I forget how many days intervened between that last breaking off of our engagement and Marion"s surrender. But I recall now the sharpness of my emotion, the concentrated spirit of tears and laughter in my throat as I read the words of her unexpected letter--"I have thought over everything, and I was selfish...." I rushed off to Walham Green that evening to give back all she had given me, to beat her altogether at giving. She was extraordinarily gentle and generous that time, I remember, and when at last I left her, she kissed me very sweetly.
So we were married.
We were married with all the customary incongruity. I gave--perhaps after a while not altogether ungrudgingly--and what I gave, Marion took, with a manifest satisfaction. After all, I was being sensible. So that we had three livery carriages to the church (one of the pairs of horses matched) and coachmen--with improvised flavour and very shabby silk hats--bearing white favours on their whips, and my uncle intervened with splendour and insisted upon having a wedding breakfast sent in from a caterer"s in Hammersmith. The table had a great display of chrysanthemums, and there was orange blossom in the significant place and a wonderful cake. We also circulated upwards of a score of wedges of that accompanied by silver-printed cards in which Marion"s name of Ramboat was stricken out by an arrow in favour of Ponderevo. We had a little rally of Marion"s relations, and several friends and friends"
friends from Smithie"s appeared in the church and drifted vestry-ward.
I produced my aunt and uncle a select group of two. The effect in that shabby little house was one of exhilarating congestion. The side-board, in which lived the table-cloth and the "Apartments" card, was used for a display of the presents, eked out by the unused balance of the silver-printed cards.
Marion wore the white raiment of a bride, white silk and satin, that did not suit her, that made her seem large and strange to me; she obtruded bows and unfamiliar contours. She went through all this strange ritual of an English wedding with a sacramental gravity that I was altogether too young and egotistical to comprehend. It was all extraordinarily central and important to her; it was no more than an offensive, complicated, and disconcerting intrusion of a world I was already beginning to criticise very bitterly, to me. What was all this fuss for?
The mere indecent advertis.e.m.e.nt that I had been pa.s.sionately in love with Marion! I think, however, that Marion was only very remotely aware of my smouldering exasperation at having in the end behaved "nicely." I had played--up to the extent of dressing my part; I had an admirably cut frock--coat, a new silk hat, trousers as light as I could endure them--lighter, in fact--a white waistcoat, night tie, light gloves.
Marion, seeing me despondent had the unusual enterprise to whisper to me that I looked lovely; I knew too well I didn"t look myself. I looked like a special coloured supplement to Men"s Wear, or The Tailor and Cutter, Full Dress For Ceremonial Occasions. I had even the disconcerting sensations of an unfamiliar collar. I felt lost--in a strange body, and when I glanced down myself for rea.s.surance, the straight white abdomen, the alien legs confirmed that impression.
My uncle was my best man, and looked like a banker--a little banker--in flower. He wore a white rose in his b.u.t.tonhole. He wasn"t, I think, particularly talkative. At least I recall very little from him.
"George" he said once or twice, "this is a great occasion for you--a very great occasion." He spoke a little doubtfully.
You see I had told him nothing about Marion until about a week before the wedding; both he and my aunt had been taken altogether by surprise.
They couldn"t, as people say, "make it out." My aunt was intensely interested, much more than my uncle; it was then, I think, for the first time that I really saw that she cared for me. She got me alone, I remember, after I had made my announcement. "Now, George," she said, "tell me everything about her. Why didn"t you tell--ME at least--before?"
I was surprised to find how difficult it was to tell her about Marion. I perplexed her.
"Then is she beautiful?" she asked at last.
"I don"t know what you"ll think of her," I parried. "I think--"
"Yes?"
"I think she might be the most beautiful person in the world."
"And isn"t she? To you?"
"Of course," I said, nodding my head. "Yes. She IS..."
And while I don"t remember anything my uncle said or did at the wedding, I do remember very distinctly certain little things, scrutiny, solicitude, a curious rare flash of intimacy in my aunt"s eyes. It dawned on me that I wasn"t hiding anything from her at all. She was dressed very smartly, wearing a big-plumed hat that made her neck seem longer and slenderer than ever, and when she walked up the aisle with that rolling stride of hers and her eye all on Marion, perplexed into self-forgetfulness, it wasn"t somehow funny. She was, I do believe, giving my marriage more thought than I had done, she was concerned beyond measure at my black rage and Marion"s blindness, she was looking with eyes that knew what loving is--for love.
In the vestry she turned away as we signed, and I verily believe she was crying, though to this day I can"t say why she should have cried, and she was near crying too when she squeezed my hand at parting--and she never said a word or looked at me, but just squeezed my hand....
