The Marriage Book (67 page)

“They that die maids, lead apes in hell,” is a proverb mentioned in several of Shakespeare’s plays, although its original source is subject to debate.

I determin’d the moment I left off my bib, I would never become any man’s crooked rib,

And think you to fright me, when gravely you tell

That Old Maids will surely lead apes when in hell?

I’ll take the reversion, and grant ’twill be so

But yet I shall keep to my vow,

For I’d rather lead apes in the regions below,

Than be led by a foolish ape now.

“THE OLD MAID’S DIARY”

FREEDOM’S JOURNAL
, 1827

The first newspaper owned and run by African-Americans in the United States,
Freedom’s Journal
was published in New York City starting in 1827, the year that New York State officially abolished slavery. It was a weekly with a commitment to antebellum reform but featured, in addition to serious editorials and news reports, a fine complement of human interest pieces, travelogues, and, as in the two examples below, social commentary.

In this context, the word
chit
means “child” or “young woman.”

YEARS

15. Anxious for coming out, and the attention of the men.

16. Begins to have some idea of the tender passion.

17. Talks of love in a cottage, and disinterested affection.

18. Fancies herself in love with some handsome man, who has flattered her.

19. Is a little more difficult, in consequence of being noticed.

20. Commences fashionable, and dashes.

21. Still more confidence in her own attractions, and expects a brilliant establishment.

22. Refuses a good offer, because he is not a man of fashion.

23. Flirts with every young man she meets.

24. Wonders she is not married.

25. Rather more circumspect in her conduct.

26. Begins to think a large fortune not quite so indispensable.

27. Prefers the company of rational men to flirting.

28. Wishes to be married in a quiet way, with a comfortable income.

29. Almost despairs of entering the married state.

30. Rather fearful of being called an old maid.

31. An additional love of dress.

32. Professes to dislike balls, finding it difficult to get good partners.

33. Wonders how men can leave the society of sensible men to flirt with chits.

34. Affects good humour in her conversation with men.

35. Jealous of the praises of women.

36. Quarrels with her friend, who is lately married.

37. Thinks herself slighted in society.

38. Likes talking of her acquaintance who are married unfortunately, and finds consolation in their misfortune.

39. Ill-nature increases.

40. Very meddling and officious . . . A growing penchant.

41. If rich, as a dernier resort makes love to a young man without fortune.

42. Not succeeding, rails against the sex.

43. Partiality for cards, and scandal commences.

44. Severe against the manners of the age.

45. Strong predilection for a Methodist parson.

46. Enraged at his desertion.

47. Becomes desponding, and takes snuff.

48. Turns all her sensibility to cats and dogs.

49. Adopts a dependent relation to attend on dogs.

50. Becomes disgusted with the world. Vents all her ill-humour on this unfortunate relation.

“A BACHELOR’S THERMOMETER”

FREEDOM’S JOURNAL
, 1827

The counterpart to the column above appeared one week later.

