I pass over the wedding. In theory I have grown more and more opposed to
such exhibitions. A wedding is more pathetic than a funeral, and
nothing, perhaps, is more out of place than the jubilations of the
guests. When a man and a woman, as husband and wife, have lived together
five years, then the community should engage a band and serenade them,
but at the outset--however, I will not insist--I am doubtless cynically
inclined. I come to the moment when, having successfully weathered the
pitfalls of the honeymoon (there's another mistaken theory--but let that
pass) my wife and I found ourselves at last in our own home, in the
midst of our wedding presents. I say in the midst advisably. Clara sat
helplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from the
fireplace.
"My dear Clara," I said, with just a touch of asperity, "you've had your
way about the wedding. Now you've got your wedding presents. What are
you going to do with them?"
"If people only wouldn't have things marked!" said Clara irrelevantly.
"But they always do," I replied. "Also I may venture to suggest that
your answer doesn't solve the difficulty."
"Don't be cross," said Clara.
"My dear," I replied with excellent good-humor, "I'm not. I'm only
amused--who wouldn't be?"
"Don't be horrid, George," said Clara.
"It _is_ deliciously humorous," I continued. "Quite the most humorous
thing I have ever known. I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have made
a profound discovery. I know now why so many American marriages are not
happy."
"Why, George?"
"Wedding presents," I said savagely, "exactly that, my dear. This being
forced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don't
want, you never will want, and which you've got to live with or lose
your friends."
"Oh, George!" said Clara, gazing around helplessly, "it is terrible,
isn't it?"
"Look at that rug you are sitting on," I said, glaring at a six by ten
modern French importation. "Cauliflowers contending with unicorns,
surrounded by a border of green roses and orange violets--expensive! And
until the lamp explodes or the pipes burst we have got to go on and on
and on living over that, and why?--because dear Isabel will be here once
a week!"
"I thought Isabel would have better taste," said Clara.
"She has--Isabel has perfect taste, depend upon it," I said, "she did it
on purpose!"
"George!"
"Exactly that. Have you noticed that married people give the most
impossible presents? It is revenge, my dear. Society has preyed upon
them. They will prey upon society. Wait until we get a chance!"
"It is awful!" said Clara.
"Let us continue. We have five French rugs; no two could live together.
Five rooms desecrated. Our drawing-room is Art Nouveau, furnished by
your Uncle James, who is strong and healthy and may live twenty years.
I particularly abominate Art Nouveau furniture."
"So do I."
"Our dining-room is distinctly Grand Rapids."
"Now, George!"
"It is."
"Well, it was your Aunt Susan."
"It was, but who suggested it? I pass over the bedrooms. I will simply
say that they are nightmares. Expensive nightmares! I come to the
lamps--how many have we?"
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen atrocities, imitation Louis Seize, bogus Oriental, feathered,
laced and tasseled. So much for useful presents. Now for decoration. We
have three Sistine Madonnas (my particular abomination). Two, thank
heaven, we can inflict on the next victims, one we have got to live with
and why?--so that each of our three intimate friends will believe it his
own. We have water colors and etchings which we don't want, and a
photograph copy of every picture that every one sees in every one's
house. Some original friend has even sent us a life-size, marble
reproduction of the Venus de Milo. These things will be our artistic
home. Then there are vases--"
"Now you are losing your temper."
"On the contrary, I'm reserving it. I shan't characterize the
bric-à-brac, that was to be expected."
"Don't!"
"At least that is not marked. I come at last to the silver. Give me the
list."
Clara sighed and extended it.
"Four solid silver terrapin dishes."
"Marked."
"Marked--Terrapin--ha! ha! Two massive, expensive, solid silver
champagne coolers."
"Marked."
"Marked, my dear--for each end of the table when we give our beefsteak
dinners. Almond dishes."
"Don't!"
"Forty-two individual, solid or filigree almond dishes; forty-two,
Clara."
"Marked."
"Right again, dear. One dozen bonbon dishes, five nouveau riche sugar
shakers (we never use them), three muffineers--in heaven's name, what's
that? Solid silver bread dishes, solid silver candlesticks by the dozen,
solid silver vegetable dishes, and we expect one servant and an
intermittent laundress to do the cooking, washing, make the beds and
clean the house besides."
"All marked," said Clara dolefully.
"Every one, my dear. Then the china and the plates, we can't even eat
out of the plates we want or drink from the glasses we wish; everything
in this house, from top to bottom has been picked out and inflicted upon
us against our wants and in defiance of our own taste and we--we have
got to go on living with them and trying not to quarrel!"
"You have forgotten the worst of all," said Clara.
"No, my darling, I have not forgotten it. I have thought of nothing
else, but I wanted you to mention it."
"The flat silver, George."
"The flat silver, my darling. Twelve dozen, solid silver and teaset to
match, bought without consulting us, by your two rich bachelor uncles in
collusion. We wanted Queen Anne or Louis Seize, simple, dignified,
something to live with and grow fond of, and what did we get?"
"Oh, dear, they might have asked me!"
"But they don't, they never do, that is the theory of wedding presents,
my dear. We got Pond Lily pattern, repoussé until it scratches your
fingers. Pond Lily pattern, my dear, which I loathe, detest, and
abominate!"
"I too, George."
"And that, my dear, we shall never get rid of; we not only must adopt
and assume the responsibility, but must pass it down to our children and
our children's children."
"Oh, George, it is terrible--terrible! What are we going to do?"
"My darling Clara, we are going to put a piece of bric-à-brac a day on
the newel post, buy a litter of puppies to chew up the rugs, select a
butter-fingered, china-breaking waitress, pay storage on the silver and
try occasionally to set fire to the furniture."
"But the flat silver, George, what of that?"
"Oh, the flat silver," I said gloomily, "each one has his cross to bear,
that shall be ours."