“He’s one of the greatest nobles in England--one of the greatest in
Europe,” said Edna--and I saw Margot’s eyes sparkling.
“He seemed a nice fellow,” said I amiably. “How you have grown, Margot!”
“Hasn’t she, though!” cried my wife. “Aren’t you proud of her?”
“I’m proud of you both,” said I. “You make me feel old and dingy.”
“You’ve been working too hard, poor dear,” said Edna tenderly. “If you
only would stay over here and learn the art of leisure.”
“I’m afraid I’d be dismally bored,” said I.
I had heard much about the art of loafing as practiced by Europeans,
and I had not been attracted by what I had heard. It was inconceivable
to me that intelligent grown men could pass their time at things about
equal to marbles and tops. But I suppose I am abnormal, as they allege.
Many men seem to look on mental effort of any kind as toilsome, and
seize the first opportunity to return to the mindless frolickings of
the beasts of the field. To me mental effort is a keen pleasure. And I
must add I can’t help thinking it is to everybody who has real brains.
The conversation would have died in distressing agony had it
not been for the indomitable pluck of my wife. She struggled
desperately--perhaps may even have deceived herself into thinking
that she was glad to see me and that the carriage was the scene of a
happy reunion. But I, who had a thorough training in quickly sizing up
situations, saw the truth--that I was a rank outsider, to both wife and
daughter; that they were strangers to me. I began to debate what was
the shortest time I could decently stop in London.
“We are to be presented at Court next week,” said Edna.
Margot’s eyes were again sparkling. It was the sort of look the
novelists put on the sweet young girl’s face when she sees her lover
coming.
“Yes--next week--next Thursday,” said Edna. “And so another of the
little duchess’s dreams is coming true.”
“Is it exciting?” said I to Margot. Somehow reference to the “little
duchess” irritated me.
“Rather!” exclaimed Margot, fairly glowing with ecstasy. “You put
on the most wonderful dress, and you drive in a long, long line of
wonderful carriages, with all the women in wonderful dresses. And
you go into the palace through lines and lines of gorgeous liveries
and uniforms--and you wait in a huge grand room for an hour or so,
frightened to death--and then you walk into the next room and make the
courtesy you have been practicing for weeks--and you pass on.”
“Good!” cried I. “What then?”
“Why you go home, half dead from the nervous shock. Oh, it’s wonderful!”
It seemed to me--for I was becoming somewhat critical, as is the habit
in moods of irritation--it seemed to me that Margot’s elaborate and
costly education might have included the acquiring of a more extensive
vocabulary. That word wonderful was beginning to get on my nerves.
Still, this was hyper-criticism. A lovely woman does not need a
vocabulary, or anything else but a lovely dress and plenty of money to
provide background. “Yes--it must be--wonderful,” said I.
“We’ve been working at it for weeks, mamma and I,” continued she. “I’m
sure we shall do well. I can hardly wait. Just fancy! I’m to meet the
_king_ and the _queen_!”
I saw that Edna was in the same ecstatic trance. I leaned back and
tried to distract myself with the novelty of London houses and crowds.
It may be you understand the mingling of pity, contempt, anger, and
amusement that filled my breast. If you do not understand, explanation
would merely weary you. I was no longer proud of my beautiful family;
I wished to get away from them, to forget them. Edna and Margot
chatted on and on about the king and queen, about the various titled
people they knew or hoped to know, about the thrills of aristocratic
society. I tried not to listen. After a while I said, with I hope not
unsuccessful attempt at amiability:
“I’m sorry I shan’t be here to witness your triumph.”
Across Edna’s face swept a flash of vivid--I had almost said
vicious--annoyance. “You’re not going before the drawing-room at
Buckingham Palace!” cried she.
“I’ll have to,” said I.
“But you can’t!” protested Margot, tears of vexation in her eyes.
“Everyone will think it’s dreadfully queer.”
“Don’t fret about that, my dear,” replied I lightly. “I know how it is
over here. So long as you’ve got the cash they’ll never ask a question.
We Americans mean money to them--and that’s all.”
“Oh, papa!” cried Margot.
“Don’t put such ideas into the child’s head, Godfrey,” said my wife,
restraining herself in a most ladylike manner.
“She knows,” said I. “So do you. Money is everything with aristocracies
everywhere. They must live luxuriously without work. That can’t be done
without money--lots of money. So aristocrats seriously think of nothing
else, whatever they may talk.”
“You’ll have a better opinion of them when you know them,” said Edna,
once more serene and sweetly friendly.
