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I TALKED to a woman once on
the subject of honeymoons. I said, "Would you recommend a long
honeymoon,
or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?" A silence fell upon her. I
gathered
she was looking back rather than forward to her answer.
"I would advise a long
honeymoon," she replied at length, "the old-fashioned month."
"Why," I
persisted, "I thought the tendency of the age was to cut these
things
shorter and shorter."
"It is the tendency of
the age," she answered, "to seek escape from many things it would
be
wiser to face. 1 think myself that, for good or evil, the sooner it is
over, –
the sooner both the man and the woman know, – the better."
"The sooner what is
over?" I asked.
If she had a fault, this
woman, about which I am not sure, it was an inclination towards enigma.
She crossed to the window
and stood there, looking out.
"Was there not a
custom," she said, still gazing down into the wet, glistening street,
"among
one of the ancient peoples, I forget which, ordaining that when a man
and
woman, loving each other, or thinking that they loved, had been joined
together, they should go, down upon their wedding night to the temple?
And into
the dark recesses of the temple, through many winding passages, the
priest led
them until they came to the great chamber where dwelt the Voice of
their god.
There the priest left them, clanging to the massive door behind
him, and
there, alone in silence, they made their sacrifice; and in the night
the Voice
spoke to them, showing them their future life, – whether they had
chosen well;
whether their love would live or die. And in the morning the priest
returned
and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among their fellows. But
no one
was permitted to question them, nor they to answer should any do so.
– Well, do
you know, our nineteenth-century honeymoon at Brighton, Switzerland, or
Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may be, always seems to me merely
another
form of that night spent alone in the temple before the altar of that
forgotten
god. Our young men and women marry, and we kiss them and congratulate
them, and
standing on the doorstep throw rice and old slippers, and shout good
wishes
after them; and he waves his gloved hand to us, and she flutters her
little
handkerchief from the carriage window; and we watch their smiling faces
and
hear their laughter until the corner hides them from our view. Then we
go about
our own business, and a short time passes by; and one day we meet them
again,
and their faces have grown older and graver; and I always wonder what
the voice
has told them during that little while that they have been absent from
our
sight. But of course it would not do to ask them. Nor would they answer
truly
if we did."
My friend laughed, and
leaving the window took her place beside the tea-things, and,
other callers
dropping in, we fell to talk of pictures, plays, and people.
But I felt it would be
unwise to act on her sole advice, much as I have always valued her
opinion.
A woman takes life too
seriously. It is a serious affair to most of us, the Lord knows. That
is why it
is well not to take it more seriously than need be.
Little Jack and little Jill
fall down the hill, hurting their little knees and their little noses,
spilling
the hard-earned water. We are very philosophical.
"Oh, don't cry!"
we tell them; "that is babyish. Little boys and little girls must learn
to
bear pain. Up you get, fill the pail again, and try once more."
Little Jack and little Jill
rub their dirty knuckles into their little eyes, looking ruefully
at their
bloody little knees and trot back with the pail. We laugh at them, but
not ill-naturedly.
"Poor little
souls," we say; "how they did hullabaloo! One might have thought they
were half-killed. And it was only a broken crown, after all. What a
fuss
children make!" We bear with much stoicism the fall of little Jack and
little Jill.
But when we –
grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up Jill with the first
faint, "crow's
feet" showing – when we tumble down the hill, and our pail is spilt, ye Heavens! what a
tragedy has happened! Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend the
laws of
nature. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill, coming down the hill, – what they
were doing on
the hill we will not inquire, – have slipped over a stone,
placed there surely
by the evil powers of the universe. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have
bumped their
silly heads. Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill have hurt their little hearts, and
stand
marvelling that the world can go about its business in the face of such
disaster.
Don't take the matter quite
so seriously, Jack and Jill. You have spilled your happiness; you
must toil up
the hill again and refill the pail. Carry it more carefully next time.
What
were you doing? Playing some fool's trick, I'll be bound.
A laugh and a sigh, a kiss
and good-bye, is our life. Is it worth so much fretting? It is a merry
life on
the whole. Courage, comrade. A campaign cannot be all drum and fife and
stirrup-cup. The marching and the fighting must come into it
somewhere. There
are pleasant bivouacs among the vineyards, merry nights around the
campfires.
