Part 1

Chapter 14,279 wordsPublic domain

REFLECTIONS OF A BEGINNING HUSBAND

BY EDWARD SANDFORD MARTIN

AUTHOR OF “THE LUXURY OF CHILDREN” “LUCID INTERVALS,” ETC.

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXIII

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PUBLISHED APRIL, 1913

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

I. BY THE SECOND INTENTION 1

II. SOME DETAILS OF LIVING 27

III. COMMODITIES AND CONTENTMENT 52

IV. THE BABY 73

V. A CONTRIBUTION FROM MAJOR BRACE 94

VI. POLITICS 116

VII. WE DINE OUT AND DISCUSS EDUCATION 125

VIII. MY PROSPECTS IMPROVE 146

REFLECTIONS OF A BEGINNING HUSBAND

BY THE SECOND INTENTION

“Dear Mr. French,” my letter began, “Cordelia and I have a mind again to get married. But having once been engaged and quit, we have no mind at all to be engaged again and divulge it. Would you mind, please, you and Mrs. French, if we eloped? It seems so much the more feasible and private way.”

I would rather have broken it to him by word of mouth, but for some things it is written words or none. If you have determined to elope with a man’s daughter you can’t very well go and ask leave of him. Suppose he objects! Of course he will object, especially after consulting his wife. The only way, if you propose to consult him at all, is to write, and mail the letter on the way to the church and come back to the house afterward for the answer.

Cordelia felt she just couldn’t be publicly engaged to me again. Of course I didn’t mind. I think meanly of the engaged state _per se_, but I had always rather be engaged to Cordelia than not. But that was only because I had always wanted to marry her, and had been glad to throw any convenient obstacle, even an engagement, in the way of her marrying any one else. The thing that had bothered me was to have the engagement end without our being married. I wanted to have it die a natural death in church, with flowers and a minister, and it had irked me very sore indeed to be “released” like a baseball-player before the end of the season. It left me on a miserably awkward footing with the rest of the world and with her, and it left her in the same case. Nobody quite knew whether to congratulate either of us on getting rid of the other. People naturally wanted to know why, and of course you can’t tell in the newspaper. It was awkward for our families. There was a feeling that they ought to quarrel, because somebody must be to blame, and the other side ought to resent it. But they didn’t want to quarrel, and wouldn’t; not even a little, to keep up appearances. They held their tongues and went on about their business as before, but inevitably flocked more apart than they had been wont to do, because when they met it excited too much interest.

I don’t mean that they were such conspicuous people that the London papers had cables about them. It was only that when Mrs. Fessenden or Mrs. Somebody Else got home from the Jenkinses’ tea she told her family, and whomever she had to dinner, that Mrs. French and Harriet and Mrs. Jesup were at the Jenkinses’ and spoke, as they passed, as politely as though nothing had happened. And then would follow a little chattering tribute of discourse about Cordelia French and Peregrine Jesup, and why did they break their engagement, anyway!

Not that my family, or Cordelia’s, got direct reports of what was said at Mrs. Fessenden’s dinner-table. They didn’t; at least, not often. But they knew what must have been said, and families don’t like to be subjects of speculation or of critical or even compassionate observation. They can bear the eye of approval, of admiration, and even of a moderate envy, but what family likes to have the Fessendens, the Jenkinses, the Underharrows, the Overtons, and the rest of the families getting their heads together to swap surmises as to what the Frenches and the Jesups have got in their closet!