“I don’t think badly of them,” I replied. “I admire their cleverness.
But you mustn’t ask me to respect them. They hardly expect it. They
don’t respect themselves. If they did, they’d not be stealing, but
working.”
Margot listened with lowered eyes. I saw that she was ashamed of and
for me. Edna concealed her feelings better. She forced an amiable
smile. “I don’t know much about these things,” she said politely.
“But, Godfrey, you mustn’t desert us, at least not until after the
drawing-room. I’ve told our ambassador you’re to be here, and he has
gone to no end of trouble to arrange for you.”
“Howard?” said I. “That pup! I despise him. He’s a rotten old snob.
They tell me his toadyism turns the stomach of even the English. He’s a
disgrace to our country. But I suppose he’s little if any worse than
most of our ambassadors over here. They’ve all bought their jobs to
gratify their own and their wives’ taste for shoe polish.”
This speech so depressed the ladies that their last remnant of vivacity
fled, not to return. You are sympathizing with them, gentle reader,
and they are welcome to your sympathy. We drove in silence the rest
of the way to the hotel in Piccadilly, where they were installed in
pompous luxury and had made equally luxurious provision for me. When I
was alone with my valet I reasoned myself out of the grouchy mood into
which the evidences of my family’s fresh access of folly had thrown
me. To quarrel with them, to be irritated against them, was about as
unreasonable as attacking a black man for not being white. I had long
since realized, as the result of much experience and reflection, that
character is no more to be changed than any other inborn quality.
My wife had been born an aristocrat, and had brought into the world
an aristocratic daughter. She was to be blamed neither for the one
thing nor for the other. And it ill became my pretensions to superior
intellect to gird at her and at Margot. The thing for me to do was to
let them alone--keep away.
At dinner, which was served in our apartment, I took a different tone
with them, and they met me more than half way. So cheered was my lovely
daughter that after dinner she perched on the arm of my chair and
ventured to bring up the dangerous subject. Said she:
“You’re not going to be mean to me and run away, are you, papa?”
Looking at Edna, but addressing Margot, I replied: “Your mother will
tell you that it’s best. We three never can agree in our ideas of
things. I’m an irritation. I spoil your pleasure.”
“No--no, indeed!” cried the girl. “I’ve been looking forward to your
coming. I’ve been telling everybody how handsome and superior you are.
And I want them to see for themselves.”
Most pleasant to hear from such rare prettiness, and most sincerely
spoken.
“So many of the American men in society over here are common,”
proceeded she, “and even those who aren’t so very common somehow seem
so. They are down on their knees before titles, and they act--like
servants. Even Mr. Howard-- He oughtn’t to show his feelings so
plainly. Of course we all feel impressed and honored by being taken up
by real titled people of old families, but it’s such bad form to show,
and it interferes with getting on. When I’m talking to Lord Crossley
about that drawing-room, I act as if it were nothing.”
“I see you are being well educated,” said I, laughing.
“Oh, yes. Mamma and I have worked. We’ve not had an idle moment.”
“I believe you,” said I.
“You _will_ stay, papa--won’t you?”
I shook my head. But it was no longer the positive gesture. My
besetting sin, my good nature, had possession of me. Remember, it was
after dinner, and my beautiful daughter was caressing my cheek and was
pleading in a voice whose modulations had been cultivated by the best
masters in Paris.
“But I don’t want people to think I was deceiving them about my papa.”
“I’m willing to be exhibited to a select few in the next two or three
days,” I conceded. “They will tell the others.”
And with that they had to be content. In the faint hope of inducing me
to change my mind, Edna--the devoid of the sense of humor--took me to
a tailor’s and had me shown pictures and models of the court costume I
would wear. But I remained firm. A sense of humor would have warned her
that a person of my sort would have an aversion to liveries of every
kind, to any costume that stamps a man as one of a class. I am perhaps
foolishly jealous of my own individuality. But I cannot help it. A
king in his robes, a general in his uniform--except in battle where
it’s as necessary and useful as night shirt or pajamas in bed--any
sort of livery seems pitiful and contemptible to me. I will wear the
distinguishing dress of the human race and the male sex, but further
than that classification I refuse to move. Also, what business had I,
citizen of a democracy whose chief idea is the barbarism and silliness
of aristocracy--what business had I going to see a king and a queen?
I should have felt that I was aiding them in the triumph of dragging
democracy at their chariot wheels. No, I would not go to levees and
drawing-rooms. You may say I showed myself an absurd extremist. Well,
perhaps so. But, as it seems to be necessary to go to one extreme
or the other, I prefer the extreme of exaggerated and vainglorious
self-respect.
