1908
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N.B.--There is a point of some technical interest to be noted in this
play. The customary division into acts and scenes has been disused, and
a return made to unity of time and place, as observed in the ancient
Greek drama. In the foregoing tragedy, The Doctor's Dilemma, there are
five acts; the place is altered five times; and the time is spread over
an undetermined period of more than a year. No doubt the strain on the
attention of the audience and on the ingenuity of the playwright is
much less; but I find in practice that the Greek form is inevitable when
drama reaches a certain point in poetic and intellectual evolution.
Its adoption was not, on my part, a deliberate display of virtuosity
in form, but simply the spontaneous falling of a play of ideas into the
form most suitable to it, which turned out to be the classical form.
Getting Married, in several acts and scenes, with the time spread over a
long period, would be impossible.
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On a fine morning in the spring of 1908 the Norman kitchen in the Palace
of the Bishop of Chelsea looks very spacious and clean and handsome and
healthy.
The Bishop is lucky enough to have a XII century palace. The palace
itself has been lucky enough to escape being carved up into XV century
Gothic, or shaved into XVIII century ashlar, or "restored" by a XIX
century builder and a Victorian architect with a deep sense of the
umbrella-like gentlemanliness of XIV century vaulting. The present
occupant, A. Chelsea, unofficially Alfred Bridgenorth, appreciates
Norman work. He has, by adroit complaints of the discomfort of the
place, induced the Ecclesiastical Commissioners to give him some money
to spend on it; and with this he has got rid of the wall papers, the
paint, the partitions, the exquisitely planed and moulded casings with
which the Victorian cabinetmakers enclosed and hid the huge black beams
of hewn oak, and of all other expedients of his predecessors to make
themselves feel at home and respectable in a Norman fortress. It is
a house built to last for ever. The walls and beams are big enough to
carry the tower of Babel, as if the builders, anticipating our modern
ideas and instinctively defying them, had resolved to show how much
material they could lavish on a house built for the glory of God,
instead of keeping a competitive eye on the advantage of sending in the
lowest tender, and scientifically calculating how little material would
be enough to prevent the whole affair from tumbling down by its own
weight.
The kitchen is the Bishop's favorite room. This is not at all because
he is a man of humble mind; but because the kitchen is one of the finest
rooms in the house. The Bishop has neither the income nor the appetite
to have his cooking done there. The windows, high up in the wall, look
north and south. The north window is the largest; and if we look into
the kitchen through it we see facing us the south wall with small Norman
windows and an open door near the corner to the left. Through this door
we have a glimpse of the garden, and of a garden chair in the sunshine.
In the right-hand corner is an entrance to a vaulted circular chamber
with a winding stair leading up through a tower to the upper floors of
the palace. In the wall to our right is the immense fireplace, with
its huge spit like a baby crane, and a collection of old iron and brass
instruments which pass as the original furniture of the fire, though
as a matter of fact they have been picked up from time to time by the
Bishop at secondhand shops. In the near end of the left hand wall
a small Norman door gives access to the Bishop's study, formerly a
scullery. Further along, a great oak chest stands against the wall.
Across the middle of the kitchen is a big timber table surrounded by
eleven stout rush-bottomed chairs: four on the far side, three on the
near side, and two at each end. There is a big chair with railed back
and sides on the hearth. On the floor is a drugget of thick fibre
matting. The only other piece of furniture is a clock with a wooden
dial about as large as the bottom of a washtub, the weights, chains, and
pendulum being of corresponding magnitude; but the Bishop has long since
abandoned the attempt to keep it going. It hangs above the oak chest.
The kitchen is occupied at present by the Bishop's lady, Mrs
Bridgenorth, who is talking to Mr William Collins, the greengrocer. He
is in evening dress, though it is early forenoon. Mrs Bridgenorth is a
quiet happy-looking woman of fifty or thereabouts, placid, gentle, and
humorous, with delicate features and fine grey hair with many white
threads. She is dressed as for some festivity; but she is taking things
easily as she sits in the big chair by the hearth, reading The Times.
Collins is an elderly man with a rather youthful waist. His muttonchop
whiskers have a coquettish touch of Dundreary at their lower ends. He is
an affable man, with those perfect manners which can be acquired only
in keeping a shop for the sale of necessaries of life to ladies whose
social position is so unquestionable that they are not anxious about
it. He is a reassuring man, with a vigilant grey eye, and the power of
saying anything he likes to you without offence, because his tone always
implies that he does it with your kind permission. Withal by no
means servile: rather gallant and compassionate, but never without a
conscientious recognition, on public grounds, of social distinctions. He
is at the oak chest counting a pile of napkins.
