THE INCIDENTS AND ACCIDENTS OF MARRIAGE.
But even if you have chosen the best of women for your companion,
whether it be due to your merit or your good fortune, the great
problem of happiness is not yet solved, for there are so many
incidents and accidents which disturb it when least we expect them.
Your wife is never a meteorite fallen from the sky, but a fruit still
attached to the branch, and this branch is taken from a trunk, which
is the family to which she belongs. When you marry her you must
inevitably marry her relations also; you must enter a _clan_ which may
be a garden of roses, but may be also a wasp’s nest—nay, even a nest
of vipers.
Do not allow yourself any illusions, believing that when once you
are legitimate master of your companion you will be able to isolate
yourself in the nest of your domestic felicity, chasing away wasps
and crushing the vipers, if there should be any. I will suppose that
the woman loves you much, and adores you above all creatures in the
world, but the _clan_ from which she has been taken will complain of
you, protest and conspire against you. Her parents have ceded the
government of one of their provinces to you, but still hold the
_protectorate_ and place a _resident_ near, and they reserve the right
of intervention in many, unfortunately in too many, cases.
The idea of a wife, then, would be that she should be an orphan with
only the most distant relations or guardians, who are happy to have
her well married. But here again there are new complications. To be an
orphan at an early age means, since the parents died young, to belong
to an unhealthy stock. The decadence of many English families is due
to this very fact. The younger sons of the nobility, who bear a noble
name, but have an empty purse, seek to equalize blazonry and finance
by marrying orphans, or only daughters, and thus they bring into the
new family the risk of an infirm state of health and sterility.
It is only too true that all the gravest problems of life are so
framed that when you have succeeded with patience and labour in
untying one knot, others form under your fingers.
The wife, however, might be an orphan from other causes, independent
of the health of the parents, and that would be the highest ideal—for
example, a girl who had escaped from a fire, or a railway accident, in
which both parents (alike robust) were killed. I am supposing things
incredible, or at least improbable; I make cruel conjectures, but what
can I do? A scolding, wicked, or jealous mother-in-law is worse than
a fire and railway disaster together.
Those good, courteous, intelligent mothers-in-law need not alarm
themselves—those who become a second mother to their sons-in-law,
who double the delights of the dual life, who bring you the valuable
blessing of experience and disinterested affection, and who act in the
domestic storm as conciliatory judges. Hosanna and everlasting glory
to such beings, sent by Providence to double your happiness.
For I only speak of others who, without being bad, are women, or
rather men, with all the congenital defects of the race of Adam.
The best of mothers-in-law always sees in you an intruder, a rival,
a man who has robbed her of her daughter, and since she is good she
will not worry you; but she will make scenes of jealousy; she will not
plot against you with your wife, but will swallow so much bitterness
day by day in the secret silence of her house as to enlarge her liver,
so that some day or other her moral jaundice will be scattered through
the atmosphere of your home, and you too will feel the bitterness.
I understand and am indulgent. That bitterness is distilled from
the deepest and most delicate regions of the heart. To have loved a
daughter for twenty or thirty years, to have brought her into the
world with pain, to have suckled her with spasms, to have educated
her with a wise love, after having breathed the same air, eaten at the
same table, shared bread and tears; and then for the first comer, just
because he wears trousers and has an impudent moustache, to rob her
of all that treasure with an arrogance as if he claimed and took his
own—that is hard. And as if that were not enough, the daughter, the
angel of her domestic temple, runs after the trousers and moustaches,
and goes away, abandoning her mother’s and her own house, as if she
were leaving a room at an hotel in which she had passed the night.
Let us be just! Who will dare to throw the first stone at that poor
woman, the pitiable mother? Who would dare ill treat her if she
asked as a charity the favour that her daughter’s new home should
be near hers, if she implored you to allow her to visit her often?
Man is egotistic and feels paternity less than woman, but even if
only in a slight degree he ought to understand the hidden hell of a
mother-in-law who has to watch her daughter leave her own nest.
The marriage of a loved daughter is an event expected and desired, but
it is like a birth, a blessing accompanied by tremendous pain. Elect
natures feel the pain, but do not show it, lest they should give pain
to others, and never convert it into hate.
