THE QUESTION OF MARRIAGE.
"The sea is cruel, its white waves hide me,
Lo I am weary and scant of breath,
Thou to a haven of safety guide me,
Stretch out thy hand, lest I swoon to death.
"Thou art my God in this hour of peril,
Yet in thy sight, I am lost and vile,
All thy love, as the sea is sterile,
I sink, I perish, beneath thy smile."
There are always two sides to a question, especially to the question
of marriage.
One side is invariably taken by the husband, the other by the wife.
Both claim their side to be right, and, as this is an impossibility,
one side must be wrong.
Which?
It is a difficult question to settle, more difficult than the judgment
of Solomon, more difficult than the judgment of Paris, and though the
world, represented by the Law, generally plays the part of arbitrator
in conjugal disputes, in this case it was referred to neither by the
husband nor the wife.
Under these circumstances it will be as well to argue both sides
fairly, and pronounce a verdict in favour of the strongest.
A case for the opinion of Society, unrepresented by any legal
tribunal, the parties concerned conducting their own cases personally.
On the part of the wife--
"When I married Guy Errington, I had no belief whatsoever in the
masculine sex, such scepticism being due to my knowledge of the
character of my father, Gabriel Mostyn. Before his illness I lived in
almost conventual seclusion, and from the reading of books formed an
ideal world, which I have since found to be as unreal as the fantastic
visions of Oriental dreamers.
"My world was based upon a delusive belief in the chivalry of men and
the purity of women, and resembled in its visionary loveliness the
Garden of Eden, before Eve tempted Adam with the fatal fruit. In this
unreal world men were always young, handsome and true-hearted, while
the women were beautiful in their forms and faces, pure in their
lives. I dreamed that some day I, an inhabitant of this beautiful
universe, would meet with a lover who would dedicate his life to mine,
and we would go through life side by side in love and purity, until we
exchanged this heaven upon earth for one even fairer.
"Alas! these were but the virginal dreams of a girl, unsullied by
contact with the world, and my ideal life was shattered by the vile
cynicism of my father, who took a delight in destroying all my
illusions, and in dragging me down from the light of fancy to the
darkness of reality.
"So evil had been his life, that no one would stay by him in his hour
of need, and I, a young girl, unsophisticated and innocent, was forced
to remain beside his bed. To him I dedicated my youth, my innocence,
my womanly feeling, my filial tenderness, and received as a reward a
brutal unveiling of the most horrible things on earth. When I went to
his bedside at the beginning of those four bitter years I was an
innocent girl, when I turned away, leaving him stiff and stark in his
coffin, I was, in knowledge, an accomplished woman of the world. I
believed in no one. I doubted the motives of all. I looked upon my
fellow-creatures as birds of prey who would turn and rend me were I
not dexterous enough to foil them with their own weapons. Is it then
to be wondered at that I dreaded marriage with a man who would
doubtless be as evil in his thoughts and deeds as was my father?
"Had I been in receipt of a sufficient income to keep me from
starving, had I been able to earn my own living, I would never have
married; but under the grudging hospitality of my relatives, and the
iron grip of poverty, the strongest resolution must give way. I was no
heroine to battle with the merciless world as represented to me by my
father, so, in despair, I married Guy Errington.
"To my surprise and delight, I found him to resemble the ideal
inhabitants of my fanciful world, and honoured and respected him for
those qualities which I had never seen in my father. He was good,
kind, loving and tender, all of which qualities to me, in a man, were
like a revelation from God. Still, the teachings of my father could
not be easily eradicated, and I dreaded lest some chance should rend
the veil which hid his real nature and show me the innate brutality
which my father assured me existed in all mankind.
"Meanwhile, I was thankful for his kindness, and strove to show by
every means in my power how I reciprocated his love. If he accuses me
of coldness, I can offer no defence. I am not a demonstrative woman,
as all my timid outbursts of affection were ruthlessly crushed by my
father, and self-restraint has become a habit with me. Besides,
dreading lest my married happiness should not last, I wore my coldness
as an armour against a possible disappointment.
"I loved my husband, but the invincible mistrust which my father had
inculcated in my breast isolated me during the earlier portion of our
married life, and I was afraid to let my husband see how much I loved
him, lest he took advantage of such confidence. Still, I wanted
something to love, something that I could worship, could cling to,
something that I could trust in fully and that would not deceive me.
"It came at last, a pure, little, white soul from the hand of God; and
to my child I gave the whole of the love, the adoration, the passion,
which had been pent up in my breast for so many years for want of some
one on whom I could bestow them without fear of the consequence.