Mrs Bridgenorth reads placidly: Collins counts: a blackbird sings in
the garden. Mrs Bridgenorth puts The Times down in her lap and considers
Collins for a moment.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Do you never feel nervous on these occasions,
Collins?
COLLINS. Lord bless you, no, maam. It would be a joke, after
marrying five of your daughters, if I was to get nervous over
marrying the last of them.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. I have always said you were a wonderful man,
Collins.
COLLINS [almost blushing] Oh, maam!
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Yes. I never could arrange anything--a wedding
or even dinner--without some hitch or other.
COLLINS. Why should you give yourself the trouble, maam? Send for
the greengrocer, maam: thats the secret of easy housekeeping.
Bless you, it's his business. It pays him and you, let alone the
pleasure in a house like this [Mrs Bridgenorth bows in
acknowledgment of the compliment]. They joke about the
greengrocer, just as they joke about the mother-in-law. But they
cant get on without both.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. What a bond between us, Collins!
COLLINS. Bless you, maam, theres all sorts of bonds between all
sorts of people. You are a very affable lady, maam, for a
Bishop's lady. I have known Bishop's ladies that would fairly
provoke you to up and cheek them; but nobody would ever forget
himself and his place with you, maam.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Collins: you are a flatterer. You will
superintend the breakfast yourself as usual, of course, wont you?
COLLINS. Yes, yes, bless you, maam, of course. I always do. Them
fashionable caterers send down such people as I never did set
eyes on. Dukes you would take them for. You see the relatives
shaking hands with them and asking them about the family--
actually ladies saying "Where have we met before?" and all sorts
of confusion. Thats my secret in business, maam. You can always
spot me as the greengrocer. It's a fortune to me in these days,
when you cant hardly tell who any one is or isnt. [He goes out
through the tower, and immediately returns for a moment to
announce] The General, maam.
Mrs Bridgenorth rises to receive her brother-in-law, who enters
resplendent in full-dress uniform, with many medals and orders.
General Bridgenorth is a well set up man of fifty, with large
brave nostrils, an iron mouth, faithful dog's eyes, and much
natural simplicity and dignity of character. He is ignorant,
stupid, and prejudiced, having been carefully trained to be so;
and it is not always possible to be patient with him when his
unquestionably good intentions become actively mischievous; but
one blames society, not himself, for this. He would be no worse a
man than Collins, had he enjoyed Collins's social opportunities.
He comes to the hearth, where Mrs Bridgenorth is standing with
her back to the fireplace.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Good morning, Boxer. [They shake hands]. Another
niece to give away. This is the last of them.
THE GENERAL [very gloomy] Yes, Alice. Nothing for the old warrior
uncle to do but give away brides to luckier men than himself.
Has--[he chokes] has your sister come yet?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Why do you always call Lesbia my sister? Dont
you know that it annoys her more than any of the rest of your
tricks?
THE GENERAL. Tricks! Ha! Well, I'll try to break myself of it;
but I think she might bear with me in a little thing like that.
She knows that her name sticks in my throat. Better call her your
sister than try to call her L-- [he almost breaks down] L-- well,
call her by her name and make a fool of myself by crying. [He
sits down at the near end of the table].
MRS BRIDGENORTH [going to him and rallying him] Oh come, Boxer!
Really, really! We are no longer boys and girls. You cant keep up
a broken heart all your life. It must be nearly twenty years
since she refused you. And you know that it's not because she
dislikes you, but only that she's not a marrying woman.
THE GENERAL. It's no use. I love her still. And I cant help
telling her so whenever we meet, though I know it makes her avoid
me. [He all but weeps].
MRS BRIDGENORTH. What does she say when you tell her?
THE GENERAL. Only that she wonders when I am going to grow out of
it. I know now that I shall never grow out of it.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Perhaps you would if you married her. I
believe youre better as you are, Boxer.
THE GENERAL. I'm a miserable man. I'm really sorry to be a
ridiculous old bore, Alice; but when I come to this house for a
wedding--to these scenes--to--to recollections of the past--
always to give the bride to somebody else, and never to have my
bride given to me--[he rises abruptly] May I go into the garden
and smoke it off?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Do, Boxer.
Collins returns with the wedding cake.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Oh, heres the cake. I believe it's the same one
we had for Florence's wedding.
THE GENERAL. I cant bear it [he hurries out through the garden
door].
COLLINS [putting the cake on the table] Well, look at that,
maam! Aint it odd that after all the weddings he's given away at,
the General cant stand the sight of a wedding cake yet. It always
seems to give him the same shock.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Well, it's his last shock. You have married the
whole family now, Collins. [She takes up The Times again and
resumes her seat].
COLLINS. Except your sister, maam. A fine character of a lady,
maam, is Miss Grantham. I have an ambition to arrange her wedding
breakfast.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. She wont marry, Collins.
