WAKEFIELD.
In some old magazine or newspaper I recollect a story, told as truth,of a man--let us call him Wakefield--who absented himself for a longtime from his wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not veryuncommon, nor, without a proper distinction of circumstances, to becondemned either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though farfrom the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on recordof marital delinquency, and, moreover, as remarkable a freak as may befound in the whole list of human oddities. The wedded couple lived inLondon. The man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings inthe next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife orfriends and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment,dwelt upward of twenty years. During that period he beheld his homeevery day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after sogreat a gap in his matrimonial felicity--when his death was reckonedcertain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory and hiswife long, long ago resigned to her autumnal widowhood--he entered thedoor one evening quietly as from a day's absence, and became a lovingspouse till death.
This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, though of thepurest originality, unexampled, and probably never to be repeated, isone, I think, which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind. Weknow, each for himself, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly,yet feel as if some other might. To my own contemplations, at least,it has often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with a sense thatthe story must be true and a conception of its hero's character.Whenever any subject so forcibly affects the mind, time is well spentin thinking of it. If the reader choose, let him do his ownmeditation; or if he prefer to ramble with me through the twenty yearsof Wakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome, trusting that there will bea pervading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, doneup neatly and condensed into the final sentence. Thought has alwaysits efficacy and every striking incident its moral.
What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free to shape out our ownidea and call it by his name. He was now in the meridian of life; hismatrimonial affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm,habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to be the mostconstant, because a certain sluggishness would keep his heart at restwherever it might be placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so;his mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings that tended to nopurpose or had not vigor to attain it; his thoughts were seldom soenergetic as to seize hold of words. Imagination, in the propermeaning of the term, made no part of Wakefield's gifts. With a coldbut not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind never feverish withriotous thoughts nor perplexed with originality, who could haveanticipated that our friend would entitle himself to a foremost placeamong the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances been askedwho was the man in London the surest to perform nothing to-day whichshould be remembered on the morrow, they would have thought ofWakefield. Only the wife of his bosom might have hesitated. She,without having analyzed his character, was partly aware of a quietselfishness that had rusted into his inactive mind; of a peculiar sortof vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him; of a disposition tocraft which had seldom produced more positive effects than the keepingof petty secrets hardly worth revealing; and, lastly, of what shecalled a little strangeness sometimes in the good man. This latterquality is indefinable, and perhaps non-existent.
Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. It is the duskof an October evening. His equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hatcovered with an oil-cloth, top-boots, an umbrella in one hand and asmall portmanteau in the other. He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that heis to take the night-coach into the country. She would fain inquirethe length of his journey, its object and the probable time of hisreturn, but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogateshim only by a look. He tells her not to expect him positively by thereturn-coach nor to be alarmed should he tarry three or four days,but, at all events, to look for him at supper on Friday evening.Wakefield, himself, be it considered, has no suspicion of what isbefore him. He holds out his hand; she gives her own and meets hisparting kiss in the matter-of-course way of a ten years' matrimony,and forth goes the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved toperplex his good lady by a whole week's absence. After the door hasclosed behind him, she perceives it thrust partly open and a vision ofher husband's face through the aperture, smiling on her and gone in amoment. For the time this little incident is dismissed without athought, but long afterward, when she has been more years a widow thana wife, that smile recurs and flickers across all her reminiscences ofWakefield's visage. In her many musings she surrounds the originalsmile with a multitude of fantasies which make it strange and awful;as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that parting lookis frozen on his pale features; or if she dreams of him in heaven,still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty smile. Yet for itssake, when all others have given him up for dead, she sometimes doubtswhether she is a widow.
But our business is with the husband. We must hurry after him alongthe street ere he lose his individuality and melt into the great massof London life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let usfollow close at his heels, therefore, until, after several superfluousturns and doublings, we find him comfortably established by thefireside of a small apartment previously bespoken. He is in the nextstreet to his own and at his journey's end. He can scarcely trust hisgood-fortune in having got thither unperceived, recollecting that atone time he was delayed by the throng in the very focus of a lightedlantern, and again there were footsteps that seemed to tread behindhis own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him, and anon heheard a voice shouting afar and fancied that it called his name.Doubtless a dozen busybodies had been watching him and told his wifethe whole affair.
Poor Wakefield! little knowest thou thine own insignificance in thisgreat world. No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thybed, foolish man, and on the morrow, if thou wilt be wise, get theehome to good Mrs. Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyselfeven for a little week from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were shefor a single moment to deem thee dead or lost or lastingly dividedfrom her, thou wouldst be woefully conscious of a change in thy truewife for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in humanaffections--not that they gape so long and wide, but so quickly closeagain.
Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be termed,Wakefield lies down betimes, and, starting from his first nap, spreadsforth his arms into the wide and solitary waste of the unaccustomedbed, "No," thinks he, gathering the bedclothes about him; "I will notsleep alone another night." In the morning he rises earlier than usualand sets himself to consider what he really means to do. Such are hisloose and rambling modes of thought that he has taken this verysingular step with the consciousness of a purpose, indeed, but withoutbeing able to define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. Thevagueness of the project and the convulsive effort with which heplunges into the execution of it are equally characteristic of afeeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely ashe may, and finds himself curious to know the progress of matters athome--how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood of a week, and,briefly, how the little sphere of creatures and circumstances in whichhe was a central object will be affected by his removal. A morbidvanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of the affair. But how ishe to attain his ends? Not, certainly, by keeping close in thiscomfortable lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in the nextstreet to his home, he is as effectually abroad as if the stage-coachhad been whirling him away all night. Yet should he reappear, thewhole project is knocked in the head. His poor brains being hopelesslypuzzled with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly resolvingto cross the head of the street and send one hasty glance toward hisforsaken domicile. Habit--for he is a man of habits--takes him by thehand and guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where, just atthe critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping of his foot uponthe step.--Wakefield, whither are you going?
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At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. Little dreaming ofthe doom to which his first backward step devotes him, he hurriesaway, breathless with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turnhis head at the distant corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight ofhim? Will not the whole household--the decent Mrs. Wakefield, thesmart maid-servant and the dirty little footboy--raise a hue-and-crythrough London streets in pursuit of their fugitive lord and master?Wonderful escape! He gathers courage to pause and look homeward, butis perplexed with a sense of change about the familiar edifice such asaffects us all when, after a separation of months or years, we againsee some hill or lake or work of art with which we were friends ofold. In ordinary cases this indescribable impression is caused by thecomparison and contrast between our imperfect reminiscences and thereality. In Wakefield the magic of a single night has wrought asimilar transformation, because in that brief period a great moralchange has been effected. But this is a secret from himself. Beforeleaving the spot he catches a far and momentary glimpse of his wifepassing athwart the front window with her face turned toward the headof the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to his heels, scared withthe idea that among a thousand such atoms of mortality her eye musthave detected him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain besomewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal-fire of hislodgings.
So much for the commencement of this long whim-wham. After the initialconception and the stirring up of the man's sluggish temperament toput it in practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a naturaltrain. We may suppose him, as the result of deep deliberation, buyinga new wig of reddish hair and selecting sundry garments, in a fashionunlike his customary suit of brown, from a Jew's old-clothes bag. Itis accomplished: Wakefield is another man. The new system being nowestablished, a retrograde movement to the old would be almost asdifficult as the step that placed him in his unparalleled position.Furthermore, he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness occasionallyincident to his temper and brought on at present by the inadequatesensation which he conceives to have been produced in the bosom ofMrs. Wakefield. He will not go back until she be frightened half todeath. Well, twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, eachtime with a heavier step, a paler cheek and more anxious brow, and inthe third week of his non-appearance he detects a portent of evilentering the house in the guise of an apothecary. Next day the knockeris muffled. Toward nightfall comes the chariot of a physician anddeposits its big-wigged and solemn burden at Wakefield's door, whenceafter a quarter of an hour's visit he emerges, perchance the herald ofa funeral. Dear woman! will she die?
By this time Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feeling,but still lingers away from his wife's bedside, pleading with hisconscience that she must not be disturbed at such a juncture. If aughtelse restrains him, he does not know it. In the course of a few weeksshe gradually recovers. The crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps,but quiet, and, let him return soon or late, it will never be feverishfor him again. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wakefield's mindand render him indistinctly conscious that an almost impassable gulfdivides his hired apartment from his former home. "It is but in thenext street," he sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world.Hitherto he has put off' his return from one particular day toanother; henceforward he leaves the precise time undetermined--notto-morrow; probably next week; pretty soon. Poor man! The dead havenearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly homes as theself-banished Wakefield.
Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article of a dozenpages! Then might I exemplify how an influence beyond our control laysits strong hand on every deed which we do and weaves its consequencesinto an iron tissue of necessity.
Wakefield is spellbound. We must leave him for ten years or so tohaunt around his house without once crossing the threshold, and to befaithful to his wife with all the affection of which his heart iscapable, while he is slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must beremarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in his conduct.
Now for a scene. Amid the throng of a London street we distinguish aman, now waxing elderly, with few characteristics to attract carelessobservers, yet bearing in his whole aspect the handwriting of nocommon fate for such as have the skill to read it. He is meagre; hislow and narrow forehead is deeply wrinkled; his eyes, small andlustreless, sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftenerseem to look inward. He bends his head and moves with an indescribableobliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display his full front to theworld. Watch him long enough to see what we have described, and youwill allow that circumstances--which often produce remarkable men fromNature's ordinary handiwork--have produced one such here. Next,leaving him to sidle along the footwalk, cast your eyes in theopposite direction, where a portly female considerably in the wane oflife, with a prayer-book in her hand, is proceeding to yonder church.She has the placid mien of settled widowhood. Her regrets have eitherdied away or have become so essential to her heart that they would bepoorly exchanged for joy. Just as the lean man and well-conditionedwoman are passing a slight obstruction occurs and brings these twofigures directly in contact. Their hands touch; the pressure of thecrowd forces her bosom against his shoulder; they stand face to face,staring into each other's eyes. After a ten years' separation thusWakefield meets his wife. The throng eddies away and carries themasunder. The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds tochurch, but pauses in the portal and throws a perplexed glance alongthe street. She passes in, however, opening her prayer-book as shegoes.
And the man? With so wild a face that busy and selfish London standsto gaze after him he hurries to his lodgings, bolts the door andthrows himself upon the bed. The latent feelings of years break out;his feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength; all themiserable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a glance, andhe cries out passionately, "Wakefield, Wakefield! You are mad!"Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation must have somoulded him to itself that, considered in regard to hisfellow-creatures and the business of life, he could not be said topossess his right mind. He had contrived--or, rather, he hadhappened--to dissever himself from the world, to vanish, to give uphis place and privileges with living men without being admitted amongthe dead. The life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. He was inthe bustle of the city as of old, but the crowd swept by and saw himnot; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside his wife and athis hearth, yet must never feel the warmth of the one nor theaffection of the other. It was Wakefield's unprecedented fate toretain his original share of human sympathies and to be still involvedin human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence onthem. It would be a most curious speculation to trace out the effectof such circumstances on his heart and intellect separately and inunison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be conscious of it,but deem himself the same man as ever; glimpses of the truth, indeed,would come, but only for the moment, and still he would keep saying,"I shall soon go back," nor reflect that he had been saying so fortwenty years.
I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear in theretrospect scarcely longer than the week to which Wakefield had atfirst limited his absence. He would look on the affair as no more thanan interlude in the main business of his life. When, after a littlewhile more, he should deem it time to re-enter his parlor, his wifewould clap her hands for joy on beholding the middle-aged Mr.Wakefield. Alas, what a mistake! Would Time but await the close of ourfavorite follies, we should be young men--all of us--and tillDoomsday.
One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished, Wakefield istaking his customary walk toward the dwelling which he still calls hisown. It is a gusty night of autumn, with frequent showers that patterdown upon the pavement and are gone before a man can put up hisumbrella. Pausing near the house, Wakefield discerns through theparlor-windows of the second floor the red glow and the glimmer andfitful flash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a grotesqueshadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, the nose and chin and thebroad waist form an admira
ble caricature, which dances, moreover, withthe up-flickering and down-sinking blaze almost too merrily for theshade of an elderly widow. At this instant a shower chances to fall,and is driven by the unmannerly gust full into Wakefield's face andbosom. He is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he standwet and shivering here, when his own hearth has a good fire to warmhim and his own wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clotheswhich doubtless she has kept carefully in the closet of theirbedchamber? No; Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends thesteps--heavily, for twenty years have stiffened his legs since he camedown, but he knows it not.--Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the solehome that is left you? Then step into your grave.--The door opens. Ashe passes in we have a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognizethe crafty smile which was the precursor of the little joke that hehas ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. Howunmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well, a good night's restto Wakefield!
This happy event--supposing it to be such--could only have occurred atan unpremeditated moment. We will not follow our friend across thethreshold. He has left us much food for thought, a portion of whichshall lend its wisdom to a moral and be shaped into a figure. Amid theseeming confusion of our mysterious world individuals are so nicelyadjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, thatby stepping aside for a moment a man exposes himself to a fearful riskof losing his place for ever. Like Wakefield, he may become, as itwere, the outcast of the universe.
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