If I had not been so grim in spirit, I think I should have found much of my wedding amusing. I remember a lot of ridiculous detail that still declines to be funny in my memory. The officiating clergyman had a cold, and turned his "n"s" to "d"s," and he made the most mechanical compliment conceivable about the bride"s age when the register was signed. Every bride he had ever married had had it, one knew. And two middle-aged spinsters, cousins of Marion"s and dressmakers at Barking, stand out. They wore marvellously bright and gay blouses and dim old skirts, and had an immense respect for Mr. Ramboat. They threw rice; they brought a whole bag with them and gave handfuls away to unknown little boys at the church door and so created a Lilliputian riot; and one had meant to throw a slipper. It was a very warm old silk slipper, I know, because she dropped it out of a pocket in the aisle--there was a sort of jumble in the aisle--and I picked it up for her. I don"t think she actually threw it, for as we drove away from the church I saw her in a dreadful, and, it seemed to me, hopeless, struggle with her pocket; and afterwards my eye caught the missile of good fortune lying, it or its fellow, most obviously mislaid, behind the umbrella-stand in the hall....
The whole business was much more absurd, more incoherent, more human than I had antic.i.p.ated, but I was far too young and serious to let the latter quality atone for its shortcomings. I am so remote from this phase of my youth that I can look back at it all as dispa.s.sionately as one looks at a picture--at some wonderful, perfect sort of picture that is inexhaustible; but at the time these things filled me with unspeakable resentment. Now I go round it all, look into its details, generalise about its aspects. I"m interested, for example, to square it with my Bladesover theory of the British social scheme. Under stress of tradition we were all of us trying in the fermenting chaos of London to carry out the marriage ceremonies of a Bladesover tenant or one of the chubby middling sort of people in some dependent country town. There a marriage is a public function with a public significance. There the church is to a large extent the gathering-place of the community, and your going to be married a thing of importance to every one you pa.s.s on the road. It is a change of status that quite legitimately interests the whole neighbourhood. But in London there are no neighbours, n.o.body knows, n.o.body cares. An absolute stranger in an office took my notice, and our banns were proclaimed to ears that had never previously heard our names. The clergyman, even, who married us had never seen us before, and didn"t in any degree intimate that he wanted to see us again.
Neighbours in London! The Ramboats did not know the names of the people on either side of them. As I waited for Marion before we started off upon our honeymoon flight, Mr. Ramboat, I remember, came and stood beside me and stared out of the window.
"There was a funeral over there yesterday," he said, by way of making conversation, and moved his head at the house opposite. "Quite a smart affair it was with a gla.s.s "ea.r.s.e...."
And our little procession of three carriages with white-favour-adorned horses and drivers, went through all the huge, noisy, indifferent traffic like a lost china image in the coal-chute of an ironclad. n.o.body made way for us, n.o.body cared for us; the driver of an omnibus jeered; for a long time we crawled behind an unamiable dust-cart. The irrelevant clatter and tumult gave a queer flavour of indecency to this public coming together of lovers. We seemed to have obtruded ourselves shamelessly. The crowd that gathered outside the church would have gathered in the same spirit and with greater alacrity for a street accident....
At Charing Cross--we were going to Hastings--the experienced eye of the guard detected the significance of our unusual costume and he secured us a compartment.
"Well," said I, as the train moved out of the station, "That"s all over!" And I turned to Marion--a little unfamiliar still, in her unfamiliar clothes--and smiled.
She regarded me gravely, timidly.
"You"re not cross?" she asked.
"Cross! Why?"
"At having it all proper."
"My dear Marion!" said I, and by way of answer took and kissed her white-gloved, leather-scented hand....
I don"t remember much else about the journey, an hour or so it was of undistinguished time--for we were both confused and a little fatigued and Marion had a slight headache and did not want caresses. I fell into a reverie about my aunt, and realised as if it were a new discovery, that I cared for her very greatly. I was acutely sorry I had not told her earlier of my marriage.
But you will not want to hear the history of my honeymoon. I have told all that was needed to serve my present purpose. Thus and thus it was the Will in things had its way with me. Driven by forces I did not understand, diverted altogether from the science, the curiosities and work to which I had once given myself, I fought my way through a tangle of traditions, customs, obstacles and absurdities, enraged myself, limited myself, gave myself to occupations I saw with the clearest vision were dishonourable and vain, and at last achieved the end of purblind Nature, the relentless immediacy of her desire, and held, far short of happiness, Marion weeping and reluctant in my arms.
V
Who can tell the story of the slow estrangement of two married people, the weakening of first this bond and then that of that complex contact?
Least of all can one of the two partic.i.p.ants. Even now, with an interval of fifteen years to clear it up for me, I still find a ma.s.s of impressions of Marion as confused, as discordant, as unsystematic and self-contradictory as life. I think of this thing and love her, of that and hate her--of a hundred aspects in which I can now see her with an unimpa.s.sioned sympathy. As I sit here trying to render some vision of this infinitely confused process, I recall moments of hard and fierce estrangement, moments of clouded intimacy, the pa.s.sage of transition all forgotten. We talked a little language together whence were "friends,"
and I was "Mutney" and she was "Ming," and we kept up such an outward show that till the very end Smithie thought our household the most amiable in the world.
