Critical analysis for "the wife of his youth" by charles Chesnutt

- Presented by the National Humanities Center for use in a Professional Development Seminar 

Charles W. Chesnutt

The Wife of His Youth

in The Wife of His Youth, And Other Stories of the Color Line, 1899

with illustrations by Clyde O. De Land. Houghton, Mifflin and Company

originally published in Atlantic Monthly July 1898

I

M R. RYDER was going to give a ball. There were several reasons whyfor such an event. Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the Blue Veins. The original B

society of colored persons organized in a certain Northern city shortly after the

establish and maintain correct social standards among a people whose social c

unlimited room for improvement. By accident, combined perhaps with some n

consisted of individuals who were, generally speaking, more white than black.

made the suggestion that no one was eligible for membership who was not wh

veins. The suggestion was readily adopted by those who were not of the favore

the society, though possessing a longer and more pretentious name, had been k

“Blue Vein Society,” and its members as the “Blue Veins.”

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The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for admiss

the contrary, declared that character and culture were the only things considere

members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had had be

themselves for membership. Opinions differed, too, as to the usefulness of the

who had been known to assail it violently as a glaring example of the very pre

colored race had suffered most; and later, when such critics had succeeded in g

had been heard to maintain with zeal and earnestness that the society was a life

and a shield,a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their peop

wilderness. Another alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership was that o

this was an opportune time

lue Veins were a little

war. Its purpose was to

ondition presented almost

atural affinity, the society

Some envious outsider

ite enough to show blue

d few, and since that time

nown far and wide as the

ion to their circle, but, on

d; and that if most of their

tter opportunities to qualify

society. There were those

judice from which the

etting on the inside, they

-boat, an anchor, a bulwark

le through the social

f free birth; and while there

was really no such requirement, it is doubtless true that very few of the members would have been unable

to meet it if there had been. If there were one or two of the older members who had come up from the

South and from slavery, their history presented enough romantic circumstances to rob their servile origin

of its grosser aspects.

While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is true that the Blue Veins had their notions on these

subjects, and that not all of them were equally liberal in regard to the things they collectively disclaimed.

Mr. Ryder was one of the most conservative. Though he had not been among the founders of the society,

but had come in some years later, his genius for social leadership was such that he had speedily become

its recognized adviser and head, the custodian of its standards, and the preserver of its traditions. He

shaped its social policy, was active in providing for its entertainment, and when the interest fell off, as it

sometimes did, he fanned the embers until they burst again into a cheerful flame.

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There were still other reasons for his popularity. While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins,

his appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them. His features were of a refined type, his hair

was almost straight; he was always neatly dressed; his manners were irreproachable, and his morals above

suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the office of a railroad

company as messenger had in time worked himself up to the position of stationery clerk, having charge of

the distribution of the office supplies for the whole company. Although the lack of early training had

hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not prevented him from doing a great

deal of reading or from forming decidedly literary tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could repeat whole

pages of the great English poets; and if his pronunciation was sometimes faulty, his eye, his voice, his

gestures, would respond to the changing sentiment with a precision that revealed a poetic soul and disarm

criticism. He was economical, and had saved money; he owned and occupied a very comfortable house on

a respectable street. His residence was handsomely furnished, containing among other things a good

library, especially rich in poetry, a piano, and some choice engravings. He generally shared his house with

some young couple, who looked after his wants and were company for him; for Mr. Ryder was a single

man. In the early days of his connection with the Blue Veins he had been regarded as quite a catch, and

young ladies and their mothers had manœuvred with much ingenuity to capture him. Not, however, until

Mrs. Molly Dixon visited Groveland had any woman ever made him wish to change his condition to that

of a married man.

Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from Washington in the spring, and before the summer was over

she had won Mr. Ryder’s heart. She possessed many attractive qualities. She was much younger than he;

in fact, he was old enough to have been her father, though no one knew exactly how old he was. She was

whiter than he, and better educated. She had moved in the best colored society of the country, at

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Washington, and had taught in the schools of that city. Such a superior person had been eagerly welcomed

to the Blue Vein Society, and had taken a leading part in its activities. Mr. Ryder had at first been

attracted by her charms of person, for she was very good looking and not over twenty-five; then by her

refined manners and the vivacity of her wit. Her husband had been a government clerk, and at his death

had left a considerable life insurance. She was visiting friends in Groveland, and, finding the town and the

people to her liking, had prolonged her stay indefinitely. She had not seemed displeased at Mr. Ryder’s

attentions, but on the contrary had given him every proper encouragement; indeed, a younger and less

cautious man would long since have spoken. But he had made up his mind, and had only to determine the

time when he would ask her to be his wife. He decided to give a ball in her honor, and at some time

during the evening of the ball to offer her his heart and hand. He had no special fears about the outcome,

but, with a little touch of romance, he wanted the surroundings to be in harmony with his own feelings

when he should have received the answer he expected.

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Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should mark an epoch in the social history of Groveland. He knew,

of course,no one could know better,the entertainments that had taken place in past years, and what

must be done to surpass them. His ball must be worthy of the lady in whose honor it was to be given, and

must, by the quality of its guests, set an example for the future. He had observed of late a growing

liberality, almost a laxity, in social matters, even among members of his own set, and had several times

been forced to meet in a social way persons whose complexions and callings in life were hardly up to the

standard which he considered proper for the society to maintain. He had a theory of his own.

“I have no race prejudice,” he would say, “but we people of mixed blood are ground between the

upper and the nether millstone. Our fate lies between absorption by the white race and extinction in the

black. The one doesn’t want us yet, but may take us in time. The other would welcome us, but it would be

for us a backward step. ‘With malice towards none, with charity for all,’ we must do the best we can for

ourselves and those who are to follow us. Self-preservation is the first law of nature.”

His ball would serve by its exclusiveness to counteract leveling tendencies, and his marriage with

Mrs. Dixon would help to further the upward process of absorption he had been wishing and waiting for.

II

T he ball was to take place on Friday night. The house had been put in order, the carpets covered with canvas, the halls and stairs decorated with palms and potted plants; and in the afternoon Mr. Ryder sat on his front porch, which the shade of a vine running up over a wire netting made a cool and pleasant

lounging place. He expected to respond to the toast “The Ladies” at the supper, and from a volume of

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Tennysonhis favorite poetwas fortifying himself with apt quotations. The volume was open at “A

Dream of Fair Women.” His eyes fell on these lines, and he read them aloud to judge better of their

effect:

“At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there; 90

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A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.” He marked the verse, and turning the page read the stanza beginning,

“O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret.” He weighed the passage a moment, and decided that it would not do. Mrs. Dixon was the palest lady he

expected at the ball, and she was of a rather ruddy complexion, and of lively disposition and buxom build.

So he ran over the leaves until his eye rested on the description of Queen Guinevere:

“She seem’d a part of joyous Spring: A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. . . . . . .

“She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.” As Mr. Ryder murmured these words audibly, with an appreciative thrill, he heard the latch of his gate

click, and a light footfall sounding on the steps. He turned his head, and saw a woman standing before his

door.

She was a little woman, not five feet tall, and proportioned to her height. Although she stood erect,

and looked around her with very bright and restless eyes, she seemed quite old; for her face was crossed

and recrossed with a hundred wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet could be seen protruding here

and there a tuft of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened

around her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely ornamented with

faded red and yellow artificial flowers. And she was very black,so black that her toothless gums,

revealed when she opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She looked like a bit of the old

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plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a magician’s wand, as the poet’s fancy had

called into being the gracious shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been reading.

He rose from his chair and came over to where she stood.

“Good-afternoon, madam,” he said.

“Good-evenin’, suh,” she answered, ducking suddenly with a quaint curtsy. Her voice was shrill and

piping, but softened somewhat by age. “Is dis yere whar Mistuh Ryduh lib, suh?” she asked, looking

around her doubtfully, and glancing into the open windows, through which some of the preparations for

the evening were visible.

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“Yes,” he replied, with an air of kindly patronage, unconsciously flattered by her manner, “I am Mr.

Ryder. Did you want to see me?”

“Yas, suh, ef I ain’t ‘sturbin’ of you too much.”

“Not at all. Have a seat over here behind the vine, where it is cool. What can I do for you?”

“‘Scuse me, suh,” she continued, when she had sat down on the edge of a chair, “‘scuse me, suh, I’s

lookin’ for my husban’. I heerd you wuz a big man an’ had libbed heah a long time, an’ I ‘lowed you

wouldn’t min’ ef I’d come roun’ an’ ax you ef you’d eber heerd of a merlatter man by de name er Sam

Taylor ‘quirin’ roun’ in de chu’ches ermongs’ de people fer his wife ‘Liza Jane?”

Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a moment.

“There used to be many such cases right after the war,” he said, “but it has been so long that I have

forgotten them. There are very few now. But tell me your story, and it may refresh my memory.”

She sat back farther in her chair so as to be more comfortable, and folded her withered hands in her

lap.

“My name’s ‘Liza,” she began, “‘Liza Jane. W’en I wuz young I us’ter b’long ter Marse Bob Smif,

down in ole Missoura. I wuz bawn down dere. W’en I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man named Jim. But

Jim died, an’ after dat I married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor. Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy

and daddy died, an’ de w’ite folks ‘prenticed him ter my marster fer ter work fer ‘im ‘tel he wuz growed

up. Sam worked in de fiel’, an’ I wuz de cook. One day Ma’y Ann, ole miss’s maid, came rushin’ out ter

de kitchen, an’ says she, ‘‘Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo’ Sam down de ribber.’

“‘Go way f’m yere,’ says I; ‘my husban’’s free!’

“‘Don’ make no diff’ence. I heerd ole marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine take yo’ Sam ‘way wid ‘im

ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an’ he knowed whar he could git a t’ousan’ dollars fer Sam an’ no

questions axed.’

“W’en Sam come home f’m de fiel’ dat night, I tole him ‘bout ole marse gwine steal ‘im, an’ Sam run

erway. His time wuz mos’ up, an’ he swo’ dat w’en he wuz twenty-one he would come back an’ he’p me

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run erway, er else save up de money ter buy my freedom. An’ I know he’d ‘a’ done it, fer he thought a

heap er me, Sam did. But w’en he come back he didn’ fin’ me, fer I wuzn’ dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I

warned Sam, so he had me whip’ an’ sol’ down de ribber.

“Den de wah broke out, an’ w’en it wuz ober de cullud folks wuz scattered. I went back ter de ole

home; but Sam wuzn’ dere, an’ I couldn’ l’arn nuffin’ ‘bout ‘im. But I knowed he’d be’n dere to look fer

me an’ hadn’ foun’ me, an’ had gone erway ter hunt fer me.

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“I’s be’n lookin’ fer ‘im eber sence,” she added simply, as though twenty-five years were but a couple

of weeks, “an’ I knows he’s be’n lookin’ fer me. Fer he sot a heap er sto’ by me, Sam did, an’ I know he’s

be’n huntin’ fer me all dese years,‘less’n he’s be’n sick er sump’n, so he couldn’ work, er out’n his

head, so he couldn’ ‘member his promise. I went back down de ribber, fer I ‘lowed he’d gone down dere

lookin’ fer me. I’s be’n ter Noo Orleens, an’ Atlanty, an’ Charleston, an’ Richmon’; an’ w’en I’d be’n all

ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I knows I’ll fin’ ‘im some er dese days,” she added softly, “er he’ll

fin’ me, an’ den we’ll bofe be as happy in freedom as we wuz in de ole days befo’ de wah.” A smile stole

over her withered countenance as she paused a moment, and her bright eyes softened into a far-away look.

This was the substance of the old woman’s story. She had wandered a little here and there. Mr. Ryder

was looking at her curiously when she finished.

“How have you lived all these years?” he asked.

“Cookin’, suh. I’s a good cook. Does you know anybody w’at needs a good cook, suh? I’s stoppin’

wid a cullud fam’ly roun’ de corner yonder ‘tel I kin git a place.”

“Do you really expect to find your husband? He may be dead long ago.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Oh no, he ain’ dead. De signs an’ de tokens tells me. I dremp three

nights runnin’ on’y dis las’ week dat I foun’ him.”

“He may have married another woman. Your slave marriage would not have prevented him, for you

never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage doesn’t count.”

“Wouldn’ make no diff’ence wid Sam. He wouldn’ marry no yuther ‘ooman ‘tel he foun’ out ‘bout

me. I knows it,” she added.

“Sump’n’s be’n tellin’ me all dese years dat I’s gwine fin’ Sam ‘fo’ I dies.”

“Perhaps he’s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he wouldn’t care to have you find

him.”

“No, indeed, suh,” she replied, “Sam ain’ dat kin’ er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he

wuzn’ much good ter nobody e’se, fer he wuz one er de triflin’es’ han’s on de plantation. I ‘spec’s ter haf

ter suppo’t ‘im w’en I fin’ ‘im, fer he nebber would work ‘less’n he had ter. But den he wuz free, an’ he

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didn’ git no pay fer his work, an’ I don’ blame ‘im much. Mebbe he’s done better sence he run erway, but

I ain’ ‘spectin’ much.” 190

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“You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the twenty-five years, and not have

known him; time works great changes.”

She smiled incredulously. “I’d know ‘im ‘mongs’ a hund’ed men. Fer dey wuzn’ no yuther merlatter

man like my man Sam, an’ I couldn’ be mistook. I’s toted his picture roun’ wid me twenty-five years.”

“May I see it?” asked Mr. Ryder. “It might help me to remember whether I have seen the original.”

As she drew a small parcel from her bosom; he saw that it was fastened to a string that went around

her neck. Removing several wrappers, she brought to light an old-fashioned daguerreotype in a black

case. He looked long and intently at the portrait. It was faded with time, but the features were still distinct,

and it was easy to see what manner of man it had represented.

He closed the case, and with a slow movement handed it back to her.

“I don’t know of any man in town who goes by that name,” he said, “nor have I heard of any one

making such inquiries. But if you will leave me your address, I will give the matter some attention, and if

I find out anything I will let you know.”

She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away, after thanking him warmly.

He wrote the address on the fly-leaf of the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone, rose to his

feet and stood looking after her curiously. As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw

several persons whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly amusement. When she

had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his

dressing-case, gazing thoughtfully at the reflection of his own face.

III

A t eight o’clock the ballroom was a blaze of light and the guests had begun to assemble; for there was a literary programme and some routine business of the society to be gone through with before the dancing. A black servant in evening dress waited at the door and directed the guests to the dressing-

rooms.

The occasion was long memorable among the colored people of the city; not alone for the dress and

display, but for the high average of intelligence and culture that distinguished the gathering as a whole.

There were a number of school-teachers, several young doctors, three or four lawyers, some professional

singers, an editor, a lieutenant in the United States army spending his furlough in the city, and others in

various polite callings; these were colored, though most of them would not have attracted even a casual

glance because of any marked difference from white people. Most of the ladies were in evening costume,

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and dress coats and dancing pumps were the rule among the men. A band of string music, stationed in an

alcove behind a row of palms, played popular airs while the guests were gathering.

The dancing began at half past nine. At eleven o’clock supper was served. Mr. Ryder had left the

ballroom some little time before the intermission, but reappeared at the supper-table. The spread was

worthy of the occasion, and the guests did full justice to it. When the coffee had been served, the toast-

master, Mr. Solomon Sadler, rapped for order. He made a brief introductory speech, complimenting host

and guests, and then presented in their order the toasts of the evening. They were responded to with a very

fair display of after-dinner wit.

