by Henry James
He bade an abrupt good morning to his companions, and went toward the door. But beside it he stopped. Suspended on the wall was Baxter’s picture, My Last Duchess. He stood amazed. Was this the face and figure that, a month ago, had reminded him of his mistress? Where was the likeness now? It was as utterly absent as if it had never existed. The picture, moreover, was a very inferior work to the new portrait. He looked back at Baxter, half tempted to demand an explanation, or at least to express his perplexity. But Baxter and his sweet-heart had stooped down to examine a minute sketch near the floor, with their heads in delicious contiguity.
How the week elapsed, it was hard to say. There were moments when Lennox felt as if death were preferable to the heartless union which now stared him in the face, and as if the only possible course was to transfer his property to Marian and to put an end to his existence. There were others, again, when he was fairly reconciled to his fate. He had but to gather his old dreams and fancies into a faggot and break them across his knee, and the thing were done. Could he not collect in their stead a comely cluster of moderate and rational expectations, and bind them about with a wedding favor? His love was dead, his youth was dead; that was all. There was no need of making a tragedy of it. His love’s vitality had been but small, and since it was to be short-lived it was better that it should expire before marriage than after. As for marriage, that should stand, for that was not of necessity a matter of love. He lacked the brutal consistency necessary for taking away Marian’s future. If he had mistaken her and overrated her, the fault was his own, and it was a hard thing that she should pay the penalty. Whatever were her failings, they were profoundly involuntary, and it was plain that with regard to himself her intentions were good. She would be no companion, but she would be at least a faithful wife.
With the help of this grim logic, Lennox reached the eve of his wedding day. His manner toward Miss Everett during the preceding week had been inveterately tender and kind. He felt that in losing his love she had lost a heavy treasure, and he offered her instead the most unfailing devotion. Marian had questioned him about his lassitude and his preoccupied air, and he had replied that he was not very well. On the Wednesday afternoon, he mounted his horse and took a long ride. He came home toward sunset, and was met in the hall by his old housekeeper.
“Miss Everett’s portrait, sir,” she said, “has just been sent home, in the most beautiful frame. You gave no directions, and I took the liberty of having it carried into the library. I thought,” and the old woman smiled deferentially, “you’d like best to have it in your own room.”
Lennox went into the library. The picture was standing on the floor, back to back with a high arm-chair, and catching, through the window, the last horizontal rays of the sun. He stood before it a moment, gazing at it with a haggard face.
“Come!” said he, at last, “Marian may be what God has made her; but this detestable creature I can neither love nor respect!”
He looked about him with an angry despair, and his eye fell on a long, keen poinard, given him by a friend who had bought it in the East, and which lay as an ornament on his mantel-shelf. He seized it and thrust it, with barbarous glee, straight into the lovely face of the image. He dragged it downward, and made a long fissure in the living canvas. Then, with half a dozen strokes, he wantonly hacked it across. The act afforded him an immense relief.
I need hardly add that on the following day Lennox was married. He had locked the library door on coming out the evening before, and he had the key in his waistcoat pocket as he stood at the altar. As he left town, therefore, immediately after the ceremony, it was not until his return, a fortnight later, that the fate of the picture became known. It is not necessary to relate how he explained his exploit to Marian and how he disclosed it to Baxter. He at least put on a brave face. There is a rumor current of his having paid the painter an enormous sum of money. The amount is probably exaggerated, but there can be no doubt that the sum was very large. How he has fared—how he is destined to fare—in matrimony, it is rather too early to determine. He has been married scarcely three months.
1868
A MOST EXTRAORDINARY CASE
LATE IN the spring of the year 1865, just as the war had come to a close, a young invalid officer lay in bed in one of the uppermost chambers of one of the great New York hotels. His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a waiter, who handed him a card superscribed Mrs. Samuel Mason, and bearing on its reverse the following words in pencil: “Dear Colonel Mason—I have only just heard of your being here, ill and alone. It’s too dreadful. Do you remember me? Will you see me? If you do, I think you will remember me. I insist on coming up. M.M.”
Mason was undressed, unshaven, weak, and feverish. His ugly little hotel chamber was in a state of confusion which had not even the merit of being picturesque. Mrs. Mason’s card was at once a puzzle and a heavenly intimation of comfort. But all that it represented was so dim to the young man’s enfeebled perception that it took him some moments to collect his thoughts.
