I have just returned from a very curious and interesting visit. I have
been to stay with an old school friend of my own, a retired Major; he
has a small place of his own in the country, and has lately married a
very young and pretty wife. I met him by chance in my club in London,
looking more grey and dim than a man who has just married a lovely and
charming girl ought to look. He asked me rather pressingly to come and
stay with him; and though I do not like country-house visits, for the
sake of the old days I went.
Well, it was a very interesting visit; I was warmly welcomed. The young
wife, who I must say is the daughter of a penniless country clergyman
with a large family, was radiant; the Major was quietly and
undemonstratively pleased to see me; the veil of the years fell off,
and I found myself back on the old easy terms with him, as when we were
schoolboys together thirty years ago. He is a very simple and
transparent creature, and I read him as if he were a book. He indulged
in almost extravagant panegyrics of his wife and descriptions of his
own happiness. But I very soon made a discovery: his charming wife is,
not to put too fine a point upon it, a fool. She is perfectly harmless,
good-natured, and virtuous. But she is a very silly and a very
conventional girl She is full of delight at her promotion; but she is
entirely brainless, and not even very affectionate. She as wholly
preoccupied about her new possessions, and the place she is going to
take in the county; she cares for her husband, because he represents
her social success, and because he is a creditable and presentable man.
But she has no grain of sympathy, perception, humour, or emotion. I
began by thinking it was rather a tragedy; my old friend had married
for love; he is anything but a fool himself, except for this one
serious error, the falling in love with a girl who can give him none of
the things he desires. He is a very serious, simple, intelligent, and
tenderhearted fellow, with all sorts of odd ideas of his own, which he
produces with an admirable humility. He likes books; he reads poetry--I
even suspect him of writing it. He is interested in social problems,
and has a dozen kindly enterprises--a club, a carving class, a natural
history society, and so forth--for the benefit of the village where he
lives. He would have been an ideal country clergyman; he is an
excellent man of business, and does a good deal of county work. He is
fond of sport, too--in fact, one of those grave, affectionate, solid
men who are to be found living quietly in every part of England--a
characteristic Englishman, indeed. But the strain of romance in his
nature has for once led him wrong, and the mistake seemed irreparable.
I was at first inclined to regard him with deep compassion. He is the
soul of chivalry, and it struck me as deeply pathetic to see him
smiling indulgently, but with a sad and bewildered air, at the terrible
snobbishness, to be candid, which his lively wife's conversation
revealed. She was for ever talking about "the right people," and the
only subject which seemed to arouse her enthusiasm was the fact that
she had been received on equal terms by some of the wives of
neighbouring squires. The Major tried to give a pleasant turn to the
conversation, and when he was alone with me, after praising the
practical good sense of his wife, added, "Of course she hasn't quite
settled down yet! She has lived rather a poky life, and the change has
upset her a little." That was the nearest that the good fellow could
get to an apology, and it touched me a good deal. I did my part, and
praised my hostess's charm and beauty, and expressed gratitude for the
warmth of my welcome.
But now that I have had time to reflect on the situation, I am not at
all sure that the Major is not to be congratulated after all. He has
got before him a perfectly definite occupation, and one which he will
fulfil with all the generosity of his nature. He was a lonely man
before his marriage, and, like all lonely men, was becoming somewhat
self-absorbed. Now his work is cut out for him. He has got to make the
best of a tiresome and unsympathetic wife. I will venture to say that
if the Major lives to be eighty, his wife will never suspect that he
does not adore and admire her. He will never say a harsh or unkind or
critical thing to her. He may induce her, perhaps, by gentle precepts,
to moderate her complacency; and perhaps, too, they will have children,
and some kind affection may awake in his shallow little partner's
heart. The Major will make a perfect father, and he will find in his
children, if only they inherit something of his own wise and tender
nature, a deep and lasting joy. I think that if he had married an
adoring and sympathetic wife, he might almost have grown
exacting--perhaps even selfish, because he is the sort of man that
requires to have the best part of him evoked. He is unambitious and in
a way indolent; and if everything had been done for him--his wishes
anticipated, sympathy lavished upon him--he would have had no region in
which to exercise that self-restraint which is now a necessity of the
case. We are very liable to try and arrange the lives of others for
them, and to think we could have done better for them than Providence;
and since I have pondered over the situation, I am inclined to be
ashamed of myself for feeling the regret which I began by feeling. If
there was any weakness in my friend's mind, if I thought that he would
grow irritable, harsh, impatient with his silly wife, it would be
different. But he will have to stand between her and the world; she
will shock and distress all his finer feelings and instincts of
propriety. They will go and pay visits, and he will have to hear her
saying all sorts of trivial and vulgar things. He will make himself
into a kind guardian and interpreter and champion for this foolish
young woman. She will try his patience, his endurance, his chivalry to
the uttermost; and he will never fail her for an instant--he will never
even confess to himself in the loneliness of his own heart that there
is anything amiss. The severest criticism he will ever pass upon her
will be a half-hearted wish that she should exhibit the best side of
herself more consistently. And so I come at last to think that there
are many worse things in the world for a strong man than to be the
bulwark and fortress of a thoroughly inferior nature. He feels the
strain at first, because it is all so different from what he expected
and hoped. But he will soon grow used to that. And, after all, his wife
is both lovely and healthy; she will always be delightful to look at.
Indeed, if he can teach, her to hold her tongue, to listen instead of
rattling away, to smile with those pretty eyes of hers as if she
understood, to ask the simplest questions about other people's tastes
and preferences, instead of describing her own garden and poultry-yard,
she might pass for a delightful and even enchanting woman. But I fear
that neither he nor she are quite clever enough for that. I do not
personally envy my old friend; if I were in his position, the situation
would bring out the very worst side of my nature. But because I realise
how much better a fellow he is than myself, I believe that he has every
prospect of being a decidedly happy man.