"My husband hated to see me so fond of the child, for his jealous
nature would be content with nothing but undivided love, and in spite
of my desire to make him happy, I could not leave my child unloved in
order to pander to his selfish passion. He resented my reproval of his
folly and withdrew himself from my society, so that I had no one to
love but my child, and, although we lived in the same house, the poles
were not further asunder than we were.
"Then she came between us--that vile woman whom my father knew in
South America--and my husband, weary of his home, of his wife, of his
child, left all to go to her. What wife could put up with such an
insult? Had it been any other woman, it would have been bad enough,
but this special woman whom he knew I despised, whom he knew from my
lips to be an infamous creature, this was the woman for whom he
forsook me.
"How can I believe his explanations? They are all false, glibly as
they are uttered. No! I am deceived no longer, he is the same as my
father, and seeks only the selfish gratification of his own appetites.
The end has come, as I knew it would--the mask is torn off, and I see
my husband, whom I loved and trusted during the early days of our
marriage, as he really is. My father was right; there is no faith,
honour, honesty, nor truth, in men; and I have only acted rightly in
refusing to live with a man who could behave so to his wife and child.
"Even now he is with that woman, on the feeble plea that my coldness
drove him away. Does that excuse his vice? No! He should have waited
until perfect love, perfect understanding, was established between us,
but now we are parted for ever. He has gone back to the life most
congenial to him, and I--I, like many other women, can do nothing but
pray that my son may not grow up to follow in the evil footsteps of
his father."
On the part of the husband--
"Saints do not live among men, except in the canonization of the
Church, and before my marriage I was neither better nor worse than any
other young man. But without being either a Saint Anthony or a Saint
Francis, I did my best to lead a decent life in every way, and if I
had a few vices--or what ascetics term vices--they were so small that
they were invisible except to the microscope of certain Pharisees who
pass their lives in finding out their neighbours' faults, and thanking
God they are not as other men are.
"I loved my wife from the first moment I saw her, being in the first
place attracted by the beauty of her person, and in the second by the
difference in her nature to that of other women. I do not put myself
forward either as a deep thinker or as a student of humanity, but must
confess I grew weary of the ordinary Society woman, married or
unmarried. They talked in a frivolous fashion of the most trivial
things, but Alizon Mostyn attracted me by the charm of her
conversation, not that she was very learned, or particularly
brilliant, but she talked of ordinary matters in an original way,
which was wonderfully fascinating. I loved her dearly, and saw in this
pale, quiet girl, one who would be a companion to me, who would make
me a better man, and aid me to lead my life on a higher plane to that
which I had hitherto done.
"It was for this reason I married her, and though she was cold in her
manner towards me, this very coldness had a certain charm about it
which I could not resist. I knew that she had been badly treated by
her father, so strove in every way by tenderness and love to make
amends for the misery of her early life.
"After marriage I was perfectly satisfied with my wife, and although
at times her persistent coldness wounded me, yet I thought by
unfailing love and attention to make her open her heart to me. No
doubt I would have achieved this object if it had not been for the
birth of the child, which has, in a great measure, been the cause of
all the trouble of our later married life.
"I was glad to welcome the child, as I thought it would form a new
link between us, and by thawing her frigid disposition draw us closer
together. But, instead of doing this, the boy was the cause of our
estrangement, as she lavished upon him all the love of which her
nature was capable, and I was persistently neglected.
"No doubt the world would think I had little to complain of--my wife
was perfect, both in her conjugal and maternal capacity--the only
trouble being the cherishing of the child to the neglect of the
father.
"But, look at the matter from my point of view. I had married my wife
for companionship, for the sake of satisfying the craving of human
nature to be loved, and instead of my ideas being realized, I found
myself shut out of Paradise, while my wife, with her child, rested
happily within. She was never away from the boy, and day after day I
was forced to live a lonely life, neglected and uncared for by a woman
I adored. All her ideas, conversation, and desires, were bound up in
the child, so that she had neither the time nor inclination to take an
interest in my pursuits, or in my life. We dwelt together as man and
wife, to all appearances we were a happy and attached couple, yet the
child stood between us, like an evil shadow, which isolated us the one
from the other. Often I tried to break down this barrier, by praising
the child, but the mother seemed jealous even of the father; she
wanted the child all to herself, and, secure in such possession, was
contented to treat her husband as an ordinary friend.