YEARS

16. Incipient palpitations towards the young ladies.

17. Blushing and confusion in conversing with them.

18. Confidence in conversing with them much increased.

19. Angry if treated by them as a boy.

20. Very conscious of his own charms and manliness.

21. A looking glass, indispensable in his room, to admire himself.

22. Insufferable puppyism.

23. Thinks no woman good enough for him.

24. Caught unawares by the snares of Cupid.

25. The connexion broken off, from self-conceit on his part.

26. Conducts himself with much superiority towards her.

27. Pays his addresses to another lady, not without hope of mortifying the first.

28. Mortified and frantic at being refused.

29. Rails against the fair sex in general.

30. Morose and out of humour in all conversations on matrimony.

31. Contemplates matrimony more under the influence of interest than formerly.

32. Considers personal beauty in a wife not so indispensable as formerly.

33. Still retains a high opinion of his attractions as a husband.

34. Consequently has no idea but he may still marry a chicken.

35. Falls deeply and violently in love with one of seventeen.

36.
Au dernier desespoir
another refusal.

37. Indulges in every kind of dissipation.

38. Shuns the best part of the female sex.

39. Suffers much remorse and mortification in so doing.

40. A fresh budding of matrimonial ideas, but no spring shoots.

41. A nice young widow perplexes him.

42. Ventures to address her with mixed sensations of love and interest.

43. Interest prevails, which causes much cautious reflection.

44. The widow jilts him, being as cautious as himself.

45. Becomes every day more averse to the fair sex.

46. Gouty and nervous symptoms begin to appear.

47. Fears what may become of him when old and infirm.

48. Thinks living alone quite irksome.

49. Resolves to have a prudent young woman as house keeper and companion.

50. A nervous affection about him, and frequent [attacks] of the gout.

51. Much pleased with his new house keeper as nurse.

52. Begins to feel some attachment to her.

53. His pride revolts at the idea of marrying her.

54. Is in great distress how to act.

55. Completely under her influence and very miserable.

56. Many painful thoughts about parting with her.

57. She refuses to live any longer with him
solo
.

58. Gouty, nervous, and billious to excess.

59. Feels very ill, sends for her to his bedside, and intends espousing her.

60. Grows rapidly worse, has his will made in her favour, and makes his exit.

CHARLES DICKENS

GREAT EXPECTATIONS
, 1861

Charles Dickens (1812–1870) wrote fifteen novels, but the scene below has to be among the top two or three most memorable in all his work. It is narrated by the orphan Pip upon encountering for the first time the terrifying Miss Havisham, a woman abandoned on her wedding day and more than slightly crazy as a result.

Pumblechook is Pip’s brother-in-law’s uncle and the person who has arranged to have Pip visit Miss Havisham.

In an arm-chair, with an elbow resting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.

She was dressed in rich materials—satins, and lace, and silks—all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on—the other was on the table near her hand—her veil was but half arranged, her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a Prayer-book, all confusedly heaped about the looking-glass.

It was not in the first moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But, I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put
upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress, that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could.

“Who is it?” said the lady at the table.

“Pip, ma’am.”

“Pip?”

“Mr. Pumblechook’s boy, ma’am. Come—to play.”

“Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close.”

It was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of the surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped at twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.

“Look at me,” said Miss Havisham. “You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?”

I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie comprehended in the answer “No.”

“Do you know what I touch here?” she said, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side.

“Yes, ma’am.” (It made me think of the young man.)

“What do I touch?”

“Your heart.”

“Broken!”

P. G. WODEHOUSE

“THE RUMMY AFFAIR OF OLD BIFFY,” 1924

Bertie Wooster is a recurring protagonist in the nearly hundred books penned by the British humorist Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (1881–1975). Through Bertie’s long-suffering yet good-natured travels through the British upper class, he often finds himself trying to extricate himself from marital plans that repeatedly seem to be made on his behalf. As Wodehouse wrote in 1960’s
Jeeves in the Offing
: “I don’t know anything that braces one up like finding you haven’t got to get married after all.” In this story, Honoria Glossop is the fate Bertie has most recently escaped, and Wodehouse’s inimitable valet, Jeeves, takes the news in stride.

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed.

“Sir?” said Jeeves, turning at the door.

“Jeeves, you remember Miss Glossop?”

“Very vividly, sir.”

“She’s engaged to Mr. Biffen!”

“Indeed, sir?” said Jeeves. And, with not another word, he slid out. The blighter’s calm amazed and shocked me. It seemed to indicate that there must be a horrible streak of callousness in him. I mean to say, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know Honoria Glossop.

I read the paragraph again. A peculiar feeling it gave me. I don’t know if you have ever experienced the sensation of seeing the announcement of the engagement of a pal of yours to a girl whom you were only saved from marrying yourself by the skin of your teeth. It induces a sort of—well, it’s difficult to describe it exactly; but I should imagine a fellow would feel much the same if he happened to be strolling through the jungle with a boyhood chum and met a tigress or a jaguar, or what not, and managed to shin up a tree and looked down and saw the friend of his youth vanishing into the undergrowth in the animal’s slavering jaws. A sort of profound, prayerful relief, if you know what I mean, blended at the same time with a pang of pity. What I’m driving at is that, thankful as I was that I hadn’t had to marry Honoria myself, I was sorry to see a real good chap like old Biffy copping it. I sucked down a spot of tea and began to brood over the business. . . .

“I must say, Jeeves,” I said, “I’m dashed disappointed in you.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Well, I am. Dashed disappointed. I do think you might rally round. Did you see Mr. Biffen’s face?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then.”

“If you will pardon my saying so, sir, Mr. Biffen has surely only himself to thank if he has entered upon matrimonial obligations which do not please him.”