Getting Married (2/2) (4/12)

| Mrs. Bridgenorth | There really is something fascinating about Incognita. She never gives her address. That’s a good sign. | | The General | Mf! No assignations, you mean? | | The Bishop | Oh yes: she began the correspondence by making a very curious but very natural assignation. She wants me to meet her in heaven. I hope I shall. | | The General | Well, I must say I hope not, Alfred. I hope not. | | Mrs. Bridgenorth | She says she is happily married, and that love is a necessary of life to her, but that she must have, high above all her lovers⁠— | | The Bishop | She has several apparently⁠— | | Mrs. Bridgenorth | —some great man who will never know her, never touch her, as she is on earth, but whom she can meet in Heaven when she has risen above all the everyday vulgarities of earthly love. | | The Bishop | Rising. Excellent. Very good for her; and no trouble to me. Everybody ought to have one of these idealizations, like Dante’s Beatrice. He clasps his hands behind him, and strolls to the hearth and back, singing. | | | Lesbia appears in the tower, rather perturbed. | | Lesbia | Alice: will you come upstairs? Edith is not dressed. | | Mrs. Bridgenorth | Rising. Not dressed! Does she know what hour it is? | | Lesbia | She has locked herself into her room, reading. | | | The Bishop’s song ceases; he stops dead in his stroll. | | The General | Reading! | | The Bishop | What is she reading? | | Lesbia | Some pamphlet that came by the eleven o’clock post. She won’t come out. She won’t open the door. And she says she doesn’t know whether she’s going to be married or not till she’s finished the pamphlet. Did you ever hear such a thing? Do come and speak to her. | | Mrs. Bridgenorth | Alfred: you had better go. | | The Bishop | Try Collins. | | Lesbia | Weve tried Collins already. He got all that I’ve told you out of her through the keyhole. Come, Alice. She vanishes. Mrs. Bridgenorth hurries after her. | | The Bishop | This means a delay. I shall go back to my work. He makes for the study door. | | Reginald | What are you working at now? | | The Bishop | Stopping. A chapter in my history of marriage. I’m just at the Roman business, you know. | | The General | Coming from the garden door to the chair Mrs. Bridgenorth has just left, and sitting down. Not more Ritualism, I hope, Alfred? | | The Bishop | Oh no. I mean ancient Rome. He seats himself on the edge of the table. I’ve just come to the period when the propertied classes refused to get married and went in for marriage settlements instead. A few of the oldest families stuck to the marriage tradition so as to keep up the supply of vestal virgins, who had to be legitimate; but nobody else dreamt of getting married. It’s all very interesting, because we’re coming to that here in England; except that as we don’t require any vestal virgins, nobody will get married at all, except the poor, perhaps. | | The General | You take it devilishly coolly. Reginald: do you think the Barmecide’s quite sane? | | Reginald | No worse than ever he was. | | The General | To the Bishop. Do you mean to say you believe such a thing will ever happen in England as that respectable people will give up being married? | | The Bishop | In England especially they will. In other countries the introduction of reasonable divorce laws will save the situation; but in England we always let an institution strain itself until it breaks. I’ve told our last four Prime Ministers that if they didn’t make our marriage laws reasonable there would be a strike against marriage, and that it would begin among the propertied classes, where no Government would dare to interfere with it. | | Reginald | What did they say to that? | | The Bishop | The usual thing. Quite agreed with me, but were sure that they were the only sensible men in the world, and that the least hint of marriage reform would lose them the next election. And then lost it all the same: on cordite, on drink, on Chinese labor in South Africa, on all sorts of trumpery. | | Reginald | Lurching across the kitchen towards the hearth with his hands in his pockets. It’s no use: they won’t listen to our sort. Turning on them. Of course they have to make you a Bishop and Boxer a General, because, after all, their blessed rabble of snobs and cads and half-starved shopkeepers can’t do government work; and the bounders and weekenders are too lazy and vulgar. They’d simply rot without us; but what do they ever do for us? what attention do they ever pay to what we say and what we want? I take it that we Bridgenorths are a pretty typical English family of the sort that has always set things straight and stuck up for the right to think and believe according to our conscience. But nowadays we are expected to dress and eat as the weekend bounders do, and to think and believe as the converted cannibals of Central Africa do, and to lie down and let every snob and every cad and every halfpenny journalist walk over us. Why, there’s not a newspaper in England today that represents what I call solid Bridgenorth opinion and tradition. Half of them read as if they were published at the nearest mother’s meeting, and the other half at the nearest motor garage. Do you call these chaps gentlemen? Do