The Amazing Marriage, Complete

G >> George Meredith >> The Amazing Marriage, Complete

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'Your accident, dearest Riette--how it happened?' Carinthia said,
enfolding her.

'Because, Janey, what have I ever been to Chillon but the good-looking
thing he was proud of? It's gone. Oh, the accident. Brailstone had pushed
little Corby away; he held my hand, kept imploring, he wanted the usual
two minutes, and all to warn me against--I've told you; and he saw Lord
Fleetwood coming. I got my hand free, and stepped back, my head spinning;
and I fell. That I recollect, and a sight of flames, like the end of the
world. I fell on one of the oil-lamps bordering the grass; my veil
lighted; I had fainted; those two men saw nothing but one another; and
little Sir Meeson was no help; young Lord Cressett dashed out the flames.
They brought me to my senses for a second swoon. Livia says I woke
moaning to be taken away from that hated Calesford. It was, oh! never to
see that husband of yours again. Forgive him, if you can. Not I. I carry
the mark of him to my grave. I have called myself "Skin-deep" ever since,
day and night--the name I deserve.'

'We will return to Chillon together, my own,' said Carinthia. 'It may not
be so bad.' And in the hope that her lovely sister exaggerated a
defacement leaving not much worse than a small scar, her heart threw off
its load of the recent perplexities, daylight broke through her dark
wood. Henrietta brought her liberty. How far guilty her husband might be,
she was absolved from considering; sufficiently guilty to release her.
Upon that conclusion, pity for the awakened Riette shed purer tear-drops
through the gratitude she could not restrain, could hardly conceal, on
her sister's behalf and her own. Henrietta's prompt despatch to Croridge
to fetch the babes, her journey down out of a sick-room to stop Chillon's
visit to London, proved her an awakened woman, well paid for the stain on
her face, though the stain were lasting. Never had she loved Henrietta,
never shown her so much love, as on the road to the deepening colours of
the West. Her sisterly warmth surprised the woeful spotted beauty with a
reflection that this martial Janey was after all a woman of feeling, one
whom her husband, if he came to know it and the depth of it, the rich
sound of it, would mourn in sackcloth to have lost.

And he did, the Dame interposes for the final word, he mourned his loss
of Carinthia Jane in sackcloth and ashes, notwithstanding that he had the
world's affectionate condolences about him to comfort him, by reason of
his ungovernable countess's misbehaviour once more, according to the
report, in running away with a young officer to take part in a foreign
insurrection; and when he was most the idol of his countrymen and
countrywomen, which it was once his immoderate aim to be, he mourned her
day and night, knowing her spotless, however wild a follower of her
father's MAXIMS FOR MEN. He believed--some have said his belief was not
in error--that the woman to aid and make him man and be the star in human
form to him, was miraculously revealed on the day of his walk through the
foreign pine forest, and his proposal to her at the ducal ball was an
inspiration of his Good Genius, continuing to his marriage morn, and then
running downwards, like an overstrained reel, under the leadership of his
Bad. From turning to turning of that descent, he saw himself advised to
retrieve the fatal steps, at each point attempting it just too late;
until too late by an hour, he reached the seaport where his wife had
embarked; and her brother, Chillon John, cruelly, it was the common
opinion, refused him audience. No syllable of the place whither she fled
abroad was vouchsafed to him; and his confessions of sins and repentance
of them were breathed to empty air. The wealthiest nobleman of all
England stood on the pier, watching the regiments of that doomed
expedition mount ship, ready with the bribe of the greater part of his
possessions for a single word to tell him of his wife's destination. Lord
Feltre, his companion, has done us the service to make his emotions
known. He describes them, true, as the Papist who sees every incident
contribute to precipitate sinners into the bosom of his Church. But this,
we have warrant for saying, did not occur before the earl had visited and
strolled in the woods with his former secretary, Mr. Gower Woodseer, of
whom so much has been told, and he little better than an infidel,
declaring his aim to be at contentedness in life. Lord Fleetwood might
envy for a while, he could not be satisfied with Nature.

