Getting Married

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