White hands wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at our going. Would
you run
from the battle-music? What have you to complain of? Forward: the medal
to
some, the surgeon's knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, six
foot of
mother earth. What are you afraid of? Courage, comrade.
There is a mean between
basking through life with the smiling contentment of the alligator, and
shivering through it with the aggressive sensibility of the Lama
determined to
die at every cross word. To bear it as a man we must also feel it as a
man. My
philosophic friend, seek not to comfort a brother standing by the coffin of his child with the cheery
suggestion that it will be all the
same a hundred years hence, because, for one thing, the observation is
not true:
the man is changed for all eternity, – possibly for the better,
but don't add
that. soldier with a bullet in his
neck is never quite the man he was. But he can laugh and he can talk,
drink his
wine and ride his horse. Now and again, towards evening, when the
weather is
trying, the sickness will come upon him. You will find him on a couch
in a dark
corner.
"Hallo! old fellow,
anything up?"
"Oh, just a twinge, the
old wound, you know. I will be better in a little while." Shut the door
of
the dark room quietly. I should not stay even to sympathise with him if
I were
you. The men will be coming to screw the coffin down soon. I think
he would
like to be alone with it till then. Let us leave him. He will come back
to the
club later on in the season. For a while we may have to give him
another ten
points or so, but he will soon get back his old form. Now and again,
when he
meets the other fellows' boys shouting on the towing-path; when
Brown rushes
up the drive, paper in hand, to tell him how that young scapegrace Jim
has won
his Cross; when he is congratulating Jones's eldest on having passed
with
honours, – the old wound may give him a nasty twinge. But the
pain will pass
away. He will laugh at our stories and tell us his own; eat his dinner,
play
his rubber. It is only a wound.
Tommy can never be ours;
Jenny does not love us. We cannot afford claret, so we shall have to
drink
beer. Well, what would you have us do? Yes, let us curse Fate, by all
means;
some one to curse is always useful. Let us cry and wring our hands
– for how
long? The dinner-bell will ring soon, and the Smiths are coming. We
shall have
to talk about the opera and the picture-galleries. Quick, where is the,
eau-de-Cologne? where are the curling tongs? Or would you we committed
suicide?
Is it worth while? Only a few more years, – perhaps to-morrow, by
aid of a
piece of orange peel or a broken chimney pot, – and Fate
will save us all that
trouble.
Or shall we, as sulky
children, mope day after day? We are a broken-hearted little Jack
– little
Jill. We shall never smile again; we shall pine away and die, and be
buried in
the spring. The world is sad, and life so cruel, and heaven so cold.
Oh, dear!
oh, dear! we have hurt ourselves.
We whimper and whine at
every pain. In old strong days men faced real dangers, real troubles,
every
hour; they had no time to cry. Death and disaster stood ever at the
door. Men
were contemptuous of them. Now in each snug protected villa we set to
work to
make wounds out of scratches. Every headache becomes an agony, every
heartache
a tragedy. It took a murdered father, a drowned sweetheart, a
dishonoured
mother, a ghost, and a slaughtered Prime Minister to produce the
emotions in
Hamlet that a modern minor poet obtains from a chorus girl's frown, or
a
temporary slump on the Stock Exchange. Like Mrs. Gummidge, we feel
it more.
The lighter and easier life gets, the more seriously we go out to meet
it. The
boatmen of Ulysses faced the thunder and the sunshine alike with frolic
welcome. We modern sailors have grown more sensitive. The sunshine
scorches us;
the rain chills us. We meet both with loud self-pity.
Thinking these thoughts, I
sought a second friend, – a man whose breezy common-sense
has often helped me,
– and him likewise I questioned on this subject of honeymoons.
