she was reading, of certain bits of philosophy and poetry which her
new club were discussing. From the nature of the conversation being
carried on by the three of us I could see that Wray was beginning to
feel that the unsophisticated young girl he had married a little while
before might yet outstrip him in the very realm in which he had hoped
to be her permanent guide. More than once, as I noticed, she chose to
question or contradict him as to a matter of fact, and I think he was
astonished if not irritated by the fact that she knew more than he
about the import of a certain plot or the relativity of certain dates
in history. And with the force and determination that had caused her
to stand by her former convictions, she now aired and defended her new
knowledge. Not that her manner was superior or irritating exactly; she
had a friendly way of including and consulting him in regard to many
things which indicated that as yet she had no thought of manifesting
a superiority which she did not feel. “That’s not right, dearest.
His name is Bentley. He is the author of a play that was here last
year—_The Seven Rings of Manfred_—don’t you remember?” And Wray, much
against his will, was compelled to confess that she was right.
Whenever he met me alone after this, however, he would confide the
growing nature of his doubts and perplexities. Bessie was no more the
girl she had been when he first met her than he was like the boy he
had been at ten years of age. A great, a very great change was coming
over her. She was becoming more aggressive and argumentative and
self-centred all the time, more this, more that. She was reading a
great deal, much too much for the kind of life she was called upon to
lead. Of late they had been having long and unnecessary arguments that
were of no consequence however they were settled, and yet if they were
not settled to suite her she was angry or irritable. She was neglecting
her home and running about all the time with her new-found friends. She
did not like the same plays he did. He wanted a play that was light and
amusing, whereas she wanted one with some serious moral or intellectual
twist to it. She read only serious books now and was attending a course
of lectures, whereas he, as he now confessed, was more or less bored by
serious books. What was the good of them? They only stirred up thoughts
and emotions which were better left unstirred. And she liked music, or
was pretending she did, grand opera, recitals and that sort of thing,
whereas he was not much interested in music. Grand opera bored him, and
he was free to admit it, but if he would not accompany her she would
go with one or both of those two wretched women he was beginning to
detest. Their husbands had a little money and gave them a free rein
in the matter of their social and artistic aspirations. They had no
household duties to speak of and could come and go as they chose, and
Wray now insisted that it was they who were aiding and abetting Bessie
in these various interests and enthusiasms and stirring her up to go
and do and be. What was he to do? No good could come if things went on
as they were going. They were having frequent quarrels, and more than
once lately she had threatened to leave him and do for herself here
in New York, as he well knew she could. He was doing very well now and
they could be happy together if only these others could be done away
with.
It was only a month or two after this that Wray came to see me, in a
very distrait state of mind. After attempting to discuss several other
things quite casually he confessed that his young wife had left him.
She had taken a room somewhere and had resumed work as a stenographer,
and although he met her occasionally in the subway she would have
nothing to do with him. She wanted to end it all. And would I believe
it? She was accusing him of being narrow and ignorant and stubborn and
a number of other things! Only think of it! And three or four years
ago she had thought he was all wrong when he wanted to go rowing on
Sunday or stay downtown to dinner of an evening. Could such things be
possible? And yet he loved her, in spite of all the things that had
come up between them. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help thinking
how sweet and innocent and strange she was when he first met her,
how she loved her parents and respected their wishes. And now see.
“I wish to God,” he suddenly exclaimed in the midst of the “oldtime”
picture he was painting of her, “that I hadn’t been so anxious to
change her. She was all right as she was, if I had only known it. She
didn’t know anything about these new-fangled things then, and I wasn’t
satisfied till I got her interested in them. And now see. She leaves
me and says I’m narrow and stubborn, that I’m trying to hold her back
intellectually. And all because I don’t want to do all the things she
wants to do and am not interested in the things that interest her, now.”
I shook my head. Of what value was advice in such a situation as this,
especially from one who was satisfied that the mysteries of temperament
of either were not to be unraveled or adjusted save by nature—the
accidents of chance and affinity, or the deadly opposition which keep
apart those unsuited to each other? Nevertheless, being appealed to
for advice, I ventured a silly suggestion, borrowed from another.