you call them Englishmen? I don’t. He throws himself disgustedly into the nearest chair. | | The General | Excited by Reginald’s eloquence. Do you see my uniform? What did Collins say? It strikes the eye. It was meant to. I put it on expressly to give the modern army bounder a smack in the eye. Somebody has to set a right example by beginning. Well, let it be a Bridgenorth. I believe in family blood and tradition, by George. | | The Bishop | Musing. I wonder who will begin the stand against marriage. It must come some day. I was married myself before I’d thought about it; and even if I had thought about it I was too much in love with Alice to let anything stand in the way. But, you know, I’ve seen one of our daughters after another⁠—Ethel, Jane, Fanny, and Christina and Florence⁠—go out at that door in their veils and orange blossoms; and I’ve always wondered whether they’d have gone quietly if they’d known what they were doing. I’ve a horrible misgiving about that pamphlet. All progress means war with Society. Heaven forbid that Edith should be one of the combatants! | | | St. John Hotchkiss* comes into the tower ushered by Collins. He is a very smart young gentleman of twenty-nine or thereabouts, correct in dress to the last thread of his collar, but too much preoccupied with his ideas to be embarrassed by any concern as to his appearance. He talks about himself with energetic gaiety. He talks to other people with a sweet forbearance (implying a kindly consideration for their stupidity) which infuriates those whom he does not succeed in amusing. They either lose their tempers with him or try in vain to snub him. | | Collins | Announcing. Mr. Hotchkiss. He withdraws. | | Hotchkiss | Clapping Reginald gaily on the shoulder as he passes him. Tootle loo, Rejjy. | | Reginald | Curtly, without rising or turning his head. Morning. | | Hotchkiss | Good morning, Bishop. | | The Bishop | Coming off the table. What on earth are you doing here, Sinjon? You belong to the bridegroom’s party: you’ve no business here until after the ceremony. | | Hotchkiss | Yes, I know: that’s just it. May I have a word with you in private? Rejjy or any of the family won’t matter; but⁠—He glances at the General, who has risen rather stiffly, as he strongly disapproves of the part played by Hotchkiss in Reginald’s domestic affairs. | | The Bishop | All right, Sinjon. This is our brother, General Bridgenorth. He goes to the hearth and posts himself there, with his hands clasped behind him. | | Hotchkiss | Oh, good! He turns to the General, and takes out a card-case. As you are in the service, allow me to introduce myself. Read my card, please. He presents his card to the astonished General. | | The General | Reading. “Mr. St. John Hotchkiss, the Celebrated Coward, late Lieutenant in the 165th Fusiliers.” | | Reginald | With a chuckle. He was sent back from South Africa because he funked an order to attack, and spoiled his commanding officer’s plan. | | The General | Very gravely. I remember the case now. I had forgotten the name. I’ll not refuse your acquaintance, Mr. Hotchkiss; partly because you’re my brother’s guest, and partly because I’ve seen too much active service not to know that every man’s nerve plays him false at one time or another, and that some very honorable men should never go into action at all, because they’re not built that way. But if I were you I should not use that visiting card. No doubt it’s an honorable trait in your character that you don’t wish any man to give you his hand in ignorance of your disgrace; but you had better allow us to forget. We wish to forget. It isn’t your disgrace alone: it’s a disgrace to the army and to all of us. Pardon my plain speaking. | | Hotchkiss | Sunnily. My dear General, I don’t know what fear means in the military sense of the word. I’ve fought seven duels with the sabre in Italy and Austria, and one with pistols in France, without turning a hair. There was no other way in which I could vindicate my motives in refusing to make that attack at Smutsfontein. I don’t pretend to be a brave man. I’m afraid of wasps. I’m afraid of cats. In spite of the voice of reason, I’m afraid of ghosts; and twice I’ve fled across Europe from false alarms of cholera. But afraid to fight I am not. He turns gaily to Reginald and slaps him on the shoulder. Eh, Rejjy? Reginald grunts. | | The General | Then why did you not do your duty at Smutsfontein? | | Hotchkiss | I did my duty⁠—my higher duty. If I had made that attack, my commanding officer’s plan would have been successful, and he would have been promoted. Now I happen to think that the British Army should be commanded by gentlemen, and by gentlemen alone. This man was not a gentleman. I sacrificed my military career⁠—I faced disgrace and social ostracism rather than give that man his chance. | | The General | Generously indignant. Your commanding officer, sir, was my friend Major Billiter. | | Hotchkiss | Precisely. What a name! | | The General | And pray, sir, on what ground do you dare allege that Major Billiter is not a gentleman? | | Hotchkiss | By an infallible sign: one of those trifles that stamp a man. He eats rice pudding with a spoon. | | The General | Very angry. Confound you, I eat rice pudding