The Amazing Marriage — Complete. George Meredith

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СКАЧАТЬ called the young lord a Briton, and proposed to take him in hand and make a man of him, as nigh worthy of his wife as any one not an Alexander of Macedon could be.

      So they became friendly, and the young lord confessed it was his family that had urged him to the attack; and Kirby abode at the castle, and all three were happy, in perfect honour, I am convinced: but such was not the opinion of the Cressetts and Levelliers. Down they trooped to Cressett Castle with a rush and a roar, crying on the disgrace of an old desperado like Kirby living there; Dukes, Marchionesses, Cabinet Ministers, leaders of fashion, and fire-eating colonels of the King’s body-guard, one of whom Captain John Peter Kirby laid on his heels at ten paces on an April morning, when the duel was fought, as early as the blessed heavens had given them light to see to do it. Such days those were!

      There was talk of shutting up the infatuated lady. If not incarcerated, she was rigidly watched. The earl her husband fell altogether to drinking and coaching, and other things. The ballad makes her say:

      ‘My family my gaolers be,

       My husband is a zany;

       Naught see I clear save my bold Buccaneer

       To rescue Countess Fanny!’

      and it goes on:

      ‘O little lass, at play on the grass,

       Come earn a silver penny,

       And you’ll be dear to my bold Buccaneer

       For news of his Countess Fanny.’

      In spite of her bravery, that poor woman suffered!

      We used to learn by heart the ballads and songs upon famous events in those old days when poetry was worshipped.

      But Captain Kirby gave provocation enough to both families when he went among the taverns and clubs, and vowed before Providence over his big fist that they should rue their interference, and he would carry off the lady on a day he named; he named the hour as well, they say, and that was midnight of the month of June. The Levelliers and Cressetts foamed at the mouth in speaking of him, so enraged they were on account of his age and his passion for a young woman. As to blood, the Kirbys of Lincolnshire were quite equal to the Cressetts of Warwick. The Old Buccaneer seems to have had money too. But you can see what her people had to complain of: his insolent contempt of them was unexampled. And their tyranny had roused my lady’s high spirit not a bit less; and she said right out: ‘When he comes, I am ready and will go with him.’

      There was boldness for you on both sides! All the town was laughing and betting on the event of the night in June: and the odds were in favour of Kirby; for though, Lord Cressett was quite the popular young English nobleman, being a capital whip and free of his coin, in those days men who had smelt powder were often prized above titles, and the feeling, out of society, was very strong for Kirby, even previous to the fight on the heath. And the age of the indomitable adventurer must have contributed to his popularity. He was the hero of every song.

      “ ‘What’s age to me!” cries Kirby;

       “Why, young and fresh let her be,

       But it ‘s mighty better reasoned

       For a man to be well seasoned,

       And a man she has in me,” cries Kirby.’

      As to his exact age:

      “ ‘Write me down sixty-three,” cries Kirby.’

      I have always maintained that it was an understatement. We must remember, it was not Kirby speaking, but the song-writer. Kirby would not, in my opinion, have numbered years he was proud of below their due quantity. He was more, if he died at ninety-one; and Chillon Switzer John Kirby, born eleven months after the elopement, was, we know, twenty-three years old when the old man gave up the ghost and bequeathed him little besides a law-suit with the Austrian Government, and the care of Carinthia Jane, the second child of this extraordinary union; both children born in wedlock, as you will hear. Sixty-three, or sixty-seven, near upon seventy, when most men are reaping and stacking their sins with groans and weak knees, Kirby was a match for his juniors, which they discovered.

      Captain John Peter Avason Kirby, son of a Lincolnshire squire of an ancient stock, was proud of his blood, and claimed descent from a chief of the Danish rovers.

      ‘ “What’s rank to me!” cries Kirby;

       “A titled lass let her be,

       But unless my plans miscarry,

       I’ll show her when we marry;

       As brave a pedigree,” cries Kirby.’

      That was the song-writer’s answer to the charge that the countess had stooped to a degrading alliance.

      John Peter was fourth of a family of seven children, all males, and hard at the bottle early in life: ‘for want of proper occupation,’ he says in his Memoirs, and applauds his brother Stanson, the clergyman, for being ahead of him in renouncing strong dunks, because he found that he ‘cursed better upon water.’ Water, however, helped Stanson Kirby to outlive his brothers and inherit the Lincolnshire property, and at the period of the great scandal in London he was palsied, and waited on by his grandson and heir Ralph Thorkill Kirby, the hero of an adventure celebrated in our Law courts and on the English stage; for he took possession of his coachman’s wife, and was accused of compassing the death of the husband. He was not hanged for it, so we are bound to think him not guilty.

      The stage-piece is called ‘Saturday Night’, and it had an astonishing run, but is only remembered now for the song of ‘Saturday,’ sung by the poor coachman and labourers at the village ale-house before he starts to capture his wife from the clutches of her seducer and meets his fate. Never was there a more popular song: you heard it everywhere. I recollect one verse:

      ‘O Saturday money is slippery metal,

       And Saturday ale it is tipsy stuff

       At home the old woman is boiling her kettle,

       She thinks we don’t know when we’ve tippled enough.

       We drink, and of never a man are we jealous,

       And never a man against us will he speak

       For who can be hard on a set of poor fellows

       Who only see Saturday once a week!

      You chorus the last two lines.

      That was the very song the unfortunate coachman of Kirby Hall joined in singing before he went out to face his end for the woman he loved. He believed in her virtue to the very last.

      ‘The ravished wife of my bosom,’ he calls her all through the latter half of the play. It is a real tragedy. The songs of that day have lost their effect now, I suppose. They will ever remain pathetic to me; and to hear the poor coachman William Martin invoking the name of his dear stolen wife Elizabeth, jug in hand, so tearfully, while he joins the song of Saturday, was a most moving thing. You saw nothing but handkerchiefs out all over the theatre. What it is that has gone from our drama, I cannot tell: I am never affected now as I was then; and people in a low station of life could affect me then, without being flung at me, for I dislike an entire dish of them, I own. We were simpler in our habits and ways of thinking. Elizabeth СКАЧАТЬ