The congressman's wife, a story of American politics

by John D. Barry

Occasionally during the afternoon Briggs would feel a disgust for work and would go with Guy to the ball-game. Briggs enjoyed a game of baseball for its own sake and because it renewed his old boyish enthusiasm. At college he had been a catcher on his nine and he had never lost his interest in the game. The crowd, too, entertained him with its good nature, its amusing remarks to the players, and with its fitful bursts of rage and scorn against the umpire. Briggs used to say to Guy that he believed American men were never so happy as when they were watching a ball-game. “Look at all those fellows,” he would remark on the days of the big games. “See how contented they are. And what a harmless pleasure it is, too!” Then, afraid of boring the boy with his philosophy, Briggs would check himself and devote his attention to the game. Meanwhile, however, he continued his reflections. Most of these men were undoubtedly family men; many of them had sent their families for the hot season away to the country or the seashore. He wondered how many of them were really happy. Did they miss their wives and their children as he missed his? Some of them were, of course, glad to be free and Briggs realized the commonplace thought with astonishment. There were some men who did not care for family-life, who were unfitted for it. It had become impossible for him to think of any other kind of life as endurable. Well, it was good that they could all, the happy and unhappy, come to a game of baseball and forget there was such a thing as care in the world.

While he was alone at night, Briggs suffered most. At times he would work late in order to exhaust himself; then his brain would become so excited that he could not sleep for hours. Sometimes he rose and tried to read; and occasionally, he would fall asleep in the chair. In his dreams he would wander about the new house, breaking his heart over the sight of places and things associated with his wife. He often said to himself that he felt as if he had lost part of himself; he recalled the remarks he had made to Helen on the night of that wretched party, that he felt as if he had always been married. He wondered what men had to live for who did not have wife and children to think of, to give them incentive for their work. He had always been an optimist and he had felt a curious surprise when he heard people express a dissatisfaction with life. Even his trials and his disappointments had brought with them something stimulating. But now he often sank into despair.

Guy Fullerton was consoled in his confinement in Washington by the sense of his importance to his employer and by the letters that he received from Fanny Wallace. Though an irregular letter-writer, Fanny was voluminous, and she kept Guy amused with her comments on the people that she met and the things that she did. Occasionally one of her letters would contain a reference that would throw Guy into temporary depression. Douglas Briggs generally knew when this disaster had occurred, and used to exert himself to rouse the boy, generally with success. At these times Guy would give expression to a philosophy regarding woman so pessimistic and cynical that Briggs with difficulty kept from laughing. In spite of his own troubles, Briggs congratulated himself that he retained his sense of humor. Once he said to Guy, as they were drinking at the club: “My dear boy, you mustn’t take life so seriously.”

“Well, sir,” Guy replied in a deep breath, “I’m just beginning to find out how serious it is.”

“It’s all right to realize how serious it is,” Briggs went on, “but that’s different from taking it seriously. Don’t let things bother you too much, that’s what I mean—little things. Just be sure that everything is coming out all right, and don’t mind the details.”

Guy shook his head doggedly. “But the details are mighty important, sometimes, Mr. Briggs.”

In spite of himself, Briggs sighed. It was much easier to offer philosophy to this boy than to practise it oneself. The silence that followed was suddenly broken by Guy’s saying: “Do you believe in early marriages, Mr. Briggs?”

The question was received without a smile. “That depends on a good many considerations,” Briggs replied, slowly. “And it depends chiefly on the woman. Most people would say that it depended on both the man and the woman. But it’s the woman that counts first every time.”

“Well, the man counts for something, doesn’t he?” Guy urged with a faint smile; but Briggs went on as if he had not been interrupted.

“The man counts only in relation to the woman. If the woman is all right, why, there’s no excuse for the man’s not being right.” Briggs tightly closed his lips. “If he isn’t, it shows there’s something radically wrong in him. There is no happiness like the happiness of a youthful marriage founded on love and character; but there is no Hell so awful as the unhappiness that comes when a marriage like that strikes disaster.”