Part 7

Touching the question of a young man's income when he marries, no rule can be laid down. There are thousands of married people who are living the happiest of lives on six hundred dollars per year, while there are thousands, on the other hand, who struggle to keep out of debt on six thousand a year. And so it goes. Everything depends upon the people. Hundreds of men constantly ask the question, "Can I marry on six hundred, eight hundred, or a thousand dollars per year?" No one can determine this question but the young fellow himself, and particularly the girl whom he loves. As I wrote to a young fellow who asked me if I believed it would be safe for him to marry on a thousand dollars per year, so do I say to all young men who are asking the question, irrespective of the amount involved: no one can tell you. You and the girl in question must settle that. But, on general principles, I think the sooner we look at this question of marriage from some other than this strictly mercenary standpoint the better. I do not believe, as I said a few paragraphs back, in the theory of love in a cottage, with nothing else. But I do believe in young people starting at the lowest rung in the ladder and then climbing up. Nothing else in the world knits the interests of two people so closely together, or insures such absolute happiness in the future as their lives progress. I cannot advise any young fellow what to do, but I know if I were earning six hundred, eight hundred, or a thousand dollars a year, and I really loved a girl--felt, in other words, as if I could not live without her--and the girl was of the right kind--that is, sensible in her ideas, frugal in her tastes, and of a marriageable age--I would let her settle my doubt for me. Girls have a very interesting way of settling doubts of this kind--when they are fond of the fellow in doubt. One thing is certain: the greatest safety in this world for a man is to place his interests in the keeping of the woman who loves him.

These are the only points which I or any other writer can possibly advance regarding this question of marriage. Every young man must necessarily settle it for himself; all that a writer can do is to lay down the best and what he considers to be the safest general principles, and each reader must apply those principles to his own individual needs and condition.

But there is one thing which a writer can safely do, and that is to counsel in every young man a firm belief in womanhood and an honest faith in marriage. He must not paint the marriage relation all of a rose-colored hue. Necessarily it has its purple lights; sometimes its black shadows. No condition of life is without its little trials, its vexations, or its anxieties, and marriage is not an exception to this rule. But it is through the marriage state, through the love of woman, as I have said before, that man has reached his present status. Married to a woman, he may wonder now and then a little whether she is not rather expensive. Her ways may not always be his ways. Occasionally he may frown a little, and perhaps scold a bit. He may leave home in the morning and go to his office without the customary farewell kiss. He may sometimes get provoked because she is "so slow in getting ready" when he goes out with her. He may want to stay at home when she wants to go out. He may be led to say once in a great while, "Women are queer, and you are one of the queerest!" He may fly into a passion, only to feel sorry for it afterward. He may feel piqued at times because she is not home when he comes from the office; that dinner is not ready just at the precise moment when he wants it; that she wants to retire about three hours earlier than he does. But, "after all," he says to himself, "I tell you what, my wife is an angel. She always seems to know what is best for me, and what is not. She looks at nothing in the light of a sacrifice. When I have been tired for three hours she keeps going. Well, she is my daily joy; sick, my comfort, and the best of nurses; in trouble, my star of hope. When I want to be rash she is cautious. I could stake my life on the honesty of a man; she, at a glance, has read his innermost thoughts and knows his character. And take her year in and year out she is the most patient, most loving, and dearest of women. Faults? Of course she has, but so have I--lots of them, too. I notice all she has, but some way or other she never seems to see mine, and talks only of my best side. And, after all, is she not right?" And then, as a pair of arms are twined around him from behind, as he sits in a comfortable chair, a soft, fluffy sleeve just rubs gently against his face, a pair of eyes look into his eyes as he raises them, a pair of lips lovingly press his, a gentle, loving voice says, "Do you know, dear, you look very comfortable and happy," everything that is good swells up in him and finds its expression in the typical Americanism: "You bet I am!"