Others, on the contrary, transform every drop of bitterness which they
swallow into a feeling of vengeance, which they ruminate on for some
time and hatch with cruel patience, to launch it against you when
least you expect it.
I may suppose you to be patient and good, to be an optimist in your
philosophy; you will be deaf to the most mellifluous insinuations, you
will say _Thank you_ when your foot is trodden on, and _Thank you_ for
the rhubarb lozenge which will be offered you—in short, you will take
the points from all the darts launched against you; but there will
come a day in which patience, goodness, philosophy, will be scattered
to the wind, and you, with so much repressed wrath, will burst out all
at once, and placing yourself before your wife, will say:
“There must be an end to all this; it must be either I or her!”
The proverbs of all European languages, the satires of the poets,
the wit of dramatists, have always agreed in compassionating the
sons-in-law, and hurling darts against the mothers-in-law. This
experience of many centuries has taught us that a good mother-in-law
is very rare, and that in marriage she is an element most pregnant
with danger, most fruitful in disaster.
From all this we ought to learn two things:
1st. Before taking a wife to study the character of the future
mother-in-law well, and to try and discover whether we shall find in
her an angel or a harpy, an ally or an enemy.
2d. According to the result of our psychological inquiry we ought to
declare most decidedly that we will not live with the family of the
wife, nor take her mother into our house. If the chosen one of our
heart really loves us she will consider this decision of ours quite
just, and will help us to gain the victory if a battle there must be.
In your own case do not pass it over, do not cede a hand’s breadth
of land; keep firm in your intention, being quite convinced that by
so doing you will make your own happiness, that of your wife, and
of the new family. Between mother-in-law and son-in-law there ought
to be affection and respect; a current of benevolent, delicate, and
gentle sentiment ought to pass between them, but at a distance, a most
respectful distance; so that no sparks, shocks, much less lightning
flashes, may appear. Affection, not intimacy; respect, not subjection.
⁂
But the complications do not finish with the problem of the
mother-in-law. There is the other problem which arises when the
candidate for marriage has lost his first wife, or the woman her
first husband, or both of them their first partners, with or without
children on one side or on both sides.
The possible combinations are these:
{ without children.
Widow and widower {
{ { of the man.
{ with children { of the woman.
{ of both.
Widower { without children.
{ with children.
Widow { without children.
{ with children.
These various combinations are so many algebraical formulæ in which
one may find snares, dangers to happiness, and rancour without end.
If you are a widower and you marry a widow, and neither of you have
children, no danger hangs over you. Liberty on both sides, no right
nor pretext for intervention; marriage presents itself almost in the
guise of an union between two young people.
You may indeed incur the danger of your wife making comparisons, and
these not to your advantage. An old proverb says, _Comparisons are
odious_, but I should like to make a correction and add that for him
to whom they are unfavourable they are odious, but flattering to him
who gains by them. Perhaps you may excel your predecessor, and your
companion will be happy to find it so.
In any case, if you have your weak side inquire about the public and
private virtues of the first husband, and put the results into the
balance which must weigh the pros and cons of the marriage.
A widow and a widower may both have children, or one only may have
them. The dangers in these cases are very different.
It is better for the wife to have them, for if the husband really
loves her he will also love her children; and besides, being a man, he
is less at home, and paternity is always an episode in his life and
not the whole life, as maternity is with the woman. Then if the man
has the good fortune not to have children he will often end by loving
his wife’s as much as though they were his own.
In the case of there being children on both sides the balance may
prove of advantage, because it is equal in weight and measure, and the
two married people have cause to reproach themselves and to suffer for
the same things.
The worst case is that of a widower with children to whose number the
new wife adds; he must be an angel, his wife and children angels also,
if no civil war breaks out in his house. Think of it well, think a
hundred times. Do not complicate the marriage, already fraught with
so many dangers, by imprudence and temerity.
In marriages between a widow and a widower the greatest danger arises
from the children, who fear or see their future threatened, and who
in their love for their lost parent believe the new marriage to be an
outrage to the memory of the dear one.
It is in these cases that we see all that a man has of venom and
baseness come up and soil and cover everything with defilement and
poison; all the brutal possibilities of human egotism covered, it may
be, with varnish but still the skeleton underlying every thought and
feeling.
