The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, June 1844 / Volume 23, Number 6

by Various

And yet, as I said before, I was not unhappy. If there was no happiness, there was at least no unhappiness, in sitting down for hours, and brooding over my own idiosyncrasies. It made me proud, to see and despise the weakness of others; and it gave me stern joy, to walk about and feel that there was a kind of armed neutrality between them and me. By degrees there arose, also, a gloomy pleasure in dwelling on, and picturing in deeper colors, the failings and baseness of my neighbors. Humble and weak as I knew myself to be, I exulted in my strength, because there were some still more weak and humble. Far back as my recollection ran, there had never been any thing in the world that seemed to me worthy of very much exertion or toil to obtain; but now I first learned to despise others for possessing feeble energies, as well as for directing them to the attainment of little objects. I am afraid, if left to myself, I should have hardened into a genuine hater; but I was not left to myself.

I have mentioned my uncle’s kindness; his whole family were not less kind. My cousin Jane, especially, saw that I was silent, and fancied that I was unhappy, and tried, by a thousand little devices and arts, to lull me into forgetfulness of myself, and entice me into a more sociable frame of mind. I will not say that I was insensible to her enticements; I rather liked her, she was so gentle and mild and considerate. There was an air of truth and simplicity about her; she would sit herself down so cheerfully to amuse me, and there was such a sparkle in her blue eyes when, as she said, I condescended to interest myself in her little affairs, that I began, at length, to love to be with her. But proud as I was, when I viewed mankind at a distance, I no sooner came in contact with any one, who was not immeasurably beneath me, than I felt myself sinking immeasurably beneath him; and so, like a fool as I was, I fancied that all my cousin’s kindness was the result of her sense of duty to her relation; or, what was worse, of pity for his moroseness. This faint suspicion became, in a little while, a strong certainty; and I confined myself more closely to my books, and looked into my cousin’s guileless, enthusiastic face, with coldness.

I had known her now a year, and yet I hardly knew her at all; for I had seen her scarcely ever, except when it was impossible to avoid it, and those occasions were not frequent or long enough to enable me to learn perfectly her mind and character. From every such meeting, I went away resolved to see her no more in future; which resolution was sure to be overruled by second and more bitter thoughts. How I lived during that year, I scarcely know; or how it was that I grew uneasy away from her, and frequently surprised myself courting her society. But as time rolled on, so it was. There was a fascination about her, the magic of which was, that it charmed to sleep my vigilant suspicion. I did not perceive any change in myself, when night after night I was with her, talking to her about poetry, beauty, love, and the thousand themes that interest the unrestrained youthful heart; or that I was different from what I used to be, when I listened to her, with a gush of pleasure, as she spoke at once with lips and eyes, and in speaking, disclosed the unimagined riches of her mind and heart. So gradual was the change, that I was wholly unaware of it.

But of one thing I was aware; the face of nature and of man underwent a strange and sudden change in appearance. I looked into the face of my neighbor, and lo, he was my brother! The fire of benevolence and sympathy warmed every vein, and a new life animated every nerve within me. I felt no longer that I was alone, but that indissoluble cords bound me to the whole human family, to every being in whose nostrils was the breath of life; and that for his good, as well as for my own, it was my business to labor. New motives of action, (or rather motives of action, for there were none before,) were set before me; and I felt light of heart and wing; eager to bound forward and lend the strength of my arm to the cause of the race. The face of nature too was altered. Every part that came within the range of my vision, her seasons, her vestments in winter and summer, her sunshine and clouds, each one was a melody, and all together made harmony. Still, I was scarcely sensible that I was different from what I was a year ago; for at each period I felt that I was in my natural and proper state of mind. So slight are the influences necessary to turn the young heart into the permanent channel of selfishness, hatred and unhappiness, or into that of love and peace!

It was not long before I found out that I loved my cousin Jane. How I first discovered it I do not remember; but I do remember a firm and abiding resolution, even then, that I would not love her. I sat down by her side, I listened to her music, with that distinct impression. I would not for the world have had any body suspect my feelings, because I was ashamed of the weakness. I had persuaded myself, and could not convince myself to the contrary, that there was no hope of her returning my passion. And yet, with the words on my lips, ‘This is folly—I will not!’ I yielded myself to the delicious current, forgot all the world and myself, and in the intoxication of the hour, saw visions and dreamed dreams.

But there came a shock; one which awoke me from a trance like that of the Opium-eater. It was when I saw that my cousin’s smiles and attentions were not all devoted to me. There was another, a young man of promise and expectations, a year or two my senior, and far beyond me in the graces and polish of society, who had lately become intimate in my uncle’s family. Engaged in the same pursuits, and being much with him, I had rather liked him; in fact I liked him very much. He had seen, admired, and in less than six months, loved my Cousin Jane: this I knew, for jealousy is keen-eyed. You will not wonder then that I hated him; not on his own account—alter his feelings toward her, and I should have felt toward him as before; but on account of his love—hated him with a deadly hatred.

It would be useless to tell how often I have sat down and watched them, when my cousin’s sensitive countenance would brighten at his bright thoughts, or burst forth into a merry laugh at his brilliant wit and ready repartee; or how often the iron has entered into my soul when I have seen her hang on his arm, and listen in breathless attention to his lightest word, and testify in a thousand ways her pleasure at his coming, and in his presence. And he, he looked on me with the most immovable indifference. He did not seem to consider me worthy of his attention; even as a rival. He went straight forward, calmly and quietly, as though I had not existed; and if he ever glanced at my pretensions, it was perhaps with a smile of confident success. I knew he loved her; I fancied that she loved him, and I hated them both for it.

I went into my office one day—if it were not part of the dream I would not tell it—in a state of partial insanity. I knew, saw, heard, felt nothing but one unalterable purpose of revenge. There happened to be a small pistol lying in the back room; I took it up, and carefully loaded it; loaded it without the tremor of a single muscle, for my heart was lead. I put it into my pocket, and walked the streets up and down, an hour or two, or it may have been four hours. I did not take count of the time. The heavens reeled above me, and the earth reeled beneath. At last he came. A thrill, the first that day, a thrill of triumph ran through my whole frame. When we met I stopped and took hold of the pistol in my pocket, but had not power to draw my hand out again; the strings of volition seemed broken. He stopped also; looked at me in some surprise; made a remark that I ‘did not appear to be well,’ and passed on. I looked after him, sick at heart with revenge deferred, and cursed my own pusillanimity.

Well, well, we will let that pass. I had yielded my soul to the Author of Hatred for a time; but we will let it pass, and strive to forget it; I have been trying to ever since; I hope I shall succeed better in future. It is pleasant if we can think that the results of our evil passions do not extend beyond ourselves; and to me, it is pleasant to think that I did not break my gentle cousin’s heart, by letting her know that she had nearly driven me mad.

It was a month after this. How the intervening time had been spent, in what thoughts, and hopes, and fears, it would not be profitable to tell, or to recollect. I was sitting one evening by my cousin’s side; it was growing late, and we were alone. I had been heated, as though with wine, and had probably talked incoherently. The conversation turned on that never-failing theme, love. She delighted to hear me speak on that subject; she said I spoke eloquently. If eloquence consists in earnestness, no doubt I did. It began in sportiveness, but before long became deeply serious and interesting.