Part 2

I never much admired our manner of making love declarations in France. We go down on our knees, in our nineteenth-century costume, at the feet of a woman whom we allow from her superior height to contemplate us in all our servility. With her sweet, downcast eyes, this little demon of observation takes an inventory of our slightest blemishes: of our hair, that is not so luxuriant as it was; of our rounded upturned eyes, that appear to be all whites; of a small wart, that we fondly fancied no one noticed; of our dignity, that we have abdicated in going on our knees, to implore favours that we are destined to pay enough for, Heaven knows, and which, after all, mean promotion for her who grants them; for I maintain that a woman who marries is promoted over her sisters. Well I say it plainly, our part in this little scene is a supremely ridiculous one. If you are not of the same opinion, gentlemen, put the following question to yourselves: Should I ever think of being photographed in such a position? I await your reply.

They manage these things differently in England. The favourite seat of young girls at home is a low chair, an ottoman, or very often a simple footstool. How often have I seen pretty daughters of Albion, and that in the best society, sitting Turkish fashion on the rug in front of the fire, on winter evenings, caressing one another, or listening, while some interesting novel was read aloud! These little scenes, full of charm, have often suggested to me sweet pictures of domestic happiness, in which each one plays the part that, according to my ideas, is most befitting.

Seated comfortably at your ease, you have near you, but a little lower than yourself, the beloved object of your dreams, or better still, the dear companion of your daily life; in whose ear, without dislocating your vertebræ, you can murmur sweet words of love. All your defects, if defects you have--and be sure of it, you are not without some--are out of the range of her eyesight. Over you, in perfumed waves, spread her beautiful tresses that you caress, knot, unknot, and never tire of playing with. With the eyes of a lover, and at the same time a protector, you admire the graceful contour of her form, that vibrates with pleasure at the sound of your voice, and her eyes that seem to implore your protection and thank you for the cloudless life you map out for her. Thus seated, you might even, without fear of annoying her, smoke your cigar while you hold sweet converse, and build your castles in Spain. I say, without fear of annoying her, for your wife will certainly allow you to smoke, if she is not a simpleton.

"Your husband in love savours somewhat of the pacha," some emancipated lady will perhaps exclaim.

Not in the least. We are not speaking of a master and his slave, but merely putting in their proper places the possessor and the possessed: the one who will have the battle of life to fight, and the one who will fit him for it, who will encourage him by her tenderness and love, rejoice with him in his joys, and cheer him in time of adversity: "a state not of slavery, but of exalted duty."

Ah! Madam, how I am filled with admiration for you, when, meeting your husband, I hear him say to me: "Excuse me, my dear boy, if I leave you so quickly, but I am in a hurry to get home; my wife is expecting me!" I know so many husbands who are in no hurry to go home, and for good reason.

The kiss on the lips is almost the only one practised in England.

Do not imagine, however, that this pleasant little pastime can be indulged in as freely as you might desire. No, here as elsewhere, the same difficulty presents itself: the people that you may kiss are those that belong to you; the people whose lips you are forbidden to approach, are those that belong to that stern Cerberus that the French call _Autrui_.

I would willingly initiate you further, dear inquisitive lady reader, into those little scenes of intimacy, always so interesting, no matter whether they pass amid English fogs or beneath Italy's pure sky; but, you see, in all the houses where I have had the honour of being invited, I have watched and observed in vain; I have scarcely seen anything worth noting down. Those provoking Britons always waited until I had left the house to proceed to business.

III.

Love in Marriage--Mrs. John Bull's bedroom--As you make your bed, so you must lie on it--Young People, English and French--How it may sometimes be an economy to take your Wife with you when you travel on the Continent.

John Bull owes his success in this world--and perhaps in the next also--to his indifference towards woman, an indifference that he is fortunate enough to owe to his peculiar organisation and the uniform temperature of his blood, and which not only enables him to keep a cool head before the charms of the fair sex, but also to maintain them in a complete state of submission.

The submission of woman to man is the basis of every solid social system.

In John's eyes, woman is almost a necessary evil; a wife a partner of the firm; love-making a little _corvée_ more or less disagreeable.

The Englishman is unquestionably well fitted for making colonies, but badly formed for making love: he has no _abandon_ about him, cannot forget himself, and passes his life in standing sentinel at the door of his dignity. It requires more skill to make love than to lead armies, said Ninon de Lenclos, who was an authority.

Go to the theatre and you will hear the young lover declare himself to his lady-love in about the same tone as we should use at table in asking our neighbour, "May I trouble you for the mustard?"