⁂
Only one of the engaged persons may be widow or widower, and it is
greatly to the honour of women that more men marry a second time than
women. Man often finds more happiness in marriage than she does, while
she is more faithful to the memory of the departed, and thinks more of
her children than herself.
How many women I have known who, being left widows quite young,
have sacrificed themselves, together with the need of loving and
being loved, to their children, often to one alone; proud of their
sacrifice, unconquerable against all temptations and against all the
power of the most legitimate passions.
Do children know how to value this heroism hidden in the bosom of so
many families? Do they understand that there is more courage required
in this struggle of months and years than one day’s assault of a
battery in battle?
Very rarely do they know it, for even the best of children do not
return a hundredth part of the love they have received from their
parents, and especially from their mother.
⁂
Is happiness more easily to be found in the union of a widower and a
young woman, or in that of a widow and a celibate?
The answer is difficult, for the problem is too vague, and individual
qualities weigh too heavily in the balance, gradually modifying the
surroundings, the affections now warding off dangers, now increasing
them infinitely.
If other conditions be favourable the widow is generally an excellent
wife for many reasons: She has lost many illusions, but has learned
to know and excuse the egotism of man. Sometimes she will have
been obliged to beg her first husband’s pardon for some accession
of jealousy or caprice; and as a woman always occupies herself in
everything more with other people’s happiness than her own, she wishes
to give her second husband perfect bliss, and often and willingly
succeeds. If she cannot offer her companion the virginal flower (which
after all is more a myth than a real jewel) she can give him all the
treasures of amorous experience, that is often worth more than a
hundred virginities.
On the other hand the widower who marries a young woman has the great
advantage of her not being able to make any odious comparisons, and he
also brings precious gems to the new home which an unmarried man does
not know or possess. He has learned to know all the little weaknesses
and great virtues of woman, he has learned to become less egotistical,
to think of others more than himself, and as separate from himself,
and he generally is an excellent husband.
⁂
In all intricate problems, in all the fatal confusions which present
themselves in the marriage between widows and widowers, between
widows, widowers, and celibates, the anchor of safety which saves
from shipwreck is always the heart. When there is great love, and it
is shared by two, who join hands forever, every difficulty is cleared
away, and concord ends by hoisting its banner over the new house. The
most ferocious hatred is conquered by generosity, by the indulgence of
one who loves much, and after a short battle of the opposing forces
love scatters its flowers and blessing over the new nest. Love is the
strength of strengths, which surpasses all others, and in this case
it is omnipotent, so that when it exists in all its proper energy on
one side only, it absorbs all the minor energies, and on the fields
threatened with hail and lightning the sun shines through the last
drops of the beneficent rain, and the rainbow hangs its multicoloured
bridge in the sky, drawing enemies nearer and making them allies.
⁂
Of all the accidents which we may meet on the threshold of matrimony
one of the most common is the stoppage of the way by someone who
exclaims: “Halt! there is no passage here.”
You are a minor, or your loved one is, or the person who has the right
to speak does not find your choice to his taste, and shuts the door
of the temple you wish to enter in your face, securing it with many
chains. Civil war is declared, and it is to be seen who _can_ and
_ought_ to gain the victory.
This _can_ and _ought_ are not synonymous terms, because the parents
on one side or the other _can_ withhold their consent to your union,
but many times they are in the wrong, and ought not to refuse to
sanction the marriage.
As regards two lovers, if their love is sincere, if in their secret
and confidential dialogues they have sworn the everlasting _yes_
to each other, if they have nearly conjugated half of the verb to
love, they believe that they have every right in the world to become
husband and wife; and when they have tried all fair means to bend
the will of the tyrant or tyrants they run away together, secretly,
hoping that once the deed is done it will sooner or later receive the
consent of those opposing it. Sometimes, however, the wandering sheep
are discovered before the deed is consummated, and are re-conducted
with many reproaches to their respective folds. In more serious cases
spectres of single or double suicide, asphyxiation, poison, or the
revolver may appear.