"My dear boy," he
replied, "take my advice: if ever you get married, arrange it so that
the
honeymoon shall only last a week, and let it be a bustling week into
the
bargain. Take a Cook's circular tour. Get married on the Saturday
morning, cut
the breakfast and all that foolishness, and catch the eleven-ten from
Charing Cross
to Paris. Take her up the Eiffel Tower on Sunday. Lunch at
Fontainebleau. Dine
at the Maison Dorée, and show her the Moulin Rouge
in the evening. Take the night train for Lucerne. Devote Monday and
Tuesday to
doing Switzerland, and get into. Rome by Thursday morning, taking the
Italian
lakes en route. On Friday cross to
Marseilles, and from there push along to Monte Carlo. Let her have a
flutter at the tables. Start early Saturday morning for Spain, cross
the
Pyrenees on mules, and rest at Bordeaux on Sunday. Get back to Paris on
Monday
(Monday is always a good day for the opera), and on Tuesday evening you
will be
at home and glad to get there. Don't give her time to criticise you
until she
has got used to you. No man will bear unprotected exposure to a young
girl's
eyes.
The honeymoon is the
matrimonial microscope. Wobble it. Confuse it with many objects.
Cloud it with
other interests. Don't sit still to be examined. Besides, remember that
a man
always appears at his best when active, and a woman at her worst.
Bustle her,
my dear boy, bustle her: I don't care who she may be. Give her plenty of luggage to
look after; make her catch trains. Let her see the average husband
sprawling comfortably
over the railway cushions, while his wife has to sit bolt upright in
the corner
left to her. Let her hear how other men swear. Let her smell other
men's
tobacco. Hurry up, and get her accustomed quickly to the sight of
mankind. Then
she will be less surprised and shocked as she grows to know you. One of
the
best fellows I ever knew spoilt his married life beyond repair by a
long quiet
honeymoon. They went off for a month to a lonely cottage in some
heaven-forsaken
spot, where never a soul came near them, and never a thing happened but
morning, afternoon, and night. There for thirty days she overhauled
him. When
he yawned and he yawned – pretty often, I guess, during that
month – she
thought of the size of his mouth, and when he put his heels upon the
fender she
sat and brooded upon the shape of his feet. At meal-time, not feeling
hungry
herself, having nothing to do to make her hungry, she would occupy
herself
with watching him eat; and at night, not feeling sleepy for the same
reason,
she would lie awake and listen to his snoring. After the first day or
two he
grew tired of talking nonsense, and she of listening to it (it sounded
nonsense
now they could speak it aloud; they had fancied it poetry when they had
had to
whisper it); and having no other subject, as yet, of common interest,
they
would sit and stare in front of them in silence. One day some trifle
irritated
him and he swore. On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded hotel,
she would
have said, "Oh!" and they would both have laughed. From that echoing
desert the silly words rose up in widening circles towards the sky, and
that
night she cried herself to sleep. Bustle them, my dear boy, bustle
them. We all
like each other better, the less we think about one another, and the
honeymoon
is an exceptionally critical time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her."
My very worst honeymoon
experience took place in the South of England in eighteen hundred
and – well,
never mind the exact date, let us say a few years ago. I was a shy
young man at
that time. Many complain of my reserve to this day, but then some girls
expect
too much from a man. We all have our shortcomings. Even then, however,
I was
not so shy as she. We had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to
Ventnor,
an awkward bit of cross-country work in those days.
"It's so fortunate you
are going too," said her aunt to me on the Tuesday; "Minnie is always
so nervous travelling alone. You will be able to look after her, and I
sha'n't be
anxious."
I said it would be a
pleasure, and at the time I honestly thought it. On the Wednesday I
went down
to the coach office and booked two places for Lymington, from where we
took the
steamer. I had not a suspicion of trouble.
The booking-clerk was an
elderly man. He said, –
"I've got the box seat,
and the end place on the back bench."
I said, "Oh, can't I
have two together?"
He was a kindly looking old
fellow. He winked at me. I wondered all the way home why he had winked
at me.
He said, –
"I'll manage it
somehow."
I said, "It's very kind
of you, I'm sure."
He laid his hand on my
shoulder. He struck me as familiar, but well-intentioned. He said,
–
"We have all of us been
there."
I thought he was alluding to
the Isle of Wight. I said, –
"And this is the best
time of the year for it, so I'm told." It was early summer time.
He said, "It's all
right in summer, and it's good enough in winter – while
it lasts. You make the most of it, young 'un;" and he slapped me on the
back and laughed.
