The Bachelor's Ruse: A Victorian Love Game in Seattle
A lonely Seattle bachelor attempts to 'test' his ward’s character through a series of elaborate, scholarly letters, only to find himself the one being studied.
The story, cleaned up
A cleaned-up reading of the newspaper page: spelling and layout repaired, one story lifted off a crowded page. It follows the original closely but it is not a transcription. The original page is below; read it if a detail matters.
A bachelor in this city, aged forty-eight, having once made a vow of bachelorhood, was in a state of profound solitude. My ward, Althea Froth, was a young woman I had taken under my wing. Wishing to test her character, I decided to pose as an elderly, grumpy recluse in my correspondence with her, keeping my true nature hidden. I sent a note to her: 'The only relative you have in the world will soon be an orphan. Come live here, knowing your guardian's kindness and benevolence.' She accepted. For five years, her letters arrived with persistent punctuality. She wrote with elegant penmanship and impeccable spelling. At last, she announced she had finished her education and desired to stay with me. When we finally met, I appeared in disguise—old, slightly grizzled, wearing goggles and an unruly wig. I sat in a spacious arm-chair, groaning in feigned agony. She arrived, not the pale, fragile thing I had imagined, but a sparkling, spirited girl. She promised to make gruel for my gout and read to me from my German and French authors. I was ashamed of my fraudulent self, yet she was charming, singing in a rich, melodious voice and dancing with inimitable style. One evening, I walked into the parlor, divested of my disguise, unable to endure the deception any longer. When she saw me, she feigned shock, asking, 'You desire to see Mr. Bernard? He will be down directly.' I grasped her arms and confessed, 'Florelle, do you not know me?' She burst into tears, crying, 'How could you so cruelly deceive me?' When I begged for forgiveness, she suddenly changed her tone. 'My dear friend, the tables are turned,' she laughed. 'I saw you at Judge Finch’s house. I knew you were a misanthrope and decided to have a bit of fun with you.'
“I had long fancied that my banknotes were developing pale-faced, flaccid-fingered little things who would one day, in a fit of romance, elope with a fictitious hero.”
This 1876 story captures the 'bachelor' social anxiety of early Seattle, mirroring the modern digital-era obsession with catfishing and identity curation. Behind the archaic 'guardian' premise lies a surprisingly modern observation about how we perform versions of ourselves to see how others respond—a game of social deception that hasn't changed much in 150 years.
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