“It’s a lady, sir,” said the waiter, by way of assisting him.
“Is she young or old?” asked Mason.
“Well, sir, she’s a little of both.”
“I can’t ask a lady to come up here,” groaned the invalid.
“Upon my word, sir, you look beautiful,” said the waiter. “They like a sick man. And I see she’s of your own name,” continued Michael, in whom constant service had bred great frankness of speech; “the more shame to her for not coming before.”
Colonel Mason concluded that, as the visit had been of Mrs. Mason’s own seeking, he would receive her without more ado. “If she doesn’t mind it, I am sure I needn’t,” said the poor fellow, who hadn’t the strength to be over-punctilious. So in a very few moments his visitor was ushered up to his bedside. He saw before him a handsome, middle-aged blond woman, stout of figure, and dressed in the height of the fashion, who displayed no other embarrassment than such as was easily explained by the loss of breath consequent on the ascent of six flights of stairs.
“Do you remember me?” she asked, taking the young man’s hand.
He lay back on his pillow and looked at her. “You used to be my aunt,—my aunt Maria,” he said.
“I’m your Aunt Maria, still,” she answered. “It’s very good of you not to have forgotten me.”
“It’s very good of you not to have forgotten me,” said Mason, in a tone which betrayed a deeper feeling than the simple wish to return a civil speech.
“Dear me, you’ve had the war and a hundred dreadful things. I’ve been living in Europe, you know. Since my return I’ve been living in the country, in your uncle’s old house on the river, of which the lease had just expired when I came home. I came to town yesterday on business, and accidentally heard of your condition and your whereabouts. I knew you’d gone into the army, and I had been wondering a dozen times what had become of you, and whether you wouldn’t turn up now that the war’s at last over. Of course I didn’t lose a moment in coming to you. I’m so sorry for you.” Mrs. Mason looked about her for a seat. The chairs were encumbered with odds and ends belonging to her nephew’s wardrobe and to his equipment, and with the remnants of his last repast. The good lady surveyed the scene with the beautiful mute irony of compassion.
The young man lay watching her comely face in delicious submission to whatever form of utterance this feeling might take. “You’re the first woman—to call a woman—I’ve seen in I don’t know how many months,” he said, contrasting her appearance with that of his room, and reading her thoughts.
“I should suppose so. I mean to be as good as a dozen.” She disembarrassed one of the chairs, and brought it to the bed. Then, seating herself, she ungloved one of her hands, and laid it softly on the young man’s wrist. “What a great full-grown young fellow you’ve become!” she pursued. “Now, tell me, are you very ill?”
“You must ask the doctor,” said Mason. “I actually don’t know. I’m extremely uncomf
ortable, but I suppose it’s partly my circumstances.”
“I’ve no doubt it’s more than half your circumstances. I’ve seen the doctor. Mrs. Van Zandt is an old friend of mine; and when I come to town, I always go to see her. It was from her I learned this morning that you were here in this state. We had begun by rejoicing over the new prospects of peace; and from that, of course, we had got to lamenting the numbers of young men who are to enter upon it with lost limbs and shattered health. It happened that Mrs. Van Zandt mentioned several of her husband’s patients as examples, and yourself among the number. You were an excellent young man, miserably sick, without family or friends, and with no asylum but a suffocating little closet in a noisy hotel. You may imagine that I pricked up my ears, and asked your baptismal name. Dr. Van Zandt came in, and told me. Your name is luckily an uncommon one: it’s absurd to suppose that there could be two Ferdinand Masons. In short, I felt that you were my husband’s brother’s child, and that at last I too might have my little turn at hero-nursing. The little that the Doctor knew of your history agreed with the little that I knew, though I confess I was sorry to hear that you had never spoken of our relationship. But why should you? At all events you have got to acknowledge it now. I regret your not having said something about it before, only because the Doctor might have brought us together a month ago, and you would now have been well.”
“It will take more than a month to get well,” said Mason, feeling that, if Mrs. Mason was meaning to exert herself on his behalf, she should know the real state of the case. “I never spoke of you, because I had quite lost sight of you. I fancied you were still in Europe; and indeed,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation, “I heard that you had married again.”