This "I love you" may be sincere, and is, I doubt not; but it certainly can never have the power of our "_Je t'aime_." The English language, in avoiding the second person singular, avoids familiarity. Here a man says _you_ alike to his mistress and his bootmaker. Who among us does not still feel a thrill of emotion and pleasure as he thinks of the moment when, for the first time, he grew bold enough to change _vous_ into _toi_? Where is the woman whose pulses did not quicken with love at the sound of those words, _Si tu savais comme je t'aime_, breathed low in her ear by her accepted lover. It is true that in our high society a man uses _vous_ in speaking to his wife, but if he loves her, _vous_ is only for the gallery: there are times when _toi_ is indispensable.

After all, perhaps _you_ sits better on an Englishman, with his respect for his wife: a respect of which she must be a little inclined to complain occasionally.

Only go and see John Bull's house, and once more, let me repeat that by John Bull I always mean the middle-class Englishman, with an income of from two to five hundred a year. You will find it all very comfortable: drawing-room, dining-room, library, breakfast-room. But the bedroom!

Ah! the bedroom! You see at a glance that you are not in the temple of love, but in a refuge for sleep and repose.

Of all the rooms in an English house, the bedroom is the least attractive looking, the one that has had the least care and money spent upon it: it always looks to me like a servant's room. No little cosy arm-chairs; no pretty furniture; no ornament. Few or no curtains.[1] You look in vain for a boudoir, that green-room of the little elf-god. No: six straight-backed fragile-looking cane chairs; an iron or brass bedstead; a dressing-table in front of the window; a chest of drawers; a washstand, and a sponge-bath.

[1] Many Englishmen are of opinion that curtains make a bedroom unhealthy. Health is the first thing to be considered.

Nothing more. What! my dear Mrs. Bull, not even a screen! Is John no longer a man in your eyes?

Better still. Would you believe that in very good houses, I have seen, and very plainly too ... yes, positively, I have seen _it_ on the floor under the washstand?... I have often noticed by the side of the English bed, a little piece of furniture, resembling a music-box in shape, which I think does not add much poetical charm to the couch of Mr. and Mrs. John Bull.

Such is the temple in which the Englishman sacrifices to Venus.

You have probably heard it said, dear reader, that a stranger never penetrates into the bedroom in England. That is true, and may easily be understood. However, should you call on an Englishman and be persuaded to prolong your visit a little, after some time he will be sure to ask you if you would not like to go upstairs and wash your hands. It is the formula.

When I say that the bedroom is quite devoid of ornaments, I exaggerate a little: the walls are adorned with illuminated texts from the Bible, hung by means of ribbons. They are texts chosen for their suitableness. "Thou God seest me," ... etc. The best was one that I saw thus posted up at the head of an English bed: "Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation; for the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak."

One more word upon the English bedroom.

In making a bed in England, every covering is not taken off separately, as it is in France, to be replaced carefully one after the other, without the slightest crumple. Here the whole is taken off, or rather turned back, over the foot of the bed, the feather bed is shaken, and the clothes returned to their place as they came.

* * * * *

Cold as an Englishwoman, has said Alfred de Musset. And as the illustrious poet was an authority on women, we still say in France: _froide comme une Anglaise_. Don't believe a word of it; it is a calumny. You form your judgment from stiff collarettes that look as if they had never been crumpled. In my mind, one of the Englishman's greatest faults is his not appreciating at their proper worth such sweet charming women, all the more attractive for their little air of propriety and prudishness.

The finest Stradivarius would give forth but sorry sounds in the hands of an ignoramus. How can you expect women to look very lively when they have to pass the first fifteen years of their married life _enceintes_ or _en couches_, suckling all the little John Bulls destined one day to introduce cold beef and pickles in the four corners of the Globe?

* * * * *

When a Frenchwoman gets married, her good time begins; when an Englishwoman gets married, her good time is over. Within a year her case is settled: _comme mars en carême_. Thanks to the liberty that is allowed to young couples, there may be a little mistake in arithmetic made occasionally. As I do not wish to seem to calumniate for the pleasure of calumniating, I must hasten to add that it is a very rare thing to hear of an Englishman breaking faith where his attentions have been too successful.

French men and English women generally live very happily together in matrimony, often quite like lovers.

On the contrary, English men and French women seem to lead dull and wretched lives. Of course, I am speaking of those that I know; I do not wish to generalise, it would be absurd; and yet it seems to me one might say that there were never two beings who appeared to be less suited for each other; as well try to marry the day and the night.

Far be it from me to think of contesting the virtue of Englishwomen. Women are born virtuous all the world over: this is one of the firm convictions that I delight in holding. Is it simplicity or innocence on my part? I do not think so.

