Bangladeshi-Bengali.Com: Online Story. Who Was She?

At last, I was subjected to the usual onslaught from the strong-minded.

A small but formidable committee entered my office one morning and

demanded a categorical declaration of my principles. What my views on

the subject were, I knew very well; they were clear and decided; and

yet, I hesitated to declare them! It wasn't a temptation of Saint

Anthony--that is, turned the other way--and the belligerent attitude of

the dames did not alarm me in the least; but _she_! What was _her_

position? How could I best please her? It flashed upon my mind, while

Mrs. ------ was making her formal speech, that I had taken no step for

months without a vague, secret reference to _her_. So I strove to be

courteous, friendly, and agreeably noncommittal; begged for further

documents, and promised to reply by letter in a few days.

I was hardly surprised to find the well-known hand on the envelope of a

letter shortly afterward. I held it for a minute in my palm, with an

absurd hope that I might sympathetically feel its character before

breaking the seal. Then I read it with a great sense of relief.

"I have never assumed to guide a man, except toward the full exercise

of his powers. It is not opinion in action, but opinion in a state of

idleness or indifference, which repels me. I am deeply glad that you

have gained so much since you left the country. If, in shaping your

course, you have thought of me, I will frankly say that, _to that

extent,_ you have drawn nearer. Am I mistaken in conjecturing that you

wish to know my relation to the movement concerning which you were

recently interrogated? In this, as in other instances which may come, I

must beg you to consider me only as a spectator. The more my own views

may seem likely to sway your action, the less I shall be inclined to

declare them. If you find this cold or unwomanly, remember that it is

not easy!"

Yes! I felt that I had certainly drawn much nearer to her. And from

this time on, her imaginary face and form became other than they were.

She was twenty-eight--three years older; a very little above the middle

height, but not tall; serene, rather than stately, in her movements;

with a calm, almost grave face, relieved by the sweetness of the full,

firm lips; and finally eyes of pure, limpid gray, such as we fancy

belonged to the Venus of Milo. I found her thus much more attractive

than with the dark eyes and lashes--but she did not make her appearance

in the circles which I frequented.

Another year slipped away. As an official personage, my importance

increased, but I was careful not to exaggerate it to myself. Many have

wondered (perhaps you among the rest) at my success, seeing that I

possess no remarkable abilities. If I have any secret, it is simply

this--doing faithfully, with all my might, whatever I undertake.

Nine-tenths of our politicians become inflated and careless, after the

first few years, and are easily forgotten when they once lose place.

I am a little surprised now that I had so much patience with the

Unknown. I was too important, at least, to be played with; too mature

to be subjected to a longer test; too earnest, as I had proved, to be

doubted, or thrown aside without a further explanation.

Growing tired, at last, of silent waiting, I bethought me of

advertising. A carefully written "Personal," in which _Ignotus_

informed _Ignota_ of the necessity of his communicating with her,

appeared simultaneously in the "Tribune," "Herald," "World," and

"Times." I renewed the advertisement as the time expired without an

answer, and I think it was about the end of the third week before one

came, through the post, as before.

Ah, yes! I had forgotten. See! my advertisement is pasted on the note,

as a heading or motto for the manuscript lines. I don't know why the

printed slip should give me a particular feeling of humiliation as I

look at it, but such is the fact. What she wrote is all I need read to

you:

"I could not, at first, be certain that this was meant for me. If I

were to explain to you why I have not written for so long a time, I

might give you one of the few clews which I insist on keeping in my own

hands. In your public capacity, you have been (so far as a woman may

judge) upright, independent, wholly manly: in your relations with other

men I learn nothing of you that is not honorable: toward women you are

kind, chivalrous, no doubt, overflowing with the _usual_ social

refinements, but--Here, again, I run hard upon the absolute necessity

of silence. The way to me, if you care to traverse it, is so simple, so

very simple! Yet, after what I have written, I can not even wave my

hand in the direction of it, without certain self-contempt. When I feel

free to tell you, we shall draw apart and remain unknown forever.

"You desire to write? I do not prohibit it. I have heretofore made no

arrangement for hearing from you, in turn, because I could not discover

that any advantage would accrue from it. But it seems only fair, I

confess, and you dare not think me capricious. So, three days hence, at

six o'clock in the evening, a trusty messenger of mine will call at

your door. If you have anything to give her for me, the act of giving

it must be the sign of a compact on your part that you will allow her

to leave immediately, unquestioned and unfollowed."

You look puzzled, I see: you don't catch the real drift of her words?

Well, that's a melancholy encouragement. Neither did I, at the time: it

was plain that I had disappointed her in some way, and my intercourse

with or manner toward women had something to do with it. In vain I ran

over as much of my later social life as I could recall. There had been

no special attention, nothing to mislead a susceptible heart; on the

other side, certainly no rudeness, no want of "chivalrous" (she used

the word!) respect and attention. What, in the name of all the gods,

was the matter?

In spite of all my efforts to grow clearer, I was obliged to write my

letter in a rather muddled state of mind. I had _so_ much to say!

sixteen folio pages, I was sure, would only suffice for an introduction

to the case; yet, when the creamy vellum lay before me and the moist

pen drew my fingers toward it, I sat stock dumb for half an hour. I

wrote, finally, in a half-desperate mood, without regard to coherency

or logic. Here's a rough draft of a part of the letter, and a single

passage from it will be enough:

"I can conceive of no simpler way to you than the knowledge of your

name and address. I have drawn airy images of you, but they do not

become incarnate, and I am not sure that I should recognize you in the

brief moment of passing. Your nature is not of those which are

instantly legible. As an abstract power, it has wrought in my life and

it continually moves my heart with desires which are unsatisfactory

because so vague and ignorant. Let me offer you personally, my

gratitude, my earnest friendship, _you_ would laugh if I were to _now_

offer more."