I cannot tell to the full how Marion thwarted me and failed in that life of intimate emotions which is the kernel of love. That life of intimate emotions is made up of little things. A beautiful face differs from an ugly one by a difference of surfaces and proportions that are sometimes almost infinitesimally small. I find myself setting down little things and little things; none of them do more than demonstrate those essential temperamental discords I have already sought to make clear. Some readers will understand--to others I shall seem no more than an unfeeling brute who couldn"t make allowances.... It"s easy to make allowances now; but to be young and ardent and to make allowances, to see one"s married life open before one, the life that seemed in its dawn a glory, a garden of roses, a place of deep sweet mysteries and heart throbs and wonderful silences, and to see it a vista of tolerations and baby-talk; a compromise, the least effectual thing in all one"s life.
Every love romance I read seemed to mock our dull intercourse, every poem, every beautiful picture reflected upon the uneventful succession of grey hours we had together. I think our real difference was one of aesthetic sensibility.
I do still recall as the worst and most disastrous aspect of all that time, her absolute disregard of her own beauty. It"s the pettiest thing to record, I know, but she could wear curl-papers in my presence. It was her idea, too, to "wear out" her old clothes and her failures at home when "no one was likely to see her"--"no one" being myself. She allowed me to acc.u.mulate a store of ungracious and slovenly memories....
All our conceptions of life differed. I remember how we differed about furniture. We spent three or four days in Tottenham Court Road, and she chose the things she fancied with an inexorable resolution,--sweeping aside my suggestions with--"Oh, YOU want such queer things." She pursued some limited, clearly seen and experienced ideal--that excluded all other possibilities. Over every mantel was a mirror that was draped, our sideboard was wonderfully good and splendid with beveled gla.s.s, we had lamps on long metal stalks and cozy corners and plants in grog-tubs.
Smithie approved it all. There wasn"t a place where one could sit and read in the whole house. My books went upon shelves in the dining-room recess. And we had a piano though Marion"s playing was at an elementary level.
You know, it was the cruelest luck for Marion that I, with my restlessness, my scepticism, my constantly developing ideas, had insisted on marriage with her. She had no faculty of growth or change; she had taken her mould, she had set in the limited ideas of her peculiar cla.s.s. She preserved her conception of what was right in drawing-room chairs and in marriage ceremonial and in every relation of life with a simple and luminous honesty and conviction, with an immense unimaginative inflexibility--as a tailor-bird builds its nest or a beaver makes its dam.
Let me hasten over this history of disappointments and separation. I might tell of waxings and waning of love between us, but the whole was waning. Sometimes she would do things for me, make me a tie or a pair of slippers, and fill me with none the less grat.i.tude because the things were absurd. She ran our home and our one servant with a hard, bright efficiency. She was inordinately proud of house and garden. Always, by her lights, she did her duty by me.
Presently the rapid development of Tono-Bungay began to take me into the provinces, and I would be away sometimes for a week together. This she did not like; it left her "dull," she said, but after a time she began to go to Smithie"s again and to develop an independence of me. At Smithie"s she was now a woman with a position; she had money to spend. She would take Smithie to theatres and out to lunch and talk interminably of the business, and Smithie became a sort of permanent weekender with us. Also Marion got a spaniel and began to dabble with the minor arts, with poker-work and a Kodak and hyacinths in gla.s.ses.
She called once on a neighbour. Her parents left Walham Green--her father severed his connection with the gas-works--and came to live in a small house I took for them near us, and they were much with us.
Odd the littleness of the things that exasperate when the fountains of life are embittered! My father-in-law was perpetually catching me in moody moments and urging me to take to gardening. He irritated me beyond measure.
"You think too much," he would say. "If you was to let in a bit with a spade, you might soon "ave that garden of yours a Vision of Flowers.
That"s better than thinking, George."
Or in a torrent of exasperation, "I CARN"T think, George, why you don"t get a bit of gla.s.s "ere. This sunny corner you c"d do wonders with a bit of gla.s.s."
And in the summer time he never came in without performing a sort of conjuring trick in the hall, and taking cuc.u.mbers and tomatoes from unexpected points of his person. "All out o" MY little bit," he"d say in exemplary tones. He left a trail of vegetable produce in the most unusual places, on mantel boards, sideboards, the tops of pictures.
Heavens! how the sudden unexpected tomato could annoy me!...
It did much to widen our estrangement that Marion and my aunt failed to make friends, became, by a sort of instinct, antagonistic.
My aunt, to begin with, called rather frequently, for she was really anxious to know Marion. At first she would arrive like a whirlwind and pervade the house with an atmosphere of h.e.l.lo! She dressed already with that cheerfully extravagant abandon that signalised her accession to fortune, and dressed her best for these visits.