Within six months of Carinthia Jane's disappearance, people had begun to
talk of strange doings at Calesford; and some would have it, that it was
the rehearsal of a play, in which friars were prominent characters, for
there the frocked gentry were seen flitting across the ground. Then the
world learnt too surely that the dreaded evil had happened, its
wealthiest nobleman had gone over to the Church of Rome! carrying all his
personal and unentailed estate to squander it on images and a dogma.
Calesford was attacked by the mob;--one of the notorious riots in our
history was a result of the Amazing Marriage, and roused the talk of it
again over Great Britain. When Carinthia Jane, after two years of
adventures and perils rarely encountered by women, returned to these
shores, she was, they say, most anxious for news of her husband; and
then, indeed, it has been conjectured, they might have been united to
walk henceforward as one for life, but for the sad fact that the Earl of
Fleetwood had two months and some days previously abjured his rank, his
remaining property, and his title, to become, there is one report, the
Brother Russett of the mountain monastery he visited in simple curiosity
once with his betraying friend, Lord Feltre. Or some say, and so it may
truly be, it was an amateur monastery established by him down among his
Welsh mountains, in which he served as a simple brother, without any
authority over the priests or what not he paid to act as his superiors.
Monk of some sort he would be. He was never the man to stop at anything
half way.

Mr. Rose Mackrell, in his Memoirs, was the first who revealed to the
world, that the Mademoiselle de Levellier of the French Count fighting
with the Carlists--falsely claimed by him as a Frenchwoman--was, in very
truth, Carinthia Jane, the Countess of Fleetwood, to whom Carlists and
Legitimises alike were indebted for tender care of them on the field and
in hospital; and who rode from one camp through the other up to the tent
of the Pretender to the throne of Spain, bearing her petition for her
brother's release; which was granted, in acknowledgement of her 'renowned
humanity to both conflicting armies,' as the words translated by Dr.
Glossop run. Certain it is she brought her wounded brother safe home to
England, and prisoners in that war usually had short shrift. For three
years longer she was the Countess of Fleetwood, 'widow of a living
suicide,' Mr. Rose Mackrell describes the state of the Marriage at that
period. No whisper of divorce did she tolerate.

Six months after it was proved that Brother Russett had perished of his
austerities, or his heart, we learn she said to the beseeching applicant
for her hand, Mr. Owain Wythan, with the gift of it, in compassion:
'Rebecca could foretell events.' Carinthia Jane had ever been ashamed of
second marriages, and the union with her friend Rebecca's faithful
simpleton gave it, one supposes, a natural air, for he as little as she
had previously known the wedded state. She married him, Henrietta has
written, because of his wooing her with dog's eyes instead of words. The
once famous beauty carried a wrinkled spot on her cheek to her grave; a
saving disfigurement, and the mark of changes in the story told you
enough to make us think it a providential intervention for such ends as
were in view.

So much I can say: the facts related, with some regretted omissions, by
which my story has so skeleton a look, are those that led to the
lamentable conclusion. But the melancholy, the pathos of it, the heart of
all England stirred by it, have been--and the panting excitement it was
to every listener--sacrificed in the vain effort to render events as
consequent to your understanding as a piece of logic, through an exposure
of character! Character must ever be a mystery, only to be explained in
some degree by conduct; and that is very dependent upon accident: and
unless we have a perpetual whipping of the tender part of the reader's
mind, interest in invisible persons must needs flag. For it is an infant
we address, and the storyteller whose art excites an infant to serious
attention succeeds best; with English people assuredly, I rejoice to
think, though I have to pray their patience here while that philosophy
and exposure of character block the course along a road inviting to
traffic of the most animated kind.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS

A dumb tongue can be a heavy liar
Accounting his tight blue tail coat and brass buttons a victory
Advised not to push at a shut gate
Always the shout for more produced it ("News")
Amused after their tiresome work of slaughter
And her voice, against herself, was for England
Anecdotist to slaughter families for the amusement
As faith comes--no saying how; one swears by them
As for comparisons, they are flowers thrown into the fire
As if the age were the injury!
Be the woman and have the last word!
Bent double to gather things we have tossed away
Brains will beat Grim Death if we have enough of them
But a great success is full of temptations
Call of the great world's appetite for more (Invented news)
Charity that supplied the place of justice was not thanked
Cock-sure has crowed low by sunset
Contempt of military weapons and ridicule of the art of war
Could affect me then, without being flung at me
Country enclosed us to make us feel snug in our own importance
Courage to grapple with his pride and open his heart was wanting
Deeds only are the title
Detested titles, invented by the English
Did not know the nature of an oath, and was dismissed
Dogs' eyes have such a sick look of love
Drank to show his disdain of its powers
Drink is their death's river, rolling them on helpless
Earl of Cressett fell from his coach-box in a fit
Enemy's laugh is a bugle blown in the night
Everlastingly in this life the better pays for the worse
Fatal habit of superiority stopped his tongue
Father used to say, four hours for a man, six for a woman
Father and she were aware of one another without conversing
Festive board provided for them by the valour of their fathers
Flung him, pitied him, and passed on
Foe can spoil my face; he beats me if he spoils my temper
Fond, as they say, of his glass and his girl
Found that he 'cursed better upon water'
Fun, at any cost, is the one object worth a shot
Good-bye to sorrow for a while--Keep your tears for the living
Had got the trick of lying, through fear of telling the truth
Hard enough for a man to be married to a fool
He did not vastly respect beautiful women
He was a figure on a horse, and naught when off it
He had wealth for a likeness of strength
He wants the whip; ought to have had it regularly
He was the prisoner of his word
Heartily she thanked the girl for the excuse to cry
Hearts that make one soul do not separately count their gifts
Her intimacy with a man old enough to be her grandfather
Himself in the worn old surplice of the converted rake
I hate sleep: I hate anything that robs me of my will
Ideas in gestation are the dullest matter you can have
Injury forbids us to be friends again
Innocence and uncleanness may go together
It was an honest buss, but dear at ten thousand
Lies are usurers' coin we pay for ten thousand per cent
Life is the burlesque of young dreams
Limit was two bottles of port wine at a sitting
Little boy named Tommy Wedger said he saw a dead body go by
Look backward only to correct an error of conduct in future
Love of pleasure keeps us blind children
Magnificent in generosity; he had little humaneness
Make a girl drink her tears, if they ain't to be let fall
Meditations upon the errors of the general man, as a cover
Mighty Highnesses who had only smelt the outside edge of battle
Never forgave an injury without a return blow for it
No enemy's shot is equal to a weak heart in the act
Not afford to lose, and a disposition free of the craving to win
Not to be the idol, to have an aim of our own
Objects elevated even by a decayed world have their magnetism
On a morning when day and night were made one by fog
One idea is a bullet
Past, future, and present, the three weights upon humanity
Pebble may roll where it likes--not so the costly jewel
Poetic romance is delusion
Push me to condense my thoughts to a tight ball
Put material aid at a lower mark than gentleness
Puzzle to connect the foregoing and the succeeding
Quick to understand, she is in the quick of understanding
Reflection upon a statement is its lightning in advance
Religion condones offences: Philosophy has no forgiveness
Religion is the one refuge from women
Scorn titles which did not distinguish practical offices
Sensitiveness to the sting, which is not allowed to poison
Seventy, when most men are reaping and stacking their sins
She seemed really a soaring bird brought down by the fowler
She was thrust away because because he had offended
She stood with a dignity that the word did not express
She endured meekly, when there was no meekness
Should we leave a good deed half done
Showery, replied the admiral, as his cocked-hat was knocked off
So much for morality in those days!
So indulgent when they drop their blot on a lady's character
Steady shakes them
Strengthening the backbone for a bend of the knee in calamity
Style is the mantle of greatness
Sweetest on earth to her was to be prized by her brother
That sort of progenitor is your "permanent aristocracy"
The habit of the defensive paralyzes will
The embraced respected woman
The idol of the hour is the mob's wooden puppet
The divinely damnable naked truth won't wear ornaments
Their sneer withers
There is no driver like stomach
There's not an act of a man's life lies dead behind him
They could have pardoned her a younger lover
Those who have the careless chatter, the ready laugh
Those who know little and dread much
Thus are we stricken by the days of our youth
Tighter than ever I was tight I'll be to-night
To most men women are knaves or ninnies
Touch sin and you accommodate yourself to its vileness
Truth is, they have taken a stain from the life they lead
Very little parleying between determined men
Wakening to the claims of others--Youth's infant conscience
Warm, is hardly the word--Winter's warm on skates
We make our taskmasters of those to whom we have done a wrong
We shall go together; we shall not have to weep for one another
With one idea, we see nothing--nothing but itself
Woman finds herself on board a rudderless vessel
Women treat men as their tamed housemates
Wooing her with dog's eyes instead of words
Writer society delights in, to show what it is composed of
You played for gain, and that was a licenced thieving
You saw nothing but handkerchiefs out all over the theatre
You are to imagine that they know everything
You want me to flick your indecision
You want me to flick your indecision

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