COLLINS. Bless you, maam, they all say that. You and me said it,
I'll lay. I did, anyhow.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. No: marriage came natural to me. I should have
thought it did to you too.
COLLINS [pensive] No, maam: it didnt come natural. My wife had to
break me into it. It came natural to her: she's what you might
call a regular old hen. Always wants to have her family within
sight of her. Wouldnt go to bed unless she knew they was all safe
at home and the door locked, and the lights out. Always wants her
luggage in the carriage with her. Always goes and makes the
engine driver promise her to be careful. She's a born wife and
mother, maam. Thats why my children all ran away from home.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Did you ever feel inclined to run away, Collins?
COLLINS. Oh yes, maam, yes: very often. But when it came to the
point I couldnt bear to hurt her feelings. Shes a sensitive,
affectionate, anxious soul; and she was never brought up to know
what freedom is to some people. You see, family life is all the
life she knows: she's like a bird born in a cage, that would die
if you let it loose in the woods. When I thought how little it
was to a man of my easy temper to put up with her, and how deep
it would hurt her to think it was because I didnt care for her, I
always put off running away till next time; and so in the end I
never ran away at all. I daresay it was good for me to be took
such care of; but it cut me off from all my old friends something
dreadful, maam: especially the women, maam. She never gave them a
chance: she didnt indeed. She never understood that married
people should take holidays from one another if they are to keep
at all fresh. Not that I ever got tired of her, maam; but my! how
I used to get tired of home life sometimes. I used to catch
myself envying my brother George: I positively did, maam.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. George was a bachelor then, I suppose?
COLLINS. Bless you, no, maam. He married a very fine figure of a
woman; but she was that changeable and what you might call
susceptible, you would not believe. She didnt seem to have any
control over herself when she fell in love. She would mope for a
couple of days, crying about nothing; and then she would up and
say--no matter who was there to hear her--"I must go to him,
George"; and away she would go from her home and her husband
without with-your-leave or by-your-leave.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. But do you mean that she did this more than
once? That she came back?
COLLINS. Bless you, maam, she done it five times to my own
knowledge; and then George gave up telling us about it, he got so
used to it.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. But did he always take her back?
COLLINS. Well, what could he do, maam? Three times out of four
the men would bring her back the same evening and no harm done.
Other times theyd run away from her. What could any man with a
heart do but comfort her when she came back crying at the way
they dodged her when she threw herself at their heads, pretending
they was too noble to accept the sacrifice she was making. George
told her again and again that if she'd only stay at home and hold
off a bit theyd be at her feet all day long. She got sensible at
last and took his advice. George always liked change of company.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. What an odious woman, Collins! Dont you think
so?
COLLINS [judicially] Well, many ladies with a domestic turn
thought so and said so, maam. But I will say for Mrs George that
the variety of experience made her wonderful interesting. Thats
where the flighty ones score off the steady ones, maam. Look at
my old woman! She's never known any man but me; and she cant
properly know me, because she dont know other men to compare me
with. Of course she knows her parents in--well, in the way one
does know one's parents not knowing half their lives as you might
say, or ever thinking that they was ever young; and she knew her
children as children, and never thought of them as independent
human beings till they ran away and nigh broke her heart for a
week or two. But Mrs George she came to know a lot about men of
all sorts and ages; for the older she got the younger she liked
em; and it certainly made her interesting, and gave her a lot of
sense. I have often taken her advice on things when my own poor
old woman wouldnt have been a bit of use to me.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. I hope you dont tell your wife that you go
elsewhere for advice.
COLLINS. Lord bless you, maam, I'm that fond of my old Matilda
that I never tell her anything at all for fear of hurting her
feelings. You see, she's such an out-and-out wife and mother that
she's hardly a responsible human being out of her house, except
when she's marketing.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Does she approve of Mrs George?
COLLINS. Oh, Mrs George gets round her. Mrs George can get round
anybody if she wants to. And then Mrs George is very particular
about religion. And shes a clairvoyant.
MRS BRIDGENORTH [surprised] A clairvoyant!
COLLINS [calm] Oh yes, maam, yes. All you have to do is to
mesmerize her a bit; and off she goes into a trance, and says the
most wonderful things! not things about herself, but as if it was
the whole human race giving you a bit of its mind. Oh, wonderful,
maam, I assure you. You couldnt think of a game that Mrs George
isnt up to.
Lesbia Grantham comes in through the tower. She is a tall,
handsome, slender lady in her prime; that is, between 36 and 55.
She has what is called a well-bred air, dressing very carefully
to produce that effect without the least regard for the latest
fashions, sure of herself, very terrifying to the young and shy,
fastidious to the ends of her long finger-tips, and tolerant and
amused rather than sympathetic.
