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Page 23
Why did this imperial, overbearing, all-powerful man love to stay in
retirement when all Europe was waiting for his word? Why did he spend
days in sauntering in country lanes, and chatting during quiet
evenings with one loved friend alone? That question goes to the root
of my subject. Chatham was happily married; when he was torn by bitter
rage and disappointment, when his sovereign repulsed him, and when not
even the passionate love of an entire nation availed to further the
ends on which the Titan had set his heart, he carried his sorrow with
him, and drew comfort from the goodness of the sweet soul who was his
true mate. It is a very sweet picture; and we see in history how the
softening home influence finally converted the, awful, imposing,
tyrannical Chatham into a yielding, fascinating man.
From the world's arbiter to the bricklayer's labourer, the same
general law holds; the man who makes a happy marriage lives out his
life at its best--he may fail in some things, but in the essential
direction he is successful. The woman who makes a happy marriage may
have trials and suffering to bear, but she also gains the best of
life; and some of the purest and most joyous creatures I have known
were women who had suffered in their day. When I think of some
marriages whereof I know the full history, I am tempted to believe in
human perfectibility; and at chance times there come to me vague
dreams of a day when the majority of human beings will find life
joyous and tranquil. What one wise and well-matched couple achieve in
life may be achieved by others as the days go on. Surely jarring and
misery are not necessary in the great world of nations or in the
little world of the family? Confidence, generosity, and complete
unselfishness on both sides are needed to make the life of a married
pair serene and happy. I know that the demand is a heavy one; but, ah,
when it is adequately met, is not the gain worth all the sacrifices a
thousand times over? There may be petty and amusing differences of
opinion, quiet banter, and an occasional grave conflict of judgment;
but, so long as three central requirements--confidence, generosity,
and unselfishness--are met, there can be no serious break in the
procession of placid, happy days. I abhor the gushing talk sometimes
heard about "married lovers;" the people who dignify life and honour
the community are those who are lovers and something more. Of course
we can all feel sympathy with Fanny Kemble when she says that the
poetry of "Romeo and Juliet" went into her blood as she spoke on the
stage; but there is something needed beyond wild Italian raptures
before the ideal match is secured. Some of us are almost glad that
Juliet passed away in swift fashion when the cup of life foamed most
exquisitely at her lips. How would she have fared had that changeable
firebrand Romeo taken to wandering once more? It is a grievously
flippant question to ask when the most glorious of all love-poems is
in question; yet I ask it very seriously, and merely in a symbolic
way. Romeo is a shadow, the adored Juliet is a shadow; but the two
immortal shades represent for all time the mad lovers whose lives end
in bitterness. I say again that only reasonable and calm love brings
happy marriages. It is as true as any other law of nature that "he
never loved who loved not at first sight;" but the frantic, dissolute
man of genius who wrote that line did not care to go further and speak
of matters which wise men of the world cannot disregard. The first
blinding shock of the supreme passion comes in the course of nature;
but wise people live through the unspeakable tumult of the soul, and
use their reason after they have resisted and subdued into calm
strength the fierce impulse which has wrecked so many human creatures.
When writing on "Ill-Assorted Marriages," I urged that men and women
who are about to take the terribly momentous steps towards marriage
must be guided by reason, and I repeat my adjuration here. When Lord
Beaconsfield said, "I observe those of my friends who married for
love--some of them beat their wives, and the remainder are divorced,"
he knew that he was uttering a piece of mockery which would have been
blasphemous had it been set down in all seriousness. He meant to say
that headlong marriages--marriages contracted in purblind
passion--always end in misery. No marriage can bring a spark of
happiness unless cool reason guides the choice of the contracting
parties. A hot-headed stripling marries a handsome termagant--her
brilliant face, her grace, and rude health attract him, and he does
not quietly notice the ebullitions of her temper. She is divine to
him; and, though she snarls at her younger brother, insults her
mother, and to outsiders plainly exhibits all sorts of petty
selfishness, yet the stripling rushes on to his fate; and at the end
of a few miserable years he is either a broken and hen-pecked creature
or a mean and ferocious squabbler.
How different is the case of those who are not precipitate! Take the
case of the splendid cynic whose words we have quoted. With his usual
sagacity, Lord Beaconsfield waited, watched, and finally succeeded in
making an ideally happy marriage in circumstances which would have
affrighted an ordinary person. All the world knows the story now. The
brilliant young statesman dared not risk the imputation of
fortune-hunting; but the lady knew his worth; she knew that she could
aid him, and she frankly threw over all the traditions of her sex and
of society and offered herself to him. No one in England who is
interested in this matter can fail to know every detail of a bargain
which makes one proud of one's species, for Lord Ronald Gower has told
us about the married life of the brilliant Hebrew who mastered
England. The two kindred souls were bound up in each other. The lady
was not learned or clever, and indeed her husband said, "She was the
best of creatures; but she never could tell which came first--the
Greeks or the Romans." But she had something more than cleverness--she
had the confidence, generosity, and unselfishness which I have set
forth as the main conditions of happiness. I must repeat an old story;
for it cannot too often be repeated. Think of the woman who gathered
all her resolution and uttered no sound, although the end of her
finger was smashed by the closing of the carriage-door! Mr. D'Israeli
was about to make a great speech; so his wife would not disturb him on
his way to Westminster, though flesh and bone of her finger were
crushed. She fainted when the orator had gone to his task; but her
fortitude did not forsake her until her beloved was out of danger of
being perturbed. That one authentic story is worth a hundred dramatic
tales of stagey heroism. And we must remember how the statesman repaid
the simple devotion of his wife. All his spare time was passed in her
company, and the quaint pair wandered in the woods like happy boy and
girl. Then, when the indomitable man had raised himself to be head of
the State, and was offered a peerage, he declined; but he begged that
his wife might be created countess in her own right. Could anything be
more graceful and courtly? "You are the superior," the first man in
England seemed to say; "and I am content to rejoice in your honours
without rivalling them." All the fanciful rhymes of the troubadours
cannot furnish anything prettier than that.
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