Tono Bungay

I forget how many days intervened between that last breaking off of our engagement and Marion’s surrender.  But I recall now the sharpness of my emotion, the concentrated spirit of tears and laughter in my throat as I read the words of her unexpected letter—­“I have thought over everything, and I was selfish….”  I rushed off to Walham Green that evening to give back all she had given me, to beat her altogether at giving.  She was extraordinarily gentle and generous that time, I remember, and when at last I left her, she kissed me very sweetly.

So we were married.

We were married with all the customary incongruity.  I gave—­perhaps after a while not altogether ungrudgingly—­and what I gave, Marion took, with a manifest satisfaction.  After all, I was being sensible.  So that we had three livery carriages to the church (one of the pairs of horses matched) and coachmen—­with improvised flavour and very shabby silk hats—­bearing white favours on their whips, and my uncle intervened with splendour and insisted upon having a wedding breakfast sent in from a caterer’s in Hammersmith.  The table had a great display of chrysanthemums, and there was orange blossom in the significant place and a wonderful cake.  We also circulated upwards of a score of wedges of that accompanied by silver-printed cards in which Marion’s name of Ramboat was stricken out by an arrow in favour of Ponderevo.  We had a little rally of Marion’s relations, and several friends and friends’ friends from Smithie’s appeared in the church and drifted vestry-ward.  I produced my aunt and uncle a select group of two.  The effect in that shabby little house was one of exhilarating congestion.  The side-board, in which lived the table-cloth and the “Apartments” card, was used for a display of the presents, eked out by the unused balance of the silver-printed cards.

Marion wore the white raiment of a bride, white silk and satin, that did not suit her, that made her seem large and strange to me; she obtruded bows and unfamiliar contours.  She went through all this strange ritual of an English wedding with a sacramental gravity that I was altogether too young and egotistical to comprehend.  It was all extraordinarily central and important to her; it was no more than an offensive, complicated, and disconcerting intrusion of a world I was already beginning to criticise very bitterly, to me.  What was all this fuss for?  The mere indecent advertisement that I had been passionately in love with Marion!  I think, however, that Marion was only very remotely aware of my smouldering exasperation at having in the end behaved “nicely.”  I had played—­up to the extent of dressing my part; I had an admirably cut frock—­coat, a new silk hat, trousers as light as I could endure them—­lighter, in fact—­a white waistcoat, night tie, light gloves.  Marion, seeing me despondent had the unusual enterprise to whisper to me that I looked lovely; I knew too well I didn’t look myself.  I looked like a special coloured supplement to Men’s Wear, or The Tailor and Cutter, Full Dress For Ceremonial Occasions.  I had even the disconcerting sensations of an unfamiliar collar.  I felt lost—­in a strange body, and when I glanced down myself for reassurance, the straight white abdomen, the alien legs confirmed that impression.

My uncle was my best man, and looked like a banker—­a little banker—­in flower.  He wore a white rose in his buttonhole.  He wasn’t, I think, particularly talkative.  At least I recall very little from him.

“George” he said once or twice, “this is a great occasion for you—­a very great occasion.”  He spoke a little doubtfully.

You see I had told him nothing about Marion until about a week before the wedding; both he and my aunt had been taken altogether by surprise.  They couldn’t, as people say, “make it out.”  My aunt was intensely interested, much more than my uncle; it was then, I think, for the first time that I really saw that she cared for me.  She got me alone, I remember, after I had made my announcement.  “Now, George,” she said, “tell me everything about her.  Why didn’t you tell—­me at least—­before?”

I was surprised to find how difficult it was to tell her about Marion.  I perplexed her.

“Then is she beautiful?” she asked at last.

“I don’t know what you’ll think of her,” I parried.  “I think—­”

“Yes?”

“I think she might be the most beautiful person in the world.”

“And isn’t she?  To you?”

“Of course,” I said, nodding my head.  “Yes.  She is...”

And while I don’t remember anything my uncle said or did at the wedding, I do remember very distinctly certain little things, scrutiny, solicitude, a curious rare flash of intimacy in my aunt’s eyes.  It dawned on me that I wasn’t hiding anything from her at all.  She was dressed very smartly, wearing a big-plumed hat that made her neck seem longer and slenderer than ever, and when she walked up the aisle with that rolling stride of hers and her eye all on Marion, perplexed into self-forgetfulness, it wasn’t somehow funny.  She was, I do believe, giving my marriage more thought than I had done, she was concerned beyond measure at my black rage and Marion’s blindness, she was looking with eyes that knew what loving is—­for love.

In the vestry she turned away as we signed, and I verily believe she was crying, though to this day I can’t say why she should have cried, and she was near crying too when she squeezed my hand at parting—­and she never said a word or looked at me, but just squeezed my hand….

If I had not been so grim in spirit, I think I should have found much of my wedding amusing.  I remember a lot of ridiculous detail that still declines to be funny in my memory.  The officiating clergyman had a cold, and turned his “n’s” to “d’s,” and he made the most mechanical compliment conceivable about the bride’s age when the register was signed.  Every bride he had ever married had had it, one knew.  And two middle-aged spinsters, cousins of Marion’s and dressmakers at Barking, stand out.  They wore marvellously bright and gay blouses and dim old skirts, and had an immense respect for Mr. Ramboat.  They threw rice; they brought a whole bag with them and gave handfuls away to unknown little boys at the church door and so created a Lilliputian riot; and one had meant to throw a slipper.  It was a very warm old silk slipper, I know, because she dropped it out of a pocket in the aisle—­there was a sort of jumble in the aisle—­and I picked it up for her.  I don’t think she actually threw it, for as we drove away from the church I saw her in a dreadful, and, it seemed to me, hopeless, struggle with her pocket; and afterwards my eye caught the missile of good fortune lying, it or its fellow, most obviously mislaid, behind the umbrella-stand in the hall….

The whole business was much more absurd, more incoherent, more human than I had anticipated, but I was far too young and serious to let the latter quality atone for its shortcomings.  I am so remote from this phase of my youth that I can look back at it all as dispassionately as one looks at a picture—­at some wonderful, perfect sort of picture that is inexhaustible; but at the time these things filled me with unspeakable resentment.  Now I go round it all, look into its details, generalise about its aspects.  I’m interested, for example, to square it with my Bladesover theory of the British social scheme.  Under stress of tradition we were all of us trying in the fermