Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #109 (Jun 1859).
"By Jove!" cried Mr. Frederick Markem, throwing back my chamber-door with such violence that the knob went into the wall about two inches.
I immediately upset my inkstand, for I am a nervous man, and the least noise startles me. I am quick at doing awkward things, and awkward at doing things quickly. I proceeded to gather up the ink, but not with that success and celerity which characterized the spilling.
"Oh, by Jove!" continued Mr. Markem, as he stretched himself out in the arm-chair, "I have seen women—plenty of 'em. Handsome women, too, by the churchful, by the streetful; but never in my life did I ever lay eyes on such a glorious, superb, magnificent, divine, out-and-out ring-tailed snorter, if I may be allowed to use the expression."
I objected. I did not consider " ring-tailed snorter," whatever it might be, was the proper phrase to be used under the circumstances. I didn't know what the circumstances were: it didn't make any difference what they were—there could be no circumstances that would admit of such infelicity of language. No; I objected. Mr. Markem had seriously disturbed me. I was composing a short lyric of eight hundred lines for the Æsthetic Monthly, and I did not wish to have my celestial train of thought discomposed by terrestrial matter. But I snubbed a man who was not to be easily snubbed. He went on in an idiotic and extravagant manner, describing a lady whom he had met some twenty minutes previously on the corner of Broadway and Thirteenth Street. Juno, Hebe, and Eurydice were just nothing at all beside this mortal maiden; and as to the Venus de Medici—I quote Mr. Markem—she knocked her higher than a kite! I myself am not aware of the height which kites are popularly supposed to attain, but I could picture the airy situation of the Venus de Medici. The lady whose eyes had robbed Mr. Markem of what he could the least afford to part with, had, it seems, rendered his destruction perfect by sporting a red-and-black balmoral skirt, which was conveniently short enough to make a modest display of the prettiest feet and ankles in the world.
"Sir," said Mr. Markem, "you should have seen those feet."
Then Mr. Markem launched into a dissertation on pedal extremities, in which the Chinese women were literally taken off of their feet, or rather, their feet were taken off of them and placed on the faultless ankles of Perfection.
I was vastly relieved when Mr. Markem at length retired to his own room to drown his restless soul, as he intimated, in the intoxicating bowl. The inebriating vessel so tragically alluded to was the bowl of his meerschaum pipe. In a few minutes such volumes of smoke came pouring through the key-hole of the door which separated our apartments that I rushed frantically into his chamber with the vague apprehension of finding him a mass of fire and cinder, bearing no distant resemblance to a half-consumed balmoral.
"Pleasant, this!" said Mr. Markem, emitting from his mouth a cloud of smoke that would have done infinite credit to Mount Vesuvius. "It eases a fellow's soul so!"
I am an impressible man—nervous men always are; and although Mr. Markem's description of the fair one with the golden locks was entirely too absurd for a moment's thought, I lay wide awake half the night thinking about it. And then I sunk into a troubled sleep, only to dream that I and the lady with the balmoral were being smoked in an immense meerschaum pipe by a gigantic Mr. Markem. To disport with such trifles will the most vigorous minds sometimes condescend!
The next day, in spite of myself, I thought of Mr. Markem's adventure—if it is an adventure to meet a pretty woman and be an idiot ever after. In fact, I did nothing but think of her and the tortuous dream of the previous night. The hot aromatic meerschaum, the lady with the balmoral, and the brobdignagic Mr. Markem, flitted through my vision all day; and in the evening, when I went to see Clementina—we had been engaged two weeks—I was meditative and unhappy. I felt that I was wronging Clementina.
Two days after this Mr. Markem again rushed into my room. He had seen her—had ridden in the same stage with her—her dress had brushed against him—her dress! Eastern perfumes had saluted his nostrils—the perfumes she used! He had touched her exquisite finger-tips in passing the change; and language was as milk-and-water to express his emotions! The Venus de Medici was again placed in an elevated position; and several uncomplimentary remarks made relative to Mesdames Juno, Hebe, and Eurydice.
"By Jove, Sir," said Mr. Markem, "see what I have done!" And he jerked his watch out so violently that I expected to see the brass brains of that domestic animal scattered over the floor. "By Jove, Sir! when she passed me her fare, two three-cent pieces, what did I do with 'em but drop 'em into my vest pocket, and hand the whip two gold dollars instead, by Jove! Look at 'em!" And Mr. Markem opened the watch-case and spilled the two bits of silver into the palm of his hand. Mere money—mere gold dollars, piled up as high as the top of Trinity steeple—could not buy those sacred souvenirs. No, Sir! He would have 'em put on a silk cord, and his children, in future generations, should wear 'em around their necks, and cut their teeth on 'em, by Jove! Part with them! Would I accept his heart's blood as a slight testimonial of his affectionate regards? With this friendly offer Mr. Markem shut up the three-cent pieces in his watch, and restored it to his pocket.
"When the lady got out," said I, hesitatingly, "did you follow her?"
"Follow her? No, Sir! Could I imagine for an instant that so ineffable a creature resided any where? She's an inhabitant of the air—a denizen of the milky-way! Follow her? I was entranced—petrified—knocked higher than a kite!"