Maybe you’d like to know why Cordelia and I loosed hands after our intentions had been six months on file. In this private way why should I not explain that it was not so much the fault of either of us as of the conditions of life as we found them. You see, I was twenty-three, and Cordelia was two years younger. I was studying the profession in which I hope to be useful in my day and generation, and by the practice of which I hope to derive a respectable maintenance from a contributory world, which Cordelia was already inspecting. That’s what she was doing. She was out of school and looking about, shifting from continent to continent to get a better view; getting acquainted with people and things, ascertaining whom and what she liked and what places seemed more joyous to her than others. What for so much inspection and investigation to prepare her for a destiny already measured off, tied up, and waiting to be called for? If she had been in college, she might possibly have kept. I don’t know what are the merits of the women’s colleges as depositories for engaged girls, but they may have a value for that use. But a roving life of enlargement by travel and social experience has no such value at all. There was I, tied up to professional studies, on such allowances as my indulgent parents could afford me without too gross injustice to their own family life and their obligations to their other dependents. And there was Cordelia, diligently qualifying herself to live creditably and profitably on an income of from twelve thousand a year up.

You might suppose that ordinary precautions would have been taken to prevent her from seeing much of a person so unsuited to her needs as I, but they were not. There was nothing against me: I had no criminal record, did not drink much, was of respectable origin, had known Cordelia a long time already, and was such a person, in a general way, as she might properly enough marry sometime, if circumstances suited. Cordelia came out, and went to dances and dinners. She had to dance with somebody. Male persons of the dancing age and disposition with incomes of from twelve thousand up are rather scarce. Dances cannot be equipped with such alone: neither can dinners. So Cordelia danced with anybody who asked her soon enough, and that was often me; and she ate her dinner alongside of whoever was put next to her, and that was sometimes me. And when it wasn’t me I wished it was; and so what happened, happened all in natural course and according to reasonable expectation, and nobody ventured to disprove, though doubtless there was a fair volume of conjecture as to whose money Cordelia French and Peregrine Jesup proposed to get married on. But we had not selected anybody to underwrite our prospective happiness. We had not got so far as that. We had just got irresponsibly engaged, according to the American plan and the spontaneous promptings of youth and affection.

What about our current American practice of turning most of the girls loose from school at eighteen or nineteen and keeping most of the youths, who are their natural mates, tied up to professional studies or business apprenticeships four or five years longer, and letting them play together meanwhile, and expecting them to shape their own destinies on practical and satisfactory lines? Isn’t a good deal expected of us young people, all tinder, sparks, and indiscretion? The French, they tell me, expect less and provide more. I have thought a good deal of these concerns since Cordelia and I were first engaged and found our intentions unseasonable. Of course, I wanted to be considered in Cordelia’s plans and deportment; wanted, naturally, to have her stay around where I could see her at recess and on Sundays and other holidays, and perhaps meet her at festive gatherings when the urgency of my studies permitted me to get to them. I liked to have her around handy, but of course I could not interdict her from going about, or even from going beyond the seas when it suited her parents to take her. I could say that she had already seen as much of the world and the people in it as was necessary, but how was I to insist that, while I was cultivating and improving my abilities all I knew how, Cordelia should let most of hers lie fallow and mark time and wait? If she had only had a steady job to work at in the intermission while I was qualifying myself to work at mine, things might have worked out serenely; but the only job she had was to get married, and meanwhile to cheer and satisfy her parents, and try to be worth her keep to them while she was making acquaintance with the world. Marriage seems to be a complete occupation (circumstances being favorable), but being engaged isn’t. It’s just a makeshift, delightful for six weeks, very suitable for three months, and tolerable for six; but when it contemplates indefinite extension into uncertain years it is an asset of very doubtful value to a girl in active social life. When the Frenches found that Cordelia seemed to be losing interest in affairs, was indifferent to dances and dinners, was apt to be abandoned by mankind to the society of chaperones, was getting left out of house-parties that I could not go to, was gently indisposed to put the sea or any wide expanse of land between herself and me, and was rather aggravated than appeased by the little she could see of me when I was near, they said--the parents did: “This isn’t working to much of a charm! Nobody is ahead on it, and we are getting behind. Cordelia’s no fun any more, and there is no end of it in sight.”

And soon after Cordelia and I called our engagement off, much to our grief and with the sympathy of our elders. I advised her to put me down to the account of experience, and try to figure out a profit on me, if she could. But I never put her down to account of anything, being of just the same mind about her that I always had been, though grievously put out to leave her blooming on the paternal bush without any “hands-off” sign on her, protected only by her natural thorns.