Only, I would remark that the virtue of an Englishwoman runs less risk in a country where young men are by temperament less enterprising, by education more reserved, and by natural awkwardness more shy with women than in Continental countries.

I do not say this in order to be critical, quite the contrary; and as, in making these observations, my intention is not either to please the French or to court the English, but simply to write conscientiously what I think and what I see, I will hasten to add, that I greatly prefer the young Englishman of twenty, shy, awkward, and childish as he may appear to our school heroes, with his cricket and his football, to the young Frenchman of the same age, who runs down women, and looks at them with a bold and patronising air, as he twirls his moustache.

The young English girl knows more of life than the young French girl; she may be as pure, but she is less innocent, less intact, and consequently knows better how to take care of herself. A young married woman will sometimes have a young sister not out of her teens, to stay with her, during her confinement. Such a thing would never be done in France. I do not say who is right; I merely draw attention to the facts.

Unless a married woman courts danger, she runs no risk, surrounded as she is by her children. All these things are so many safeguards for the Englishwoman of the middle classes. I say _middle classes_; for, if one may believe the reports of divorce cases published in the newspapers, it is evident that the English upper classes cannot cast the stone at their Continental neighbours.

As for the lower orders, I have resolved to speak of them as little as possible in this volume. The subject is as repulsive as it is stale.

* * * * *

Our worthy friend John Bull would doubtless like to have his virtue discoursed upon at length. He prides himself upon it not a little; he likes it talked about.

Yet one would be almost tempted to believe that he leaves all his superfluous stock of that commodity in the cloak-rooms at Dover and Folkestone, before embarking on board the boats of the South-Eastern Railway Company. Good heavens! But what an emancipated look he has in Paris! What a metamorphosis! How the corners of his mouth go up! How he throws his insular reserve overboard! Why, this can never be John! Somebody must have substituted an inferior article; he does not look half so good. And when he returns home to his island, what endless tales he has to tell about the immorality of Paris and Brussels! Shocking! Dreadful!

Funny constitution! When he has had his little round of a fortnight on the Continent, he seems to resume his quiet, godly habits for the rest of the year. How he must have improved each shining hour!

* * * * *

The virtue of an Englishman is bounded on the south by the English Channel; on the west by the Atlantic Ocean; on the east by the North Sea.

* * * * *

"Why do you employ so many Germans in your offices?" I asked one day of a great City man.

----"Because they speak several languages," he replied.

----"But could you not find Englishmen who have lived abroad, that would do as well?"

----"I could find plenty, no doubt; but I should have no confidence in their steadiness. You must not lose sight of an Englishman."

----"You don't mean it!" I cried. "Is that the opinion you have of your countrymen?"

----"I don't believe in the virtue of an Englishman on the Continent," he replied seriously.

----"What! You would not trust a...."

----"I would trust nobody."

----"Not even a bishop?"

----"Not even a bishop."

* * * * *

"Things are dreadfully dear in France; one spends no end of money in Paris," said another Briton to me one day.

----"Do you think so?" I replied. "When I am in Paris, and am staying at an hotel, I spend but about twenty-five francs a day, and I live like a prince."

----"Frightfully dear! I tell you."

----"And you talk of going again next month?"

----"Yes, but I shall have my wife with me."

----"What! you will take your wife! You will spend double as much then...."

----"Not at all, I...."

My islander checked himself; he felt he had gone a little too far, and a deep blush spread over his countenance.

"Oh! I beg your pardon," I cried; "of course you are quite right.... I was not thinking."

Was I not a simpleton?

IV.

The Marriage Ceremony in England--Civil Marriages--Elopements--Marriage in Scotland--Show your Credentials--One word more about the _dot_.

Marrying one of John Bull's daughters is not all honey.

One cannot help wondering how it comes to pass that the English, who for centuries have been reforming their religion in every sense imaginable, have never yet turned their attention to making the language of the Church as choice and euphemistic as is the language of good society. The Protestant Church alone seems to have retained the sole privilege of calling a spade a spade, or something worse still.

At the ordinary services, it does not so much matter. The clergyman is at a certain distance from the congregation, and when he reads you, from the Bible, a story that makes you tremble for fear of what he will read next, you can comfort yourself with the idea that the charming young lady at your side has perhaps not been listening. Besides, that which is addressed to everybody is addressed to nobody; witness, the effect upon Christians of all the sermons that have been preached to them for nearly two thousand years.

But when it comes to going through the marriage ceremony in church, it is quite another matter.