I could not help asking Mr. Markem if he met the Venus de Medici coming down on his way up? But this show of pleasantry on my part was the merest counterfeit of jocularity. The second meeting, and Mr. Markem's consequent enthusiasm, worked like madness in my brain. I went to bed to lie awake for hours; and on falling to sleep I dreamed that I was crushed to death by an avalanche of three-cent pieces which slid from the roof of a palatial mansion in Fifth Avenue. Then I was cast, heels over head, on an uninhabited island in the tropics, where the bananas and cocoa-nuts were stuffed with the same scarce metal; and, being on the verge of starvation, I devoured a large quantity, and was about to die of indigestion when the breakfast-bell rescued me from that unpleasant alternative. I was miserable and feverish, and a cup of strong coffee at breakfast only made me more feverish and miserable. I felt that I was doing Clementina an egregious wrong by continuing our present relations; she had ceased to hold that place in my heart which only Mrs. Cobb elect should occupy, and I had ceased to give her that constant adoration which only Mrs. Cobb elect should receive. I determined to see her once more, and break the painful intelligence to her as gently as possible. I dreaded the interview, for, as I have said, I am a nervous man, and I hate scenes. But it was an imperative duty. Still, I delayed the heart-rending moment; and every evening found me sitting with Clementina, who was all modesty and fondness, and gave me such intoxicating little kisses in the library that, at times, I was not quite so certain that I did not love her. Indeed I did, tenderly, while I was with her; but when I returned to my room, and was no longer in the mysterious atmosphere which always surrounds a lovely woman, I felt that we could never be happy together. Clementina, I argued, is not so very superior to fifty other ladies of my acquaintance. It is true she has beautiful hair, fine eyes and teeth, a stylish figure, and a voice like Cordelia's,
—'ever soft,
Gentle, and low: an excellent thing in woman!"
She is bright, too, and can shoot off a repartee that snaps like an enthusiastic fire-cracker. But then these qualities are not peculiar to Clementina. There is the sarcastic Miss Badinage, and the fascinating Miss Bonbon. To be honest, I was trying to convince myself that I wasn't a knave. But I was.
In the mean time Mr. Markem had twice seen the ineffable creature of the milky-way—once on the street, and once taking lunch at Thompson's. I do not dare to remember how wretched I was. I gave my best razors to our old book-keeper at the office, and never ventured to trust myself within two blocks of the North River. I was irrevocably in love with Mr. Markem's sweet stranger; and Clementina, who had promised to say the life-long words with me—unhappy girl! I pitied her.
I nerved myself for a final interview with my victim. One afternoon, in calm despair, I dressed myself for that purpose. I had brushed my hat for the four hundred and seventh time, growing calmer and more despairing at each stroke, when Mr. Markem sailed into my room. I am aware that "sailed" is not a happy expression, but no other word will describe the easy, swan-like grace with which Mr. Markem entered my apartment. He was gotten up without any regard to expense. Lord Dundreary was never so nobbily ganté. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like Mr. Markem. He was going to air his magnificence on Broadway, with the hope of meeting the ineffable.
"Cobb," said Mr. Markem, familiarly, "behold!—'the glass of fashion and the mould of form.' By Jove! if this sort of thing doesn't take her!"
"By-the-by, Markem, I am going down Broadway. I'll walk a block or so with you."
Mr. Markem hesitated.
"By Jove! now, I don't know about that. I'm a trifle tender on this subject—tender for you also. If you should see her and become unhappy, it would be no use for you to—to—"
And Mr. Markem picked out the ends of his cherry-colored neck-ribbon.
"Oh! of course not," said I.
"Then, by Jove! I'll trust you. But, honor bright, Cobb! honor bright!"
We sauntered out of Clinton Place into Broadway. I was very ill at ease, not only from the fact of walking with so gorgeous a person, but at the thought of meeting that woman, the mere description of whose exceeding loveliness had filled my brain with visions like so much hasheesh. I was, moreover, somewhat ashamed of myself for having taken advantage of Mr. Markem's confiding nature; and could not wring the smallest drop of consolation from the accepted assertion that all is fair in war and love.
It was rather too early in the afternoon, as Mr. Markem poetically remarked, for the flowers of beauty to blossom in the garden of fashion; so we dropped into Delmonico's, to flirt with a thimbleful of Madeira and eat an omelette soufflée, which, to my idea, is nothing but a heavenly kind of soap-suds.
When we again sallied forth the fashionable side of Broadway was a perfect parterre of human lilies and roses. We walked slowly up town, looking earnestly among the throng of dashing belles, sickly fops, and other inferior people, for that divine perfection of a woman, who had unconsciously made me the most miserable of men.
We had reached Bleecker Street. An omnibus on the crossing and an apple-stand on the corner hemmed us in. Mr. Markem suddenly grasped my arm.
"There! there she is!" he whispered.
"Where?"
"There!"
"Oh," said I, with bitter disappointment, "that is only Miss Bonbon!"
"No, no—not she, but the one behind her on the crossing—the lady with the balmoral!"
"Why, you villain!" I shrieked, "that's my Clementina!" At the same time I gracefully upset the apple-stand.
Mr. Frederick Markem drew his hat over his eyes and rushed down Bleecker Street. That evening he and his Coblentz pipes, his French lithographs, and his imitation Etruscan vases disappeared abruptly in a hackney-coach, in search of a new boarding-place.
Clementina—now the blossoming Mrs. Cobb—leans over my shoulder, and protests against my publishing all this nonsense about "that odious Mr. Markem;" but I have promised the article for the present number of Harper's Monthly Magazine, and it must be printed, in spite of the Lady with the Balmoral.