"I resented this state of things, I revolted at being condemned to
occupy such an isolated position, but I could do nothing. My wife was
perfect in every other way, and to have complained would have been
ridiculous, so I was forced to suffer in silence. God alone knows how
I did suffer in the solitude to which I was condemned, at seeing the
love and caresses bestowed on the child, love and caresses in which I
had no share. All her life was in the child, and she possessed him. My
life was in her--and I was a stranger to her in every way.
"Under the circumstances I thought it best to go away for a few weeks,
thinking that she would miss me in some little measure, and would be
more affectionate and tender when I returned. Whether such an idea was
right or wrong I do not know, I never shall know, for between our
parting and our meeting occurred the episode of Mrs. Veilsturm.
"On my honour, I went innocently enough into the presence of this
woman. I had forgotten all about my wife's refusal to receive her, for
had I remembered I certainly would not have gone. But, as I said
before, I had forgotten. I had never seen the woman; I did not even
know her name. How then was I to recollect the episode of eighteen
months before?--an episode the memory of which had not lasted longer
than a few days.
"I went to Mrs. Veilsturm's 'At home.' I found her a charming woman,
and, at her express invitation, I went often to her house. She was
different from the ordinary run of women, and I took pleasure in her
society, but there was no warmer feeling between us, at least, not on
my part. With the scandal of the world I have nothing to do, sin and
purity are treated the same way, and the mere fact of my being once or
twice seen with Mrs. Veilsturm was sufficient to set afloat the lying
story which came to my wife's ears through the medium of Aunt Jelly.
"To my wife I told the whole story, but she refused to believe me. I
confessed that I had remembered about Mrs. Veilsturm when it was too
late, but she accused me of knowing the truth from the first, and of
having wilfully acted as I had done. Nothing I could say could shake
her belief in this matter, and she swore she would never forgive me
for the insult I had placed upon her.
"What could I do? Nothing! except retire from the scene. In vain I
assured her of my complete innocence. She refused to believe my
statement, and drove me from her presence--from my home--with cruel
words. This woman, wrapped up in an armour of purity--of selfish
purity--could not credit my innocence in any way. She judged me from
the 'I-would-not-have-acted-thus' standpoint, and insisted that I had
betrayed her basely, although she had no further proof than the gossip
of the world.
"I left her. I came back to London to see Mrs. Veilsturm again. It is
wrong--I know it is wrong--but what am I to do? Live an isolated
existence, pass days and nights of abject misery, only to pander to
her self-righteous ideas? For eighteen months, in spite of all my
tenderness and love, she has wilfully neglected me, she has refused to
acknowledge that I have been a good husband, she has rendered my life
miserable, and now she has driven me forth from my own home on account
of a sin--if it can be called so--of which I am guiltless.
"What am I to do? Live the life of a hermit in order to right myself
in her eyes and be called back and pardoned, as if I were indeed
guilty? No! I will not do so. It is her fault, not mine, that I am
placed in such a miserable position. Unable to win her by tenderness,
by love, I will henceforth live my own life and see what neglect will
do. For every pang she has inflicted upon me I will inflict a pang
upon her, for her months of neglect I will repay her in full, for her
coldness I will give coldness in my turn, and to any remonstrances she
may offer I will say then what I say now--'It is your work.'"
So far the cases of husband and wife, each arguing from their own
point of view. Now which of them is right, the man or the woman? The
husband who strove to win his wife's love, or the wife who refused to
give the husband that love which was his due.
Errington was now acting wrongly, as he himself knew; he was
voluntarily flinging himself into the arms of a woman whom he knew to
be worthless, but who can say he had no provocation? He had done his
best to win his wife's love, he had suffered in silence during the
period of his married life, and in return she had shamefully neglected
him, and had finally, with hardly any proof, accused him of
voluntarily making a friend of a worthless woman. Outraged by this
treatment, the husband left her presence, and she had driven him into
the very jaws of destruction.
Doubtless he should have stood firm, and by years of patient
self-sacrifice showed her that she was wrong. But how many of us are
capable of such asceticism? How many of us would stand for long years
in the outer darkness, knowing himself to be guiltless of the crime
laid to his charge?
This woman--pure wife, affectionate mother, as she was--had acted as
if she were above the weaknesses of human nature. She had arrogated to
herself the functions of the Deity in judging and condemning a poor
human soul, who, weary with beseeching for what it never received,
fell away in despair into the gulf of sin and misery.
Who was wrong--the man who sought evil in despair, or the woman whose
coldness and purity had denied him the mercy which would have saved
him?