He had said that if he could but win her back he would be willing to
modify the pointless opposition and contention that had driven her
away. She might go her intellectual way as she chose if she would only
come back. Seeing him so tractable and so very wishful, I now suggested
a thing that had been done by another in a somewhat related situation.
He was to win her back by offering her such terms as she would accept,
and then, in order to bind her to him, he was to induce her to have
a child. That would capture her sympathy, very likely, as well as
insinuate an image of himself into her affectionate consideration.
Those who had children rarely separated—or so I said.
The thought appealed to him intensely. It satisfied his practical and
clerkly nature. He left me hopefully and I saw nothing of him for
several months, at the end of which time he came to report that all was
once more well with him. She had come back, and in order to seal the
new pact he had taken a larger apartment in a more engaging part of the
city. Bessie was going on with her club work, and he was not opposing
her in anything. And then within the year came a child and there
followed all those simple, homey, and seemingly binding and restraining
things which go with the rearing and protection of a young life.
But even during that period, as I was now to learn, all was not as
smooth as I had hoped. Talking to me in Wray’s absence once Bessie
remarked that, delightful as it was to have a child of her own, she
could see herself as little other than a milch cow with an attendant
calf, bound to its service until it should be able to look after
itself. Another time she remarked that mothers were bond-servants, that
even though she adored her little girl she could not help seeing what
a chain and a weight a child was to one who had ambitions beyond those
of motherhood. But Wray, clerkly soul that he was, was all but lost
in rapture. There was a small park nearby, and here he could be found
trundling his infant in a handsome baby-carriage whenever his duties
would permit. He would sit or walk where were others who had children
of about the age of his own so that he might compare them. He liked to
speculate on the charm and innocence of babyhood and was amused by a
hundred things which he had never noticed in the children of others.
Already he was beginning to formulate plans for little Janet’s future.
It was hard for children to be cooped up in an apartment house in the
city. In a year or two, if he could win Bessie to the idea, they would
move to some suburban town where Janet could have the country air.
They were prospering now and could engage a nursemaid, so Mrs. Wray
resumed her intellectual pursuits and her freedom. Throughout it
all one could see that, respect Wray as she might as a dutiful and
affectionate and methodical man, she could not love or admire him, and
that mainly because of the gap that lay between them intellectually.
Dissemble as he might, there was always the hiatus that lies between
those who think or dream a little and those who aspire and dream much.
Superiority of intellect was not altogether the point; she was not
so much superior as different, as I saw it. Rather, they were two
differing rates of motion, flowing side by side for the time being
only, his the slower, hers the quicker. And it mattered not that
his conformed more to the conventional thought and emotions of the
majority. Hers was the more satisfactory to herself and constituted
an urge which he feared rather than despised; and his was more
satisfactory to himself, compromise as he would. Observing them
together one could see how proud he was of her and of his relationship
to her, how he felt that he had captured a prize, regardless of the
conditions by which it was retained; and on the other hand one could
easily see how little she held him in her thought and mood. She was
forever talking to others about those things which she knew did not
interest him or to which he was opposed.
For surcease she plunged into those old activities that had so troubled
him at first, and now he complained that little Janet was being
neglected. She did not love her as she should or she could not do
as she was doing. And what was more and worse, she had now taken to
reading Freud and Kraft-Ebbing and allied thinkers and authorities,
men and works that he considered dreadful and shameful, even though he
scarcely grasped their true significance.
One day he came to me and said: “Do you know of a writer by the name of
Pierre Loti?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I know his works. What about him?”
“What do you think of him?”
“As a writer? Why, I respect him very much. Why?”
“Oh, I know, from an intellectual point of view, as a fine writer,
maybe. But what do you think of his views of life—of his books as books
to be read by the mother of a little girl?”