He would have irritated me
in another minute. I paid for the seats and left him. At half-past
eight the
next morning Minnie and I started for the coach-office. I call her
Minnie, not
with any wish to be impertinent, but because I have forgotten her
surname. It
must be ten years since I last saw her. She was a pretty girl, too,
with those
brown eyes that always cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did not drive
down
with us as she had intended in consequence of a headache. She was
good enough
to say she felt every confidence in me.
The old booking-clerk caught
sight of us when we were about a quarter of a mile away, and drew to us
the
attention of the coachman, who communicated the fact of our approach to
the
gathered passengers. Everybody left off talking and waited for us. The
boots
seized his horn, and blew – one could hardly call it a blast; it
would be
difficult to say what he blew. He put his heart into it, but not
sufficient
wind. I think his intention was to welcome us, but it suggested rather
a feeble
curse. We learnt subsequently that he was a beginner on the instrument.
In some mysterious way the
whole affair appeared to be our party. The booking-clerk bustled
up and helped
Minnie from the cart. I feared, for a moment, he was going to kiss her.
The
coachman grinned when I said good-morning to him. The passengers
grinned, the
boots grinned. Two chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel,
and they
grinned. I drew Minnie aside and whispered to her. I said, –
"There's something
funny about us. All these people are grinning."
She walked round me, and I
walked round her, but we could neither of us discover anything amusing
about
the other. The booking-clerk said, –
"It's all right. I've got
you young people two places just behind the box-seat. We'll have to put
five of
you on that seat. You won't mind sitting a bit close, will. you?"
The booking-clerk winked at
the coachman, the coachman winked at the passengers, the
passengers winked at
one another, – those of them who could wink, – and
everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids
became hysterical, and had to cling to each other for support. With the
exception of Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach
party ever
assembled at Lyndhurst.
We had taken our places, and
I was still busy trying to fathom the joke, when a stout lady appeared
on the
scene and demanded to know her place.
The clerk explained to her
that it was in the middle behind the driver.
"We've had to put five
of you in that seat," added the clerk.
The stout lady looked at the
seat.
"Five of us can't
squeeze into that," she said.
Five of her certainly could
not. Four ordinary-sized people with her would find it tight.
"Very well, then,"
said the clerk, "you can have the end place on the back seat."
"Nothing of the
sort," said the stout lady. "I booked my seat on Monday, and you told
me any of the front places were vacant."
"I'll take the
back place," I said; "I don't mind it."
"You stop where you
are, young 'un," said the clerk, firmly, "and don't be a
fool. I'll fix her."
I objected to his language,
but his tone was kindness itself.
"Oh, let me have the back
seat," said Minnie,
rising, "I'd so like it."
For answer the coachman put
both his hands on her shoulders. He was a heavy man, and she sat down
again.
"Now then, mum,"
said the clerk, addressing the stout lady, "are you going up there
in the
middle, or are you coming up here at the back?"
"But why not let one of
them take the back seat?" demanded the stout lady, pointing her
reticule
at Minnie and myself; "they say they'd like it. Let them have it."
The coachman rose and
addressed his remarks generally.
"Put her up at the
back, or leave her behind," he directed. "Man and wife have never
been separated on this coach since I started running it fifteen year
ago, and
they ain't going to be now."
A general cheer greeted this
sentiment. The stout lady, now regarded as a would-be blighter of
love's young
dream, was hustled into the back seat, the whip cracked, and away we
rolled.
So here was the explanation.
We were in a honeymoon district in June, – the most popular month
in the whole
year for marriage. Every two out of three couples found wandering about
the New
Forest in June are honeymoon couples; the third are going to be. When
they
travel anywhere it is to the Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes.
Our
bags happened to be new. By some evil chance our very umbrellas were
new. Our
united ages were thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we not
been mistaken for a young married couple.
A day of greater misery I
have rarely passed. To Minnie, so her aunt informed me afterwards, the
journey
was the most terrible experience of her life, but then her experience
up to
that time had been limited. She was engaged, and devotedly attached, to
a young
clergyman; I was madly in love with a somewhat plump girl named
Cecilia, who
lived with her mother at Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at
Hampstead. I remember so distinctly my weekly walk down the hill from
Church
Row to the Swiss Cottage station. When walking down a steep hill all
the weight
of the body is forced into the toe of the boot; and when the boot is
two sizes
too small for you, and you have been living in it since the early
afternoon,
you remember a thing like that. But all my recollections of Cecilia are
painful,
and it is needless to pursue them.
