 | Twice-told tales |  |
WAKEFIELD.
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 long time from his
wife. The fact, thus abstractedly stated, is not very
uncommon, nor—without a proper distinction of circumstances—to
be condemned either as naughty or
nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far from the most
aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance, on record,
of marital delinquency; and, moreover, as remarkable
a freak as may be found in the whole list of human
oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The
man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings
in the next street to his own house, and there,
unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the
shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt
upwards of twenty years. During that period, he
beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn
Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his
certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from
memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her
autumnal widowhood—he entered the door one evening,
quietly, as from a day's absence, and became a
loving spouse till death.
This outline is all that I remember. But the incident,
though of the purest originality, unexampled,
and probably never to be repeated, is one, I think,
which appeals to the general sympathies of mankind.
We know, 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 that
the story must be true, and a conception of its hero's
character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects
the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the
reader choose, let him do his own meditation; or if he
prefer to ramble with me through the twenty years of
Wakefield's vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that
there will be a pervading spirit and a moral, even
should we fail to find them, done up neatly, and condensed
into the final sentence. Thought has always
its efficacy, and every striking incident its moral.
What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free
to shape out our own idea, and call it by his name.
He was now in the meridian of life; his matrimonial
affections, never violent, were sobered into a calm,
habitual sentiment; of all husbands, he was likely to
would keep his heart at rest, wherever it might be
placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so; his
mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that
tended to no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it;
his thoughts were seldom so energetic as to seize hold
of words. Imagination, in the proper meaning of the
term, made no part of Wakefield's gifts. With a cold,
but not depraved nor wandering heart, and a mind
never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor perplexed
with originality, who could have anticipated, that our
friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among
the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances
been asked, who was the man in London, the surest
to perform nothing today which should be remembered
on the morrow, they would have thought of Wakefield.
Only the wife of his bosom might have hesitated.
She, without having analyzed his character, was
partly aware of a quiet selfishness, that had rusted into
his inactive mind—of a peculiar sort of vanity, the
most uneasy attribute about him—of a disposition to
craft, which had seldom produced more positive effects
than the keeping of petty secrets, hardly worth revealing—and,
lastly, of what she called a little strangeness,
sometimes, in the good man. This latter quality is
indefinable, and perhaps non-existent.
Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his
wife. It is the dusk of an October evening. His
equipment is a drab greatcoat, a hat covered with an
small portmanteau in the other. He has informed
Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the night-coach into
the country. She would fain inquire the length of his
journey, its object, and the probable time of his return;
but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery, interrogates
him only by a look. He tells her not to expect
him positively by the return 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
is before him. He holds out his hand; she gives her
own, and meets his parting kiss, in the matter-of-course
way of a ten years' matrimony; and forth goes the
middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, almost resolved to perplex
his good lady by a whole week's absence. After the
door has closed behind him, she perceives it thrust
partly open, and a vision of her husband's face, through
the aperture, smiling on her, and gone in a moment.
For the time, this little incident is dismissed without
a thought. But, long afterwards, when she has been
more years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs,
and flickers across all her reminiscences of Wakefield's
visage. In her many musings, she surrounds
the original smile with a multitude of fantasies, which
make it strange and awful; as, for instance, if she
imagines him in a coffin, that parting look is frozen
on his pale features; or, if she dreams of him in
Heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and crafty
him up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is
a widow.
But, our business is with the husband. We must
hurry after him, along the street, ere he lose his individuality,
and melt into the great mass of London
life. It would be vain searching for him there. Let
us follow close at his heels, therefore, until, after
several superfluous turns and doublings, we find him
comfortably established by the fireside of a small apartment,
previously bespoken. He is in the next street
to his own, and at his journey's end. He can scarcely
trust his good fortune, in having got thither unperceived—recollecting
that, at one time, he was delayed
by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern;
and, again, there were footsteps, that seemed to tread
behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp
around him; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting
afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless,
a dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told
his wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield! Little
knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great
world! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go
quietly to thy bed, foolish man; and, on the morrow,
if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs.
Wakefield, and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself,
even for a little week, from thy place in her chaste
bosom. Were she, for a single moment, to deem thee
dead, or lost, or lastingly divided from her, thou
wife, for ever after. It is perilous to make a chasm in
human affections; not that they gape so long and
wide—but so quickly close again!
Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may
be termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting
from his first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide
and solitary waste of the unaccustomed bed. `No'—
thinks he, gathering the bed-clothes about him—`I
will not sleep alone another night.'
In the morning, he rises earlier than usual, and sets
himself to consider what he really means to do. Such
are his loose and rambling modes of thought, that he
has taken this very singular step, with the consciousness
of a purpose, indeed, but without being able to
define it sufficiently for his own contemplation. The
vagueness of the project, and the convulsive effort with
which he plunges into the execution of it, are equally
characteristic of a feeble-minded man. Wakefield
sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and
finds himself curious to know the progress of matters
at home—how his exemplary wife will endure her
widowhood, of a week; and, briefly, how the little
sphere of creatures and circumstances, in which he
was a central object, will be affected by his removal.
A morbid vanity, therefore, lies nearest the bottom of
the affair. But, how is he to attain his ends? Not,
certainly, by keeping close in this comfortable lodging,
where, though he slept and awoke in the next street
had been whirling him away all night. Yet,
should he reappear, the whole project is knocked in
the head. His poor brains being hopelessly puzzled
with this dilemma, he at length ventures out, partly
resolving to cross the head of the street, and send one
hasty glance towards his forsaken domicile. Habit—
for he is a man of habits—takes him by the hand, and
guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door, where,
just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scraping
of his foot upon the step. Wakefield! whither
are you going?
At that instant, his fate was turning on the pivot.
Little dreaming of the doom to which his first backward
step devotes him, he hurries away, breathless
with agitation hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn
his head, at the distant corner. Can it be, that nobody
caught sight of him? Will not the whole household—the
decent Mrs. Wakefield, the smart maid-servant,
and the dirty little footboy—raise a hue-and-cry,
through London streets, in pursuit of their fugitive
lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers
courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed
with a sense of change about the familiar edifice,
such as affects us all, when, after a separation of
months or years, we again see some hill or lake, or
work of art, with which we were friends, of old. In
ordinary cases, this indescribable impression is caused
by the comparison and contrast between our imperfect
magic of a single night has wrought a similar transformation,
because, in that brief period, a great moral
change has been effected. But this is a secret from
himself. Before leaving the spot, he catches a far and
momentary glimpse of his wife, passing athwart the
front window, with her face turned towards the head
of the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to his
heels, scared with the idea, that, among a thousand
such atoms of mortality, her eye must have detected
him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain be
somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal-fire
of his lodgings.
So much for the commencement of this long whim-wham.
After the initial conception, and the stirring
up of the man's sluggish temperament to put it in
practice, the whole matter evolves itself in a natural
train. We may suppose him, as the result of deep
deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish hair, and
selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his
customary suit of brown, from a Jew's old-clothes bag.
It is accomplished. Wakefield is another man. The
new system being now established, a retrograde movement
to the old would be almost as difficult as the step
that placed him in his unparalleled position. Furthermore,
he is rendered obstinate by a sulkiness, occasionally
incident to his temper, and brought on, at present, by
the inadequate sensation which he conceives to have
been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield. He
Well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight,
each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, and more
anxious brow; and in the third week of his non-appearance,
he detects a portent of evil entering the house,
in the guise of an apothecary. Next day, the knocker
is muffled. Towards night-fall, comes the chariot of a
physician, and deposits its big-wigged and solemn burthen
at Wakefield's door, whence, after a quarter of
an hour's visit, he emerges, perchance the herald of a
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 bed-side,
pleading with his conscience, that she must not be
disturbed at such a juncture. If aught else restrains
him, he does not know it. In the course of a few
weeks, she gradually recovers; the crisis is over; her
heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, let him return
soon or late, it will never be feverish for him again.
Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wakefield's
mind, and render him indistinctly conscious, that an
almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from
his former home. `It is but in the next street!' he
sometimes says. Fool! it is in another world. Hitherto,
he has put off his return from one particular day
to another; henceforward, he leaves the precise time
undetermined. Not tomorrow—probably next week—
pretty soon. Poor man! The dead have nearly as
much chance of re-visiting their earthly homes, as the
self-banished Wakefield.
Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an
article of a dozen pages! Then might I exemplify
how an influence, beyond our control, lays its strong
hand on every deed which we do, and weaves its consequences
into an iron tissue of necessity. Wakefield
is spell-bound. We must leave him, for ten years or
so, to haunt around his house, without once crossing
the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all
the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is
slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be
remarked, he has lost the perception of singularity in
his conduct.
Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London
street, we distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with
few characteristics to attract careless observers, yet
bearing, in his whole aspect, the hand-writing of no
common fate, for such as have the skill to read it. He
is meagre; his low and narrow forehead is deeply
wrinkled; his eyes, small and lustreless, sometimes
wander apprehensively about him, but oftener seem to
look inward. He bends his head, and moves with an
indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilling to display
his full front to the world. Watch him, long
enough to see what we have described, and you will
allow, that circumstances—which often produce remarkable
men from nature's ordinary handiwork—
have produced one such here. Next, leaving him to
sidle along the foot-walk, cast your eyes in the opposite
direction, where a portly female, considerably in the
to yonder church. She has the placid mien
of settled widowhood. Her regrets have either died
away, or have become so essential to her heart, that
they would be poorly exchanged for joy. Just as the
lean man and well-conditioned woman are passing, a
slight obstruction occurs, and brings these two figures
directly in contact. Their hands touch; the pressure
of the crowd forces her bosom against his shoulder;
they stand, face to face, staring into each other's eyes.
After a ten years' separation, thus Wakefield meets his
wife!
The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder.
The sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds
to church, but pauses in the portal, and throws a perplexed
glance along the street. She passes in, however,
opening her prayer-book as she goes. And the
man? With so wild a face, that busy and selfish
London stands to gaze after him, he hurries to his
lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the
bed. The latent feelings of years break out; his
feeble mind acquires a brief energy from their strength;
all the miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to
him at a glance: and he cries out, passionately—
`Wakefield! Wakefield! You are mad!'
Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation
must have so moulded him to itself, that, considered
in regard to his fellow-creatures and the business of
life, he could not be said to possess his right mind.
himself from the world—to vanish—to give up his
place and privileges with living men, without being
admitted among the dead. The life of a hermit is
nowise parallel to his. He was in the bustle of the
city, as of old; but the crowd swept by, and saw him
not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside
his wife, and at his hearth, yet must never feel the
warmth of the one, nor the affection of the other. It
was Wakefield's unprecedented fate, to retain his
original share of human sympathies, and to be still involved
in human interests, while he had lost his reciprocal
influence on them. It would be a most curious
speculation, to trace out the effect of such circumstances
on his heart and intellect, separately, and in
unison. 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 for twenty years.
I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear,
in the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week
to which Wakefield had at first limited his absence.
He would look on the affair as no more than an interlude
in the main business of his life. When, after a
little while more, he should deem it time to re-enter his
parlor, his wife would clap her hands for joy, on beholding
the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what
favorite follies, we should be young men, all of us, and
till Doomsday.
One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished,
Wakefield is taking his customary walk towards the
dwelling which he still calls his own. It is a gusty
night of autumn, with frequent showers, that patter
down upon the pavement, and are gone, before a man
can put up his umbrella. Pausing near the house,
Wakefield discerns, through the parlor-windows of the
second floor, the red glow, and the glimmer and fitful
flash, of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears a
grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap,
the nose and chin, and the broad waist, form an admirable
caricature, which dances, moreover, with the upflickering
and down-sinking blaze, almost too merrily
for the shade of an elderly widow. At this instant, a
shower chances to fall, and is driven, by the unmannerly
gust, full into Wakefield's face and bosom. He
is quite penetrated with its autumnal chill. Shall he
stand, wet and shivering here, when his own hearth
has a good fire to warm him, and his own wife will
run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which,
doubtless, she has kept carefully in the closet of their
bedchamber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He
ascends the steps—heavily!—for twenty years have
stiffened his legs, since he came down—but he knows
it not. Stay, Wakefield! Would you go to the sole
home that is left you? Then step into your grave!
glimpse of his visage, and recognise the crafty smile,
which was the precursor of the little joke, that he has
ever since been playing off at his wife's expense. How
unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman! Well;
a good night's rest to Wakefield!
This happy event—supposing it to be such—could
only have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We
will not follow our friend across the threshold. He
has left us much food for thought, a portion of which
shall lend its wisdom to a moral, and be shaped into a
figure. Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious
world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a
system, and systems to one another, and to a whole,
that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes
himself to a fearful risk of losing his place for ever.
Like Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Outcast
of the Universe.
| Twice-told tales | |