“The king and queen are no doubt nice people,” said I to Margot. “But
if I meet them, it must be on terms of equality--and for some purpose
less inane than exchanging a few set phrases.”
Edna and Margot seemed to feel that they had, on the whole, a
presentable specimen of male relative to exhibit; for they made the
most of the four days I gave them. Through Hilda Armitage, now Lady
Blankenship, and much freshened up by the more congenial atmosphere,
they had got in with the set that is the least easy of access to
Americans--though, of course, it is not actually difficult for any
American with plenty of money and a willingness to spend and good
guidance in how to spend. And I must admit I enjoyed myself in those
four days. The women were, for the most part, rather slow, though I
recall two who had real intelligence, and I don’t think there was a
single one quite so devoid of knowledge of important subjects as our
boasted “bright” American women. The men were distinctly attractive.
They had information, they had breadth--the thing the upper-class
men of America often lack. Also, they were entirely free from that
ill-at-easeness about their own and their neighbor’s position in
society which makes the American upper classes tiresome and ridiculous.
It amused me to observe the Americans in this environment. Both our
women and our men seemed uneasy, small, pinched. You could distinguish
the American man instantly by his pinched, tight expression of an
upper servant out for a holiday. I could feel the same thing in our
women, but I doubt not their looks and dress and vivacity concealed
it from the Englishmen. Anyhow, women are used to being nothing in
themselves, to taking rank and form from their surroundings. While
with us it seems to be true that the women are wholly responsible for
social position with all its nonsense, the deeper truth is that they
owe everything to the possessions of their fathers or husbands. Without
that backing they would be nothing. Everything must ultimately rest
upon a substantiality. In themselves, unsupported, the women’s swollen
pretensions would vanish into thin air.
Lord Crossley was to have dined with us my first evening in London, but
was prevented by suddenly arising business in the country. Next day
he came to lunch, and I at once saw that he was after Margot hammer
and tongs. I discovered it not by the way he treated her, but by his
attitude toward her mother and me. He seemed a thoroughly satisfactory
young man in every way, and I especially liked his frankness and
simplicity. Edna had devoted a large part of a long sight-seeing tour
with me to an account of his grandeur in the British aristocracy.
Having had experience at that time of the American brand of aristocracy
only, I was ignorant of the European kinds that have the aristocratic
instinct in the most acute form--the ingrowing form. I know now that
our own sort, unpleasant and unsightly though it is, cannot compare in
malignance, in littleness and meanness of soul with the European sort.
Just as the noisy blowhard is a modest fellow and harmless, and on
acquaintance lovable in comparison with the silent, brooding egotist,
just so is the American aristocrat in comparison with the European.
An American aristocrat has been known to forget himself and be human.
I recall no instance of that sort in an European born and bred to the
notion that his flesh and blood are of a subtler material than the
flesh and blood of most men. However, as I was saying, at the time of
my first visit to Europe I knew nothing of these matters, and Lord
Crossley seemed to me a simple, ingenuous young man, most attractively
boyish for his years.
“That chap wants to marry Margot,” said I to Edna when we were alone
later in the afternoon.
“I think so,” said she. “Several young men wish to marry her. But she
is in no hurry. She’s not nineteen yet, and she would like a duke.”
“To be sure,” said I. “But she may not be able to love a duke.”
“I never heard of a girl who wouldn’t love a duke if she got the
chance,” said Edna. “There are only five--English dukes, I mean--who
are eligible. Margot has met three of them--and one, the Duke of
Brestwell, has taken quite a fancy to her.” Carelessly, but with
nervous anxiety underneath, “You wouldn’t have any objection?”
“I? Why?”
“Oh--you are so--so peculiar in some ways.”
“Anyone who pleases Margot will suit me,” said I.
“We were afraid you’d be prejudiced against titles. You’ve been with
that eccentric Mr. Armitage so much--and you always have been against
the sort of things Margot and I like.”
“I’ve no objection to titles,” said I. “In fact, I think Margot will be
happier if she marries a title. You’ve educated her so well that she’ll
never see the man or think of him.”
“How little you know her!” cried Edna, pathetically. “And how unjust
to me your prejudices make you. I’ve brought her up to be all
refinement--all sentiment--all heart. She looks only at the highest and
best.”
“At the duke,” said I.