LESBIA. Good morning, dear big sister.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Good morning, dear little sister. [They kiss].
LESBIA. Good morning, Collins. How well you are looking! And how
young! [She turns the middle chair away from the table and sits
down].
COLLINS. Thats only my professional habit at a wedding, Miss. You
should see me at a political dinner. I look nigh seventy.
[Looking at his watch] Time's getting along, maam. May I send up
word from you to Miss Edith to hurry a bit with her dressing?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Do, Collins.
Collins goes out through the tower, taking the cake with him.
LESBIA. Dear old Collins! Has he told you any stories this
morning?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Yes. You were just late for a particularly
thrilling invention of his.
LESBIA. About Mrs George?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. Yes. He says she's a clairvoyant.
LESBIA. I wonder whether he really invented George, or stole her
out of some book.
MRS BRIDGENORTH. I wonder!
LESBIA. Wheres the Barmecide?
MRS BRIDGENORTH. In the study, working away at his new book. He
thinks no more now of having a daughter married than of having an
egg for breakfast.
The General, soothed by smoking, comes in from the garden.
THE GENERAL [with resolute bonhomie] Ah, Lesbia!
MRS BRIDGENORTH. How do you do? [They shake hands; and he takes
the chair on her right].
Mrs Bridgenorth goes out through the tower.
LESBIA. How are you, Boxer? You look almost as gorgeous as the
wedding cake.
THE GENERAL. I make a point of appearing in uniform whenever I
take part in any ceremony, as a lesson to the subalterns. It is
not the custom in England; but it ought to be.
LESBIA. You look very fine, Boxer. What a frightful lot of
bravery all these medals must represent!
THE GENERAL. No, Lesbia. They represent despair and cowardice. I
won all the early ones by trying to get killed. You know why.
LESBIA. But you had a charmed life?
THE GENERAL. Yes, a charmed life. Bayonets bent on my buckles.
Bullets passed through me and left no trace: thats the worst of
modern bullets: Ive never been hit by a dum-dum. When I was only
a company officer I had at least the right to expose myself to
death in the field. Now I'm a General even that resource is cut
off. [Persuasively drawing his chair nearer to her] Listen to me,
Lesbia. For the tenth and last time--
LESBIA [interrupting] On Florence's wedding morning, two years
ago, you said "For the ninth and last time."
THE GENERAL. We are two years older, Lesbia. I'm fifty: you
are--
LESBIA. Yes, I know. It's no use, Boxer. When will you be old
enough to take no for an answer?
THE GENERAL. Never, Lesbia, never. You have never given me a real
reason for refusing me yet. I once thought it was somebody else.
There were lots of fellows after you; but now theyve all given it
up and married. [Bending still nearer to her] Lesbia: tell me
your secret. Why--
LESBIA [sniffing disgustedly] Oh! Youve been smoking. [She rises
and goes to the chair on the hearth] Keep away, you wretch.
THE GENERAL. But for that pipe, I could not have faced you
without breaking down. It has soothed me and nerved me.
LESBIA [sitting down with The Times in her hand] Well, it has
nerved me to tell you why I'm going to be an old maid.
THE GENERAL [impulsively approaching her] Dont say that, Lesbia.
It's not natural: it's not right: it's--
LESBIA. [fanning him off] No: no closer, Boxer, please. [He
retreats, discouraged]. It may not be natural; but it happens all
the time. Youll find plenty of women like me, if you care to look
for them: women with lots of character and good looks and money
and offers, who wont and dont get married. Cant you guess why?
THE GENERAL. I can understand when there is another.
LESBIA. Yes; but there isnt another. Besides, do you suppose I
think, at my time of life, that the difference between one decent
sort of man and another is worth bothering about?
THE GENERAL. The heart has its preferences, Lesbia. One image,
and one only, gets indelibly--
LESBIA. Yes. Excuse my interrupting you so often; but your
sentiments are so correct that I always know what you are going
to say before you finish. You see, Boxer, everybody is not like
you. You are a sentimental noodle: you dont see women as they
really are. You dont see me as I really am. Now I do see men as
they really are. I see you as you really are.
THE GENERAL [murmuring] No: dont say that, Lesbia.
LESBIA. I'm a regular old maid. I'm very particular about my
belongings. I like to have my own house, and to have it to
myself. I have a very keen sense of beauty and fitness and
cleanliness and order. I am proud of my independence and jealous
for it. I have a sufficiently well-stocked mind to be very good
company for myself if I have plenty of books and music. The one
thing I never could stand is a great lout of a man smoking all
over my house and going to sleep in his chair after dinner, and
untidying everything. Ugh!