“Wray,” I replied, “I can’t enter upon a discussion of any man’s works
upon purely moral grounds. He might be good for some mothers and evil
for others. Those who are to be injured by a picture of life must be
injured, or kept from its contaminating influence, and those who are to
be benefited will be benefited. I can’t discuss either books or life in
any other way. I see worthwhile books as truthful representations of
life in some form, nothing more. And it would be unfair to any one who
stood in intellectual need to be restrained from that which might prove
of advantage to him. I speak only for myself, however.”
It was not long after that I learned there had been a new quarrel and
that Bessie had left him once more, this time, as it proved, for good.
And with her, which was perhaps illegal or unfair, she had taken the
child. I did not know what had brought about this latest rupture but
assumed that it was due to steadily diverging views. They could not
agree on that better understanding of life which at one time he was so
anxious for her to have—his understanding. Now that she had gone beyond
that, and her method of going was unsatisfactory to him, they could not
agree, of course.
Not hearing from him for a time I called and found him living in the
same large apartment they had taken. Its equipment was better suited
to four than to one, yet after seven or eight months of absence on
her part here he was, living alone, where every single thing must
remind him of her and Janet. As for himself, apart from a solemnity
and reserve which sprang from a wounded and disgruntled spirit, he
pretended an indifference and a satisfaction with his present state
which did not square with his past love for her. She had gone, yes;
but she had made a mistake and would find it out. Life wasn’t as she
thought it was. She had gone with another man—he was sure of that,
although he did not know who the man was. It was all due to one of
those two women she had taken up with, that Mrs. Drake. They were
always interested in things which did not and could not interest him.
After a time he added that he had been to see her parents. I could not
guess why, unless it was because he was lonely and still very much in
love and thought they might help him to understand the very troublesome
problem that was before him.
It was a year and a half before I saw him again, during which time,
as I knew, he continued to live in the apartment they had occupied
together. He had become manager of a department of the agency by this
time and was going methodically to and fro between his home and office.
After living alone and brooding for more than a year, he came to see
me one rainy November night. He looked well enough materially, quite
the careful person who takes care of his clothes, but thinner, more
tense and restless. He seated himself before my fire and declared that
he was doing very well and was thinking of taking a long vacation to
visit some friends in the West. (He had once told me that he had heard
that Bessie had gone to California.) Yes, he was still living in the
old place. I might think it strange, but he had not thought it worth
while to move. He would only have to find another place to live in; the
furniture was hard to pack; he didn’t like hotels.
Then of a sudden, noting that I studied him and wondered, he grew
restless and finally stood up, then walked about looking at some
paintings and examining a shelf of books. His manner was that of one
who is perplexed and undetermined, of one who has stood out against
a silence and loneliness of which he was intensely weary. Then of a
sudden he wheeled and faced me: “I can’t stand it. That’s what’s the
matter. I just can’t stand it any longer. I’ve tried and tried. I
thought the child would make things work out all right, but she didn’t.
She didn’t want a child and never forgave me for persuading her to
have Janet. And then that literary craze—that was really my own fault,
though. I was the one that encouraged her to read and go to theatres.
I used to tell her she wasn’t up-to-date, that she ought to wake up
and find out what was going on in the world, that she ought to get in
with intelligent people. But it wasn’t that either. If she had been the
right sort of woman she couldn’t have done as she did.” He paused and
clenched his hands nervously and dramatically. It was as though he were
denouncing her to her face instead of to me.
“Now, Wray,” I interposed, “how useless to say that. Which of us is as
he should be? Why will you talk so?”
“But let me tell you what she did,” he went on fiercely. “You haven’t
an idea of what I’ve been through, not an idea. She tried to poison me
once so as to get rid of me.” And here followed a brief and sad recital
of the twists and turns and desperation of one who was intensely
desirous of being free of one who was as desirous of holding her. And
then he added: “And she was in love with another man, only I could
never find out who he was.” And his voice fell to a low, soft level,
as though he was even then trying to solve the mystery of who it was.