“Of course you did,” said Mrs. Mason, placidly. “I used to hear it once a month myself. But I had a much better right to fancy you married. Thank Heaven, however, there’s nothing of that sort between us. We can each do as we please. I promise to cure you in a month, in spite of yourself.”
“What’s your remedy?” asked the young man, with a smile very courteous, considering how sceptical it was.
“My first remedy is to take you out of this horrible hole. I talked it all over with Dr. Van Zandt. He says you must get into the country. Why, my dear boy, this is enough to kill you outright,—one Broadway outside of your window and another outside of your door! Listen to me. My house is directly on the river, and only two hours’ journey by rail. You know I’ve no children. My only companion is my niece, Caroline Hofmann. You shall come and stay with us until you are as strong as you need be,—if it takes a dozen years. You shall have sweet, cool air, and proper food, and decent attendance, and the devotion of a sensible woman. I shall not listen to a word of objection. You shall do as you please, get up when you please, dine when you please, go to bed when you please, and say what you please. I shall ask nothing of you but to let yourself be very dearly cared for. Do you remember how, when you were a boy at school, after your father’s death, you were taken with measles, and your uncle had you brought to our own house? I helped to nurse you myself, and I remember what nice manners you had in the very midst of your measles. Your uncle was very fond of you; and if he had had any considerable property of his own, I know he would have remembered you in his will. But of course he couldn’t leave away his wife’s money. What I wish to do for you is a very small part of what he would have done, if he had only lived, and heard of your gallantry and your sufferings. So it’s settled. I shall go home this afternoon. To-morrow morning I shall despatch my man-servant to you with instructions. He’s an Englishman. He thoroughly knows his business, and he will put up your things, and save you every particle of trouble. You’ve only to let yourself be dressed, and driven to the train. I shall, of course, meet you at your journey’s end. Now don’t tell me you’re not strong enough.”
“I feel stronger at this moment than I’ve felt in a dozen weeks,” said Mason. “It’s useless for me to attempt to thank you.”
“Quite useless. I shouldn’t listen to you. And I suppose,” added Mrs. Mason, looking over the bare walls and scanty furniture of the room, “you pay a fabulous price for this bower of bliss. Do you need money?”
The young man shook his head.
“Very well then,” resumed Mrs. Mason, conclusively, “from this moment you’re in my hands.”
The young man lay speechless from the very fulness of his heart; but he strove by the pressure of his fingers to give her some assurance of his gratitude. His companion rose, and lingered beside him, drawing on her glove, and smiling quietly with the look of a long-baffled philanthropist who has at last discovered a subject of infinite capacity. Poor Ferdinand’s weary visage reflected her smile. Finally, after the lapse of years, he too was being cared for. He let his head sink into the pillow, and silently inhaled the perfume of her sober elegance and her cordial good-nature. He felt like taking her dress in his hand, and asking her not to leave him,—now that solitude would be bitter. His eyes, I suppose, betrayed this touching apprehension,—doubly touching in a war-wasted young officer. As she prepared to bid him farewell, Mrs. Mason stooped, and kissed his forehead. He listened to the rustle of her dress across the carpet, to the gentle closing of the door, and to her retreating footsteps. And then, giving way to his weakness, he put his hands to his face, and cried like a homesick school-boy. He had been reminded of the exquisite side of life.
Matters went forward as Mrs. Mason had arranged them. At six o’clock on the following evening Ferdinand found himself deposited at one of the way stations of the Hudson River Railroad, exhausted by his journey, and yet excited at the prospect of its drawing to a close. Mrs. Mason was in waiting in a low basket-phaeton, with a magazine of cushions and wrappings. Ferdinand transferred himself to her side, and they drove rapidly homeward. Mrs. Mason’s house was a cottage of liberal make, with a circular lawn, a sinuous avenue, and a well-grown plantation of shrubbery. As the phaeton drew up before the porch, a young lady appeared in the doorway. Mason will be forgiven if he considered himself presented ex officio, as I may say, to this young lady. Before he really knew it, and in the absence of the servant, who, under Mrs. Mason’s directions, was busy in the background with his trunk, he had availed himself of her proffered arm, and had allowed her to assist him through the porch, across the hall, and into the parlor, where she graciously consigned him to a sofa which, for his especial use, she had caused to be wheeled up before a fire kindled for his especial comfort. He was unable, however, to take advantage of her good offices. Prudence dictated that without further delay he should betake himself to his room.