There was a line in the paper to say the engagement was off, Cordelia went abroad again, I continued my studies, and time went on. It does go on somehow; the trick is to keep on going with it. Who does that, gets somewhere in spite of impediments, lacerations of the affections, and all misgivings about the possibility of there being a gap anywhere in the procession of self-supporters that a new aspirant can fit himself into. I have been called “sensible.” It seems a painfully tame thing to be, and I presume I was called so by way of disparagement. But, after all, there are times when there is no choice but between being sensible and being silly, and then you have just got to be sensible if you can, no matter how it tastes. Being sensible, while one is working to get a start in life, must be excused, because it is the price of adventure, indiscretion, speculation--all the really glorious and spectacular parts of human existence.

Three years I was sensible and plugged away at my job, learning the rudiments and then the application of them. All that time I had never a word with Cordelia. How could I? I could not go on where I left off, and unless, or until, I could do that, how could I go on at all? Sight of her I did have now and then, but seldom; for, though she was often in town and I nearly always there, our occupations usually kept us from accidental meetings. We didn’t travel the same beats.

I finished my professional studies, sustained the tests provided to measure my proficiency, and got a job in an office with a small salary and some prospects. Candor requires that I admit that I passed those examinations pretty well, for really I had not spared work in the long preparation for them.

And the job I got was a good one as beginners’ jobs go, and the prospects were as good, so far as I could see, as the prospects of anybody of my time of life and in my line of endeavor. So I didn’t see why, barring accidents, I should not get somewhere presently.

So the months sped. Coming early up-town on a late October day, I got into a pay-as-you-enter car at Forty-second Street, and there was Cordelia, alone and with a seat vacant beside her, which I took.

“This is a fine day,” said I, “and you become it very much, and I hope you have good health?”

“Oh yes,” said Cordelia.

“And good spirits?” said I.

“Oh yes;” but she said it more doubtfully and with no more than a languid affirmation.

“And I hope that sport is good,” said I; and she assented to that, but in a way that suggested that it might be more boisterously satisfactory. And with that we fell into discourse, trifling but easy, and that progressed in its tone from easy to friendly, and from friendly to old-friendly. And I let the car pass Fifty-fourth Street and pretended to myself I was going to Fifty-ninth, and let it pass Fifty-ninth and pretended nothing further to myself. It wasn’t until some days later that I learned that her intended destination was Fifty-seventh Street. As it was, while rolling through the Sixties we each cautiously discovered that we were bound for the Museum at Eighty-second Street, and there we got off; and since it was, as I pointed out to her, too lovely an autumn day to go indoors, we went and sat down in the Park instead, and there, a little off the track of passers-by, fell into discussion of the conditions of contemporary existence.

“Cordelia,” said I, “are you having any fun?”

She meditated a moment. Three years is a long time in the early twenties, and Cordelia had grown perceptibly thoughtfuler since she and I left off.

“Fun? Oh yes, I have _some_. It has been a pleasant summer. We went abroad in the spring, and it was nice in the country after we got home. People were sometimes interesting; some of the books were good to read; I liked the flowers in the garden, and I liked to ride a horse, and sometimes motoring was pleasant, and the swimming and the sailing.”

I confess that my heart settled back a bit at this list of profitable occupations. “Are you marrying any one this fall, Cordelia?” said I. “Have you an interesting line of suitors now? Or can it be that being well off you have the unusual discretion to realize it?”

“Oh, I realize it; yes, a good deal. But I am only temporarily well off.”

“What’s the matter? Father’s stocks look shaky to you?”

“Oh no. Father doesn’t seem anxious.”

“Suitors, maybe. Perhaps you feel yourself near capitulation?”

“Possibly! But I have not diagnosed it so.”