You are standing beside your bride, and close to the clergyman who is facing you. Six or eight bridesmaids, sometimes young girls twelve or fifteen years old, are grouped behind the bride. Breaking the profound silence, the minister thus addresses you, not in Latin, but in plain English: "Dearly beloved brethren, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate ... not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which matrimony was ordained." And then he goes on to say that it was ordained for the procreation of children, for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication, that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body.

That is how the ball opens. It is promising, is it not? You would give the world to sink through the floor, or to be able to seize your dear little wife, and fill her ears with cotton wool. You blush, as you think of the sweet creatures in white, blue, and pink, who are just behind you biting their lips, and wondering what those brute beasts, that have no understanding, have to do with the ceremony, and you feel ready to fall on your knees and implore the forgiveness of the innocent young girl at your side, for having brought her there to hear such things. And that which strikes you with wonder, nay, with amazement, is that just after, when the minister says to her, "Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband ... wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health?" she does not indignantly exclaim:

"No, indeed, not for the world!"

Thus have the English, in their rigid puritanism, managed to spoil a ceremony that might, and ought, to remain engraven on the memory among life's sweetest souvenirs.

And yet, what beautiful words might be said to young couples, and that, without going out of the Bible for them: the Bible, that finest monument of English prose, so poetical at times, so grand, yet so melodious always! Never was woman painted in colours so poetical; never were her duties traced with such a masterly hand as by the famous King of the Hebrews; and one might extract from the Proverbs and the Song of Solomon a most charming lecture to be addressed to young couples presenting themselves at the altar.

The language of the English Bible is incomparably superior to that of the Bible in any other idiom. It is like music, like trumpet blasts. With the exception of the finest passages of Bossuet, I know nothing, even in our splendid prose, that could be compared with this great national epic.

The foregoing remarks on the Bible will perhaps give pleasure to the English; not that I wrote them with any such intention: it is simply the exact truth.

* * * * *

Plenty of people in England do without the religious ceremony. They are not free-thinkers, for that; they are merely worthy people quite orthodox, but who prefer the civil marriage as being more simple.

They present themselves at the registrar's office. No need to produce any papers: the bridegroom gives his name and surname, as well as those of the young girl he means to marry; the couple declare their ages, in the presence of two witnesses, and state whether they are spinster and bachelor, or whether either or both have been through the ceremony of marriage before. The registrar's book is signed, and there is an end of the matter. By means of a licence, that may be obtained at Doctors' Commons for the sum of two guineas, the trouble of having one's banns published may be avoided.

It is scarcely necessary to add that, when the parents give consent to the marriage of their children, the ceremony generally takes place in church; but the registrar is a great resource, when the parents are so cruel as to stand in the way of the young folks' happiness.

* * * * *

Elopements are very common in England. Do not imagine, however, for an instant, that an elopement means anything very romantic. No signal or rope ladder at midnight; no carriage with two swift steeds waiting at the corner of the next street; no masked postillions, such as one is accustomed to at the Ambigu Theatre. Nothing of the kind. As I said in "John Bull and his Island," "A young girl goes out one fine morning to post a letter, and, on her return, informs her parents that she is married." Only; of course, it sometimes happens that she does _not_ return.

In the appendix will be found the account of a case that has recently been tried in Dublin.[2] The prisoner, aged forty-two, had been through the ceremony of marriage five times.

[2] See Appendix (a).

But for marriage made easy, Scotland is the place. There civil marriage, religious marriage, all is unnecessary. You gather together your parents and friends, present to them the young girl to whom you are engaged, and tell them: "This is the wife I have chosen." The matter is settled: you are married.

If I may believe certain Scotch novels, this presentation even may be dispensed with. It is sufficient for the young people to say to each other: "I take you for my wife;" "I accept you as my husband," in order to be able to consider themselves well and duly married. "A wedding is all very well," Sandy will tell you, "but for real fun and enjoyment, give me a good funeral."

I do not speak of these Scotch weddings with the least intention of laughing at them. I think those primitive customs simply admirable. Laws, contracts, and other impediments of all kinds are only made for rogues.

Compare this charming manner of getting married with the bothers and hindrances without end arising from the necessity for producing the papers exacted by the French bureaucracy, both religious and civil: certificates of birth, certificates of baptism, certificates of the death of parents you may have lost, written consent of parents who are unable to be present, _billets de confession_, and I know not what besides; until you wonder Red Tape does not demand your own certificate of existence. It would seem as though the marriage formalities in France had been invented with the express idea of making young people shun matrimony.

* * * * *

Dress coats are not worn at weddings in England; they are only used for evening wear, and are called evening coats. The bridegroom, his best man, and the other gentlemen, are in frock coats. The dresses of the bride and bridesmaids are similar to those worn in France on such occasions.