On the morning after his arrival he got up early, and made an attempt to be present at breakfast; but his strength failed him, and he was obliged to dress at his leisure, and content himself with a simple transition from his bed to his arm-chair. The chamber assigned him was designedly on the ground-floor, so that he was spared the trouble of measuring his strength with the staircase,—a charming room, brightly carpeted and upholstered, and marked by a certain fastidious freshness which betrayed the uncontested dominion of women. It had a broad high window, draped in chintz and crisp muslin and opening upon the greensward of the lawn. At this window, wrapped in his dressing-gown, and lost in the embrace of the most unresisting of arm-chairs, he slowly discussed his simple repast. Before long his hostess made her appearance on the lawn outside the window. As this quarter of the house was covered with warm sunshine, Mason ventured to open the window and talk to her, while she stood out on the grass beneath her parasol.
“It’s time to think of your physician,” she said. “You shall choose for yourself. The great man here is Dr. Gregory, a gentleman of the old school. We have had him but once, for my niece and I have the health of dairy-maids. On that one occasion he—well, he made a fool of himself. His practice is among the ‘old families,’ and he only knows how to treat certain old-fashioned, obsolete complaints. Anything brought about by the war would be quite out of his range. And then he vaci
llates, and talks about his own maladies à lui. And, to tell the truth, we had a little repartee which makes our relations somewhat ambiguous.”
“I see he would never do,” said Mason, laughing. “But he’s not your only physician?”
“No: there is a young man, a newcomer, a Dr. Knight, whom I don’t know, but of whom I’ve heard very good things. I confess that I have a prejudice in favor of the young men. Dr. Knight has a position to establish, and I suppose he’s likely to be especially attentive and careful. I believe, moreover, that he has been an army surgeon.”
“I knew a man of his name,” said Mason. “I wonder if this is he. His name was Horace Knight,—a light-haired, near-sighted man.”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Mason; “perhaps Caroline knows.” She retreated a few steps, and called to an upper window: “Caroline, what’s Dr. Knight’s first name?”
Mason listened to Miss Hofmann’s answer,—“I haven’t the least idea.”
“Is it Horace?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he light or dark?”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“Is he near-sighted?”
“How in the world should I know?”
“I fancy he’s as good as any one,” said Ferdinand. “With you, my dear aunt, what does the doctor matter?”
Mrs. Mason accordingly sent for Dr. Knight, who, on arrival, turned out to be her nephew’s old acquaintance. Although the young men had been united by no greater intimacy than the superficial comradeship resulting from a winter in neighboring quarters, they were very well pleased to come together again. Horace Knight was a young man of good birth, good looks, good faculties, and good intentions, who, after a three years’ practice of surgery in the army, had undertaken to push his fortune in Mrs. Mason’s neighborhood. His mother, a widow with a small income, had recently removed to the country for economy, and her son had been unwilling to leave her to live alone. The adjacent country, moreover, offered a promising field for a man of energy,—a field well stocked with large families of easy income and of those conservative habits which lead people to make much of the cares of a physician. The local practitioner had survived the glory of his prime, and was not, perhaps, entirely guiltless of Mrs. Mason’s charge, that he had not kept up with the progress of the “new diseases.” The world, in fact, was getting too new for him, as well as for his old patients. He had had money invested in the South,— precious sources of revenue, which the war had swallowed up at a gulp; he had grown frightened and nervous and querulous; he had lost his presence of mind and his spectacles in several important conjectures; he had been repeatedly and distinctly fallible; a vague dissatisfaction pervaded the breasts of his patrons; he was without competitors: in short, fortune was propitious to Dr. Knight. Mason remembered the young surgeon only as a good-humored, intelligent companion; but he soon had reason to believe that his medical skill would leave nothing to be desired. He arrived rapidly at a clear understanding of Ferdinand’s case; he asked intelligent questions, and gave simple and definite instructions. The disorder was deeply seated and virulent, but there was no apparent reason why unflinching care and prudence should not subdue it.