“Down there where you spend your summers there are stock-brokers growing on every bush, and the stock-brokers, you know, Cordelia, are the only _young_ men--except the hereditary rich--who have money enough to get married on.”

“Why didn’t you turn to that yourself, Peregrine?”

“I? Bless you! I never had a chance. Nobody ever seemed to see the making of a stock-broker in me. And besides--well, I confess I have never felt drawn to that vocation. I would like uncommonly well to earn plenty of money, and I mean to, sometime; but I’d rather have the pay seem more like an incident of my job than have my job an incident of my pay.”

“I’m afraid you are not a really earnest money-maker, Peregrine?”

“Just wait till I get a chance to throw in my clutch; then you’ll see! And I’ll soon begin to get it now! But if you think well of the stock-broker calling, Cordelia, there was Archibald Tassel. I heard of him as having the discernment to be your warm admirer; and a wholesome, hearty young man too, and well found. And yet you seem never to have smiled on him?”

“So?”

“It must be you don’t care for a sporting life. Well, I am only moderately drawn to it myself. You have to work so hard and pay so high for what you get, and it’s so hard on the tissues, and you get so little in the end. But there was that cheerful young Van Terminal, Cordelia; pockets bulging with ancestral coin; nice manners, immense energy, large appetite for pleasure, four or five automobiles in his garage, and a private tank of gasolene with a pipe-line connection with Hunters Point. If there is an eligible young man about, it is Corlear Van Terminal, and yet, Cordelia--”

“Mercy, Peregrine, would you have me marry him?”

“Oh no! By no means. No! No! I never was the least keen to have you. But why didn’t you?”

“Why should I?”

“Everything money can buy, and not such a bad encumbrance. Amiable young man enough, and you with your great qualifications for companionship and direction might have kept him out of serious mischief all his days. I don’t say you could have done it, but it was conceivably possible.”

“He’s very nice and so jocund. Mother and I were much pleased with him--are still. I don’t know what efforts I should have made if it hadn’t been for father.”

“What did _he_ say?”

“I hardly like to tell you!”

“Oh yes, do!”

“He said: ‘Good God! Cordelia. Not that one! Wait, and perhaps you may catch a _man_! Leave those joyous natures to marry chorus girls,’ he said, and told me I was built for something better than to be the ballast for a joy-rider’s motor-car. That’s just like father. He’s not very practical. But it flattered me, and I didn’t try after that.”

“Poor girl! What a father! What a tremendous handicap parents are, anyway!”

“You needn’t complain of father. That was the only time he meddled. He has done his best for me. He knows admirable young men! ‘Father’s friends,’ I call them. Somehow they never make up to me. But I’m improving; I know I am. I think so much my hair is coming out, and the day may come when I shall find grace in the eyes of one of ‘father’s friends.’”

“Oh no! Cordelia, don’t! I have a better plan for you. I know such a good young man, who has needed you with gnawing destitution, night and day going on four years.”

“How interesting! The poor young man! Destitute of me and I suppose of all the other goods of this world, and mortgaged besides for the support of his aged grandmother! I beg you, Peregrine, not to attempt to entangle me with impossible good young men. Life is too fleeting. The American spring is too short. All in a minute is it summer, and to-morrow comes Fourth of July and haytime, and we are cut down and cast into the oven.”

“Well, dear Cordelia, take a broker--take a broker! Or some nice old gentleman; or a widower or something, with ready-made shekels strung on him!”

“Don’t be unkind to me, Peregrine!”

“Oh, well--I was telling you--where was I? You put me all out when you speak like that. Oh yes--the good young destitute man! Well, the good young man has no grandmother to support--only himself as yet, and can do that, by George! And it’s time; he’s rising twenty-seven. And his prospects are not bad now. And if he could manage to get married they’d be better; they’d have to be. You see, we have to get one thing at a time, and I’ve known awful cases--even I in my short experience have observed them--of men who waited until they had got a good living before they got married, and found, when they got ready to get a wife, that their minds had been on other things so long that they had clean forgotten how. That’s awful, isn’t it? It happens all the time. I see it at the clubs. I don’t want it to happen to--to the good young semi-destitute man I had in mind.”