with a spoon. Now! | | Hotchkiss | Oh, so do I, frequently. But there are ways of doing these things. Billiter’s way was unmistakable. | | The General | Well, I’ll tell you something now. When I thought you were only a coward, I pitied you, and would have done what I could to help you back to your place in Society⁠— | | Hotchkiss | Interrupting him. Thank you: I haven’t lost it. My motives have been fully appreciated. I was made an honorary member of two of the smartest clubs in London when the truth came out. | | The General | Well, sir, those clubs consist of snobs; and you are a jumping, bounding, prancing, snorting snob yourself. | | The Bishop | Amused, but hospitably remonstrant. My dear Boxer! | | Hotchkiss | Delighted. How kind of you to say so, General! You’re quite right: I am a snob. Why not? The whole strength of England lies in the fact that the enormous majority of the English people are snobs. They insult poverty. They despise vulgarity. They love nobility. They admire exclusiveness. They will not obey a man risen from the ranks. They never trust one of their own class. I agree with them. I share their instincts. In my undergraduate days I was a Republican-a Socialist. I tried hard to feel toward a common man as I do towards a duke. I couldn’t. Neither can you. Well, why should we be ashamed of this aspiration towards what is above us? Why don’t I say that an honest man’s the noblest work of God? Because I don’t think so. If he’s not a gentleman, I don’t care whether he’s honest or not: I shouldn’t let his son marry my daughter. And that’s the test, mind. That’s the test. You feel as I do. You are a snob in fact: I am a snob, not only in fact, but on principle. I shall go down in history, not as the first snob, but as the first avowed champion of English snobbery, and its first martyr in the army. The navy boasts two such martyrs in Captains Kirby and Wade, who were shot for refusing to fight under Admiral Benbow, a promoted cabin boy. I have always envied them their glory. | | The General | As a British General, Sir, I have to inform you that if any officer under my command violated the sacred equality of our profession by putting a single jot of his duty or his risk on the shoulders of the humblest drummer boy, I’d shoot him with my own hand. | | Hotchkiss | That sentiment is not your equality, General, but your superiority. Ask the Bishop. He seats himself on the edge of the table. | | The Bishop | I can’t support you, Sinjon. My profession also compels me to turn my back on snobbery. You see, I have to do such a terribly democratic thing to every child that is brought to me. Without distinction of class I have to confer on it a rank so high and awful that all the grades in Debrett and Burke seem like the medals they give children in Infant Schools in comparison. I’m not allowed to make any class distinction. They are all soldiers and servants, not officers and masters. | | Hotchkiss | Ah, you’re quoting the Baptism service. That’s not a bit real, you know. If I may say so, you would both feel so much more at peace with yourselves if you would acknowledge and confess your real convictions. You know you don’t really think a Bishop the equal of a curate, or a lieutenant in a line regiment the equal of a general. | | The Bishop | Of course I do. I was a curate myself. | | The General | And I was a lieutenant in a line regiment. | | Reginald | And I was nothing. But we’re all our own and one another’s equals, aren’t we? So perhaps when you’ve quite done talking about yourselves, we shall get to whatever business Sinjon came about. | | Hotchkiss | Coming off the table hastily. My dear fellow. I beg a thousand pardons. It’s about the wedding? | | The General | What about the wedding? | | Hotchkiss | Well, we can’t get our man up to the scratch. Cecil has locked himself in his room and won’t see or speak to anyone. I went up to his room and banged at the door. I told him I should look through the keyhole if he didn’t answer. I looked through the keyhole. He was sitting on his bed, reading a book. Reginald rises in consternation. The General recoils. I told him not to be an ass, and so forth. He said he was not going to budge until he had finished the book. I asked him did he know what time it was, and whether he happened to recollect that he had a rather important appointment to marry Edith. He said the sooner I stopped interrupting him, the sooner he’d be ready. Then he stuffed his fingers in his ears; turned over on his elbows; and buried himself in his beastly book. I couldn’t get another word out of him; so I thought I’d better come here and warn you. | | Reginald | This looks to me like they’ve arranged it between them. | | The Bishop | No. Edith has no sense of humor. And I’ve never seen a man in a jocular mood on his wedding morning. | | | Collins* appears in the tower, ushering in the bridegroom, a young gentleman with good looks of the serious kind, somewhat careworn by an exacting conscience, and just now distracted by insoluble problems of conduct. | | Collins | Announcing. Mr. Cecil Sykes. He retires. | | Hotchkiss | Look here, Cecil: this is all wrong. You’ve no business here until after the wedding. Hang it, man! you’re the bridegroom. |