Should anyone find himself in such case meditating death, and have
time to cast a look on these pages, let him leave the charcoal,
the poison of the druggist, and the revolver of the armourer. Life
is a good and beautiful thing that must be guarded with love,
caressed with tenderness, and if love ought to be the bridegroom of
the marriage, reason and good sense ought always to be present as
witnesses.
If with a stroke of a magic wand one could raise all those who have
committed self-destruction to life again, after having dressed their
wounds, they would take up life gaily, and even another love affair.
Parents always have the duty and the right of speaking, protesting,
and counselling, nay, even of interposing a _veto_, if they see their
children’s future endangered when they have chosen love as arbitrator,
but have forgotten to call good sense and reason as witnesses.
If you _will_ marry an abject creature who will dishonour your name
and the name of the family to which you belong, and of whom after
a few months of warm passion you yourself will be ashamed; if you
_will_ marry a woman suffering from tuberculous disease, or one of
a consumptive family, or where madness is present; if you _will_
increase the sad patrimony of proletaries and the unemployed, having
neither present nor future resources; if in one way or another you
throw yourself with closed eyes head foremost into a bottomless abyss
only to satisfy carnal excitement which you may call passion, but
which is only the desire of the flesh—father and mother have full
right to oppose your ruin with all possible means; and even if they
should not succeed they will have done their duty. If the means they
take succeed you will later on thank them with a warm gratitude.
In all these cases I allow you to combat, to weep, even tear out some
of your hair; but the tears over, the muscles tired, gather up the
hair you have torn out and present it to your fair one, telling her to
keep it until your return as a pledge of your _eternal faith_; for you
ought to leave, and that instantly, even on foot, even asking money of
the tyrannical parents or of some compassionate friend. Travel in far
countries, and who knows if on your return you will not find a neat
little packet tied with rose-coloured ribbon—your letters, your hair,
and perhaps the announcement of the marriage of your old _fiancée_.
If your love, instead, has known how to resist the long absence, if it
has strengthened and grown, who knows if the hard parents will not be
moved to pity and try to make an adjustment, provided, however, that
there be no consumption, madness, or other calamities to dissuade you
from marriage in an absolute and decided way. Better that you should
die than sow death broadcast in future generations.
⁂
There are some cases, however, in which the wrong is not yours, but is
theirs who unreasonably and tyrannically oppose your happiness from
prejudices of rank, avidity of money, or some caprice or other. If you
are a count or marquis and love a girl of good family without a coat
of arms, or if you are very rich and wish to marry an educated girl
of angelic character, but who is not rich—in these and similar cases
seek the help of your mother, who is nearly always more compassionate
than your father, or ask counsel and help from some intimate friend,
from one of the few who knows your heart like a book, and has never
flattered you.
In these domestic contests it is very rare for right and reason to be
on one side only; there is a little on this side and a little on that;
your hands are too unsteady to hold the balance of justice steadily,
and weigh with precision the _pro_ and the _con_. Your mother,
instead, who loves you as no one else can (not even your lover), and
your friend who knows you well, see things from a dispassionate and
calm point of view, and will judge justly whether you are right or
wrong; and if you are neither mad nor a fool you will end by believing
those who love you and desire your good; and, as the case may be,
stand firm and you will win. The ancient Greek appealed against
Philip, the modern miller appeals against Berlin, and both were right
against Philip and against Frederick the Great. Your mother and friend
will appeal to you not to fast entirely from love, but to be a little
less hungry, and who knows but that they will end in being right
against that king of kings Love—stronger than the father of Alexander
the Great, greater than Frederick the Great.
If they really love you, and are persons of good sense, they will say
neither _No!_ nor _Never!_ to you, but will content themselves by
saying, Have a little patience; wait.
Time is the chief and capable corrector of the proof sheets of the
sketches of love, as also the policy of Fabius the temporizer, who
knew how to gain so many wars by skirmishes and battles.
The stone of comparison enables us to distinguish gold from ignoble
metal; time teaches us to separate with certainty true love from the
desire of the flesh, from the fussy exactions of self-love and all
that is plated. And perhaps, besides your mother and friend, you will
listen to the long experience of him who writes, and will hear his
voice, which says to you, cries to you, supplicates you:
_Let time take its course, ever and always._