“Oh no, Peregrine; surely not. It’s an awful thought; awful! But yet, suppose he got the girl, what--”

“What costs so dreadfully much, Cordelia? I know of quite a decent flat for fifty dollars a month; a nice flat over a tailor shop, and not in Harlem either--not twenty blocks from where we’re sitting. And for three dollars a day you can get food enough for two or three persons--eggs not superlatively fresh, perhaps, but eggs--and for a dollar a day you can hire a very good servant, and that’s only a little more than forty dollars a week; and a good young man of twenty-seven, with four or five years of hard work behind him, who can’t see his way to lay his hands on at least sixty dollars a week isn’t good enough for you. But sixty would about do it, Cordelia. Sixty plunks is a great deal of money--a whole lot of money to earn--but not an unattainable wage; not one that a diligent and competent trained hand need consider the limit of his aspirations--no, not in a city like this with a traction company to be supported, and eighty million people in the back country to help pay five millions of us for living here.”

“You are a more calculating person than you used to be, Peregrine. When did you work all that out? And suppose it were possible to live on sixty dollars a week, what makes you think it would pay to do it, and why do most people of our habits think they need so very much more?”

“The trouble with them is they haven’t been emancipated. The things that cost are amusement and social aspirations. If you can cut those out for a time, living is not so impossibly dear. But stupid people can’t do it, and unemancipated people don’t dare to.”

“Unemancipated? Unemancipated! Unemancipated from what, Peregrine?”

“From _things_, Cordelia, and the habit of needing them in superfluous quantity; from the standards of living set by people who are poor on fifty thousand a year; from the idea of life that is based on what you have got; from automobiles, and expensive sports, and boxes at the opera; from the notion that it is essential to keep in the swim, and know only the right people; from pleasures and from people that waste time and money and give nothing back that is worth having.”

“My! Peregrine! When did you turn anarchist?”

“Not long after our engagement was broken. I loved you, Cordelia, that’s the truth, and I hated everything that broke it. I learned to see that there was no obstacle between you and me that a little time and hard work could not easily overcome, and that the obstacles that looked biggest and blackest had no real substance to them, and could be brushed aside whenever we were ready and had the grit to do it. Don’t cry, Cordelia! If you let me hold your hand again, I don’t think any one would notice.”

“I was--I wasn’t crying, Peregrine. I--I was--only thinking!”

“Don’t cry! Because this is such a delightful world for folks who are free and can work, and have the courage to shape their own courses. It looks all lovely colors to me, with you here--so much to get and such an interesting stunt to get to it; so much to do, and such inspirations for the doing of it; such excellent loads to lift at and maybe shoulder. Think, Cordelia, think by all means! That is the most fun there is, and the most we shall either of us get for some time to come if you marry me on sixty dollars a week. Oh dear! There were times when I feared you weren’t going to wait! Those were the worst pinches of the pull. To get tired and have no heart of refuge to fly to--you know that is pretty trying, Cordelia.”

“I know, Peregrine. And to wait with folded hands and not know--it tries the faith. A bunch of roses on my birthday, a bunch of roses on Christmas morning, not a line with either of them! Oh, Peregrine!”

“There! Nobody saw us but the squirrel! ‘Far out of sight, while sorrows still enfold us, lies the fair country where our hearts abide.’ Do you know that hymn, Cordelia? There were days together when it ran in my head. It meant heaven to whoever wrote it, but to me it meant a fifty-dollar-a-month flat and you.”

“Don’t cry, Peregrine!”

“I wasn’t crying. But you must allow a man some sentiment. Are you game for the flat and sixty dollars a week?”

“Let us look at the flat. I hope all the rooms are not cupboards. Do you know that my aunt just passed on the drive in a victoria? Gracious! I have just time to get home before dark and dinner.”