The self-esteem which produced these developments of jealousy, in
my own home, was not unexercised abroad. The same exacting nature
was busy among my friends and mere acquaintance. Of these I had
but few; to these I could be devoted; for these I could toil; for
these I could freely have perished! But I demanded nothing less from
them. Of their consideration and regard I was equally uxorious as
I was of the affections of my wife. I was an INTENSIFIER in all my
relations, and was not willing to divide or share my sympathies.
I became suspicious when I found any of my acquaintance forming
new intimacies, and sunk into reserves which necessarily produced
a severance of the old ties between us. It naturally followed that
my few friends became fewer, and I finally stood alone. But enough
of self-analysis, which, in truth, owes its origin to the very
same mental quality which I have been discussing--the presence and
prevalence of EGOISME. Let us hurry our progress.
My wife advised me of the visit which William Edgerton had proposed
to the picture collection.
"I will go," she said, "if you will."
"You must go without me."
"Ah, why? Surely, you can go one morning?"
"Impossible. The morning is the time for business. THAT must be
attended to, you know."
"But you needn't slave yourself at it because it is business,
Edward. But that I know that you are not a money-loving man, I should
suppose, sometimes, from the continual plea of business, that you
were a miser, and delighted in filling old stockings to hide away
in holes and chinks of the wall. Come, now, Saturday is not usually
a busy day with you lawyers; steal it this once and go with us. I
lose half the pleasure of the sight always, when you are not with
me, and when I know that you are engaged in working for me elsewhere."
"Ah, you mistake, Julia. You shall not flatter me into such a faith.
You lose precious little by my absence."
"But, Edward, I do; believe me--it is true."
"Impossible! No, no, Julia, when you look on the Carlo Dolce and
the Guido, you will forget not only the toils of the husband, but
that you have one at all. You will forget my harsh features in the
contemplation of softer ones."
"Your features are not harsh ones, Edward."
"Nay, you shall not persuade me that I am not an Orson--a very wild
man of the woods. I know I am. I know that I have harsh features;
nay, I fancy you know it too, by this time, Julia."
"I admit the sternness at times, Edward, but I deny the harshness.
Besides, sternness, you know, is perfectly compatible with the
possession of the highest human beauty. I am not sure that a certain
portion of sternness is not absolutely necessary to manly beauty.
It seems to me that I have never yet seen what I call a handsome
man, whose features had not a certain sweet gravity, a sort of
melancholy defiance, in them which neutralized the effect of any
effeminacy which mere beauty must have had; and imparted to them
a degree of character which compelled you to turn again and look,
and made you remember them, even when they had disappeared from
sight. Now, it may be the vanity of a wife, Edward, but it seems
to me that this is the very sort of face which you possess."