Married Life | Page 5

me to No.--Walnut street."
I had directed him to the house of my sister, where I thought I would
stay until after eleven o'clock, and then return home, leaving my
husband to infer that I had been to the concert. But long before I had
reached my sister's house, I felt so miserable that I deemed it best to
call out of the window to the driver, and direct him to return. On
arriving at home, some twenty minutes after I had left it, I went up to
my chamber, and there had a hearty crying spell to myself. I don't know
that I ever felt so bad before in my life. I had utterly failed in this
vigorous contest with my husband, who had come off perfectly
victorious. Many bitter things did I write against him in my heart, and
largely did I magnify his faults. I believe I thought over every thing that
occurred since we were married, and selected therefrom whatever could

justify the conclusion that he was a self-willed, overbearing, unfeeling
man, and did not entertain for me a particle of affection.
It was clear that I had not been able to manage my spouse, determined
as I had been to correct all his faults, and make him one of the best,
most conciliating and loving of husbands, with whom my wish would
be law. Still I could not think of giving up. The thought of being
reduced to a tame, submissive wife, who could hardly call her soul her
own, was not for a moment to be entertained. On reflection, it occurred
to me that I had, probably, taken the wrong method with my husband.
There was a touch of stubbornness in his nature that had arrayed itself
against my too earnest efforts to bend him to my will. A better way
occurred. I had heard it said by some one, or had read it somewhere,
that no man was proof against a woman's tears.
On the present occasion I certainly felt much more like crying than
laughing, and so it was no hard matter, I can honestly aver, to appear
bathed in tears on my husband's return between eleven and twelve
o'clock from the theatre. I cried from vexation as much as from any
other feeling.
When Mr. Smith came up into the chamber where I lay, I greeted his
presence with half a dozen running sobs, which he answered by
whistling the "Craccovienne!" I continued to sob, and he continued to
whistle for the next ten minutes. By that time he was ready to get into
bed, which he did quite leisurely, and laid himself down upon his
pillow with an expression of satisfaction. Still I sobbed on, thinking
that every sighing breath I drew was, in spite of his seeming
indifference, a pang to his heart. But, from this fond delusion a heavily
drawn breath, that was almost a snore, aroused me. I raised up and
looked over at the man--he was sound asleep.
A good hearty cry to myself was all the satisfaction I had, and then I
went to sleep. On the next morning, I met Mr. Smith at the breakfast
table with red eyes and a sad countenance. But he did not seem to
notice either.
"I hope you enjoyed yourself at the concert last night," said he. "I was
delighted at the theatre. Fanny danced divinely. Hers is truly the poetry
of motion!"
Now this was too much! I will leave it to any reader--any female reader,
I mean--whether this was not too much. I burst into a flood of tears and

immediately withdrew, leaving my husband to eat his breakfast alone.
He sat the usual time, which provoked me exceedingly. If he had
jumped up from the table and left the house, I would have felt that I had
made some impression upon him. But to take things in this calm way!
What had I gained? Nothing, as I could see. After breakfast Mr. Smith
came up to the chamber, and, seeing my face buried in a pillow,
weeping bitterly--I had increased the flow of tears on hearing him
ascending the stairs--said in a low voice--
"Are you not well, Mary?"
I made no answer, but continued to weep. Mr. Smith stood for the
space of about a minute, but asked no further question. Then, without
uttering a word, he retired from the chamber, and in a little while after I
heard him leave the house. I cried now in good earnest. It was plain that
my husband had no feeling; that he did not care whether I was pleased
or sad. But I determined to give him a fair trial. If I failed in this new
way, what was I to do? The thought of becoming the passive