Our coach-load was a homely
party, and some of the jokes were broad, – harmless enough in
themselves, had Minnie
and I really been the married couple we were supposed to be, but
even in that
case unnecessary. I can only hope that Minnie did not understand
them. Anyhow,
she looked as if she didn't.
I forget where we stopped
for lunch, but I remember that lamb and mint sauce was on the table,
and that
the circumstance afforded the greatest delight to all the party,
with the
exception of the stout lady, who was still indignant, Minnie, and
myself. About
my behaviour as a bridegroom opinion appeared to be divided. "He's
a bit
stand-offish with her," I overheard one lady remark to her husband; "I
like to see 'em a bit kittenish myself." A young waitress, on the other
hand, I am happy to say, showed more sense of natural reserve. "Well, I
respect him for it," she was saying to the bar-maid, as we passed
through
the hall; "I'd just hate to be fuzzled over with everybody looking
on." Nobody took the trouble to drop their voices for our benefit. We
might have been a pair of prize lovebirds on exhibition, the way
we were
openly discussed. By the majority we were clearly regarded as a sulky
young
couple who would not go through their tricks.
I have often wondered since
how a real married couple would have faced the situation.
Possibly, had we
consented to give a short display of marital affection, "by
desire,"
we might have been left in peace for the remainder of the journey.
Our reputation preceded us
on to the steamboat. Minnie begged and prayed me to let it be known we
were not
married. How I was to let it be known, except by requesting the captain
to
summon the whole ship's company on deck, and then making them a short
speech, I
could not think. Minnie said she could not bear it any longer, and
retired to
the ladies' cabin. She went off crying. Her trouble was attributed by
crew and
passengers to my coldness. One fool planted himself opposite me with
his legs
apart, and shook his head at me.
"Go down and comfort
her," he began.
"Take an old man's
advice. Put your arms around her." (He was one of those sentimental
idiots.) "Tell her that you love her."
I told him to go and hang
himself with so much vigour that he all but fell overboard. He was
saved by a
poultry crate: I had no luck that day.
At Ryde the guard, by
superhuman effort, contrived to keep us a carriage to ourselves. I gave
him a
shilling, because I did not know what else to do. I would have made it
half-a-sovereign if he had put eight other passengers in with us. At
every
station people came to the window to look in at us.
I handed Minnie over to her
father on Ventnor platform; and I took the first train, the next
morning, to
London. I felt I did not want to see her again for a little while; and
I felt
convinced she could do without a visit from me. Our next meeting took
place the
week before her marriage.
"Where are you going to
spend your honeymoon?" I asked her; "in the New Forest?"
"No," she replied ;
"nor in the Isle of Wight."
To enjoy the humour of an
incident one must be at some distance from it either in time or
relationship. I
remember watching an amusing scene in Whitefield Street, just off
Tottenham
Court Road, one winter's Saturday night. A woman – a rather
respectable-looking
woman, had her hat only been on straight had just been shot out of a
public-house.
She was very dignified and very drunk. A policeman requested her to
move on.
She called him "Fellow," and demanded to know of him if he
considered
that was the proper tone in which to address a lady. She threatened to
report
him to her cousin, the Lord Chancellor.
"Yes; this way to the
Lord Chancellor," retorted the policeman. "You come along with
me;" and he caught hold of her by the arm.
She gave a lurch and nearly
fell. To save her the man put his arm round her waist. She clasped him
round
the neck, and together they spun round two or three times; while
at the very
moment a piano-organ at the opposite corner struck up a waltz.
"Choose your partners, gentlemen,
for the next dance," shouted a wag, and the crowd roared.
I was laughing myself, for
the situation was undeniably comical, the constable's expression
of disgust
being quite Hogarthian, when the sight of a little girl's face beneath
the gas-lamp
stayed me. The child's look was so full of terror that I tried to
comfort lier.
"It's only a drunken
woman," I said; "he's not going to hurt her."
"Please, sir," was
the answer, "it's my mother."
Our joke is generally another's
pain. The man who sits down on the tin-tack rarely joins in the laugh.