“Certainly at the duke,” said she. “Her tastes are for the life where a
woman can show her beauty of soul to the best advantage and can do the
most good. There is no career for a woman in America. But over here a
woman married into the aristocracy has a real career.”
“At what?” said I.
“As a recognized social leader. As a leader in charities and all sorts
of good movements.”
“Ah, I see,” said I--and there I stopped, for I had learned not to
argue with my wife--or with anyone else, male or female--when the
subject is sheer twaddle. “Yes, I think Margot would do well to marry
over here and to have a dazzling career. I’m sure she’d never get tired
of this--pardon me--treadmill. I observe that it’s better organized
than the imitation one we have over in ‘the States.’”
“I should say!” cried Edna. “You’ve no idea how cheap and common the
best you have in New York is beside the social life here. I’ve been
here only a year, but already there have been the greatest changes in
me. Don’t you notice?”
“I do,” said I. “And I can honestly say you have changed for the
better. You’ve learned to cover it up.”
She looked inquiringly at me, but I did not care to explain what the
“it” was that she had learned to cover. A slight flush appeared in
her cheeks, and I knew intuitively that she thought I was alluding to
her humble origin. I did not disabuse her mind of this impression.
She would have been angry had I explained that I meant her social
ambitions which I thought vulgar and she thought refined. Both she
and Margot, except in occasional unguarded moments in privacy, had
indeed vastly improved in manners. They had learned the trick of the
aristocrats they associated with--the trick of affecting simplicity and
equality and quietly confident ease. There was a notable difference,
and altogether in their favor, between their manners and the manners
of the former Mrs. Armitage and other American women. Whatever might
justly be said in the way of criticism of my wife, it assuredly could
not be said that she was lacking in agility at “catching on.” Armitage
once said to me, “Your wife is a marvelous woman. I never saw or heard
of her making a break.” This tribute can be appreciated only when you
recall whence she sprung--and how much of her origin remained with
her--necessarily--through all her climbings and soarings.
“You prefer it over here?” said I--we were still driving.
“If it weren’t for you, I’d never go back,” said she.
“For me?” said I. “Oh, don’t bother about me.”
“But I do,” replied she sweetly. And her hand covertly stole into mine
for a moment. “Sometimes I get so homesick, Godfrey, that’s it all I
can do to fight off the impulse to take the first steamer.”
I tried to look as a man should on hearing such pleasant and
praiseworthy sentiments from the wife of his bosom.
“You’ve acted cold and--and reserved with me,” she went on. “I wanted
to come to you last night. But I hadn’t the courage. You are such a
mixture of tenderness and--and aloofness. You have the power to make
even me feel like a stranger.”
“I’m sure I don’t mean to be that way,” said I, thoroughly
uncomfortable.
“Margot was speaking of it,” proceeded Edna. “She said--poor
affectionate child--that she hardly dared put her arms round you and
kiss you. You oughtn’t to repulse the child that way, Godfrey. She
has a tender, loving heart. And she adores you. She and I talk of you
a long time every day. I’d insist on it as a matter of duty--for I’d
not let your child forget you. But I don’t need to insist. She refers
everything to you, and whenever she’s unusually happy, she always says:
‘If papa could only be enjoying this with us!’”
I saw that she had worked herself up into a state of excitement.
My good sense told me that there was no genuineness in either her
affection or Margot’s. But I had no doubt they both thought themselves
genuine. And that was quite enough to give me, the easy-going American
slob of a husband and father, an acute attack of guilty conscience. The
upshot was----
But you who have an impressionable heart and a keen sense of your own
shortcomings can guess what it was. Edna and I resumed the relations
of affectionate husband and wife for the rest of my--brief--stop in
London. I remained several days longer than I had intended--stayed
on because I did not wish to hurt her feelings. And I bought her
and Margot all sorts of jewelry and gew-gaws, largely increased her
personal fortune, did not utter a word that would ruffle either of
them. And I left them convinced that I was going only because business
not to be neglected compelled.
They say that the hypocrite wife is a common occurrence. I wonder if
the hypocrite husband is rare. I wonder if there are not more instances
than this one of the husband and the wife playing a cross game of
hypocrisy, with each fancying the other deceived?
So busy was I with my own laborings to deceive my wife as to the true
state of my feelings toward her that not until I was halfway across
the Atlantic did I happen to think the obvious thought. You, gentle
reader, have not thought it. But perhaps some more intelligent species
of reader has. In mid-Atlantic, I suddenly thought: “Why she--she and
Margot--were playing a game--the same game. For what purpose?”
It was not many months before I found out.