“And I know she had an operation performed, though I could never prove
it.” And he gave me details of certain mysterious goings to and fro,
of secret pursuits on his part, actions and evidences and moods and
quarrels that pointed all too plainly to a breach that could never be
healed. “And what’s more,” he exclaimed at last, “she tortured me.
You’ll never know. You couldn’t. But I loved her.... And I love her
now.” Once more the tensely gripped fingers, the white face, the flash
of haunted eyes.
“One afternoon I stood outside of a window of an apartment house when
I knew she was inside, and I knew the name of the man who was supposed
to occupy it, only he had re-sublet it, as I found out afterwards.
And she had Janet with her—think of that!—our own little girl! I saw
her come to the window once to look out—I actually saw her in another
man’s rooms. I ran up and hammered at the door—I tried to break it
open. I called to her to come out but she wouldn’t, and I went to get
a policeman to make him open the door. But when I got back a servant
was coming up as though she had been out, and she unlocked the door
and went in. It was all a ruse, and I know it. They weren’t inside.
She had slipped out with Janet. And she had told me they were going to
Westchester for the day.
“And another time I followed her to a restaurant when she said she was
going to visit a friend. I suspected there was a man—the man I thought
she was going with, but it was some one I had never seen before. When
they came out and were getting into a cab I came up and told them both
what I thought of them. I threatened to kill them both. And she told
him to go and then came home with me, but I couldn’t do anything with
her. She wouldn’t talk to me. All she would say was that if I didn’t
like the way she was doing I could let her go. She wanted me to give
her a divorce. And I couldn’t let her go, even if I had wanted to. I
loved her too much. And I love her too much now. I do. I can’t help
it.” He paused. The pain and regret were moving.
“Another time,” he went on, “I followed her to a hotel—yes, to a hotel.
But when I got inside she was waiting for me; she had seen me. I even
saw a man coming toward her—but not the one I believed was the one—only
when he saw me he turned away and I couldn’t be sure that he was there
to meet her. And when I tried to talk to her about him she turned away
from me and we went back home in silence. I couldn’t do anything
with her. She would sit and read and ignore me for days—days, I tell
you—without ever a word.”
“Yes,” I said, “but the folly of all that. The uselessness, the
hopelessness. How could you?”
“I know, I know,” he exclaimed, “but I couldn’t help it. I can’t now.
I love her. I can’t help that, can I? I’m miserable without her. I see
the folly of it all, but I’m crazy about her. The more she disliked me
the more I loved her. And I love her now, this minute. I can’t help
it. There were days when she tortured me so that I vomited, from sheer
nervousness. I was sick and run down. I have been cold with sweat in
her presence and when she was away and I didn’t know where she was. I
have walked the streets for hours, for whole days at a time, because I
couldn’t eat or sleep and didn’t know what to do. By God!” Once more
the pause and a clenching of the hands. “And all I could do was think
and think and think. And that is all I do now really—think and think
and think. I’ve never been myself since she went away. I can’t shake it
off. I live up there, yes. But why? Because I think she might come back
some day, and because we lived there together. I wait and wait. I know
it’s foolish, but still I wait. Why? God only knows. And yet I wait.
Oh,” he sighed, “and it’s three years now. Three years!”
He paused and gazed at me and I at him, shaken by a fact that was
without solution by any one. Here he was—the one who had understood
so much about women. But where was she, the one he had sought to
enlighten, to make more up-to-date and liberal? I wondered where she
was, whether she ever thought of him even, whether she was happy in her
new freedom. And then, without more ado, he slipped on his raincoat,
took up his umbrella, and stalked out into the rain, to walk and
think, I presume. And I, closing the door on him, studied the walls,
wondering. The despair, the passion, the rage, the hopelessness, the
love. “Truly,” I thought, “this is love, for one at least. And this is
marriage, for one at least. He is spiritually wedded to that woman,
who despises him, and she may be spiritually wedded to another man who
may despise her. But love and marriage, for one, at least, I have seen
here in this room to-night, and with mine own eyes.”