Transcribed from the 1897 Chatto & Windus edition by DavidPrice,
With the single exception ofFalstaff, all Shakespeare’s characters are what we callmarrying men. Mercutio, as he was own cousin to Benedickand Biron, would have come to the same end in the long run. Even Iago had a wife, and, what is far stranger, he wasjealous. People like Jacques and the Fool in Lear,although we can hardly imagine they would ever marry, kept singleout of a cynical humour or for a broken heart, and not, as we donowadays, from a spirit of incredulity and preference for thesingle state. For that matter, if you turn to GeorgeSand’s French version of As You Like It (and I thinkI can promise you will like it but little), you will find Jacquesmarries Celia just as Orlando marries Rosalind.
At least there seems to have been much less hesitation overmarriage in Shakespeare’s days; and what hesitation therewas was of a laughing sort, and not much more serious, one way orthe other, than that of Panurge. In modern comedies theheroes are mostly of Benedick’s way of thinking, but twiceas much in earnest, and not one quarter so confident. And Itake this diffidence as a proof of how sincere their terroris. They know they are only human after all; they know whatgins and pitfalls lie about their feet; and how the shadow ofmatrimony waits, resolute and awful, at the cross-roads. They would wish to keep their liberty; but if that may not be,why, God’s will be done! “What, are you afraidof marriage?” asks Cécile, in MaîtreGuerin. “Oh, mon Dieu, non!” repliesArthur; “I should take chloroform.” They lookforward to marriage much in the same way as they preparethemselves for death: each seems inevitable; each is a greatPerhaps, and a leap into the dark, for which, when a man is inthe blue devils, he has specially to harden his heart. Thatsplendid scoundrel, Maxime de Trailles, took the news ofmarriages much as an old man hears the deaths of hiscontemporaries. “C’estdésespérant,” he cried, throwing himself downin the arm-chair at Madame Schontz’s; “c’estdésespérant, nous nous marions tous!” Every marriage was like another gray hair on his head; and thejolly church bells seemed to taunt him with his fifty years andfair round belly.
The fact is, we are much more afraid of life than ourancestors, and cannot find it in our hearts either to marry ornot to marry. Marriage is terrifying, but so is a cold andforlorn old age. The friendships of men are vastlyagreeable, but they are insecure. You know all the timethat one friend will marry and put you to the door; a secondaccept a situation in China, and become no more to you than aname, a reminiscence, and an occasional crossed letter, verylaborious to read; a third will take up with some religiouscrotchet and treat you to sour looks thence-forward. So, inone way or another, life forces men apart and breaks up thegoodly fellowships for ever. The very flexibility and easewhich make men’s friendships so agreeable while theyendure, make them the easier to destroy and forget. And aman who has a few friends, or one who has a dozen (if there beany one so wealthy on this earth), cannot forget on howprecarious a base his happiness reposes; and how by a stroke ortwo of fate—a death, a few light words, a piece of stampedpaper, a woman’s bright eyes—he may be left, in amonth, destitute of all. Marriage is certainly a perilousremedy. Instead of on two or three, you stake yourhappiness on one life only. But still, as the bargain ismore explicit and complete on your part, it is more so on theother; and you have not to fear so many contingencies; it is notevery wind that can blow you from your anchorage; and so lon