“The last toast,” said the toast-master, when he reached the end of the list, “is one which must appeal

to us all. There is no one of us of the sterner sex who is not at some time dependent upon woman,in

infancy for protection, in manhood for companionship, in old age for care and comforting. Our good host

has been trying to live alone, but the fair faces I see around me to-night prove that he too is largely

dependent upon the gentler sex for most that makes life worth living,the society and love of friends,

and rumor is at fault if he does not soon yield entire subjection to one of them. Mr. Ryder will now

respond to the toast,The Ladies.”

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There was a pensive look in Mr. Ryder’s eyes as he took the floor and adjusted his eyeglasses. He

began by speaking of woman as the gift of Heaven to man, and after some general observations on the

relations of the sexes he said: “But perhaps the quality which most distinguishes woman is her fidelity and

devotion to those she loves. History is full of examples, but has recorded none more striking than one

which only to-day came under my notice.”

He then related, simply but effectively, the story told by his visitor of the afternoon. He gave it in the

same soft dialect, which came readily to his lips, while the company listened attentively and

sympathetically. For the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts. There were some present

who had seen, and others who had heard their fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of

this past generation, and all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the shadow hanging over them. Mr.

Ryder went on:

“Such devotion and confidence are rare even among women. There are many who would have

searched a year, some who would have waited five years, a few who might have hoped ten years; but for

twenty-five years this woman has retained her affection for and her faith in a man she has not seen or

heard of in all that time.

“She came to me to-day in the hope that I might be able to help her find this long-lost husband. And

when she was gone I gave my fancy rein, and imagined a case I will put to you.

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“Suppose that this husband, soon after his escape, had learned that his wife had been sold away, and

that such inquiries as he could make brought no information of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was

young, and she much older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that their marriage was a slave

marriage, and legally binding only if they chose to make it so after the war. Suppose, too, that he made his

way to the North, as some of us have done, and there, where he had larger opportunities, had improved

them, and had in the course of all these years grown to be as different from the ignorant boy who ran

away from fear of slavery as the day is from the night. Suppose, even, that he had qualified himself, by

industry, by thrift, and by study, to win the friendship and be considered worthy [of] the society of such

people as these I see around me to-night, gracing my board and filling my heart with gladness; for I am

old enough to remember the day when such a gathering would not have been possible in this land.

Suppose, too, that, as the years went by, this man’s memory of the past grew more and more indistinct,

until at last it was rarely, except in his dreams, that any image of this bygone period rose before his mind.

And then suppose that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the wife of his youth, the wife

he had left behind him,not one who had walked by his side and kept pace with him in his upward

struggle, but one upon whom advancing years and a laborious life had set their mark,was alive and

seeking him, but that he was absolutely safe from recognition or discovery, unless he chose to reveal

himself. My friends, what would the man do? I will presume that he was one who loved honor, and tried

to deal justly with all men. I will even carry the case further, and suppose that perhaps he had set his heart

upon another, whom he had hoped to call his own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do, in

such a crisis of a lifetime?

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“It seemed to me that he might hesitate, and I imagined that I was an old friend, a near friend, and that

he had come to me for advice; and I argued the case with him. I tried to discuss it impartially. After we

had looked upon the matter from every point of view, I said to him, in words that we all know:

‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.’ Then, finally, I put the question to him, ‘Shall you acknowledge her?’

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends and companions, I ask you, what should he have done?”

There was something in Mr. Ryder’s voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It

suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a

personal appeal. It was observed, too, that his look rested more especially upon Mrs. Dixon, with a

mingled expression of renunciation and inquiry.

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She had listened, with parted lips and streaming

eyes. She was the first to speak: “He should have

acknowledged her.” 290

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“Yes,” they all echoed, “he should have

acknowledged her.”

“My friends and companions,” responded Mr.

Ryder, “I thank you, one and all. It is the answer I

expected, for I knew your hearts.”

He turned and walked toward the closed door of

an adjoining room, while every eye followed him in

wondering curiosity. He came back in a moment,

leading by the hand his visitor of the afternoon, who

stood startled and trembling at the sudden plunge

into this scene of brilliant gayety. She was neatly

dressed in gray, and wore the white cap of an elderly

woman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the

woman, and I am the man, whose story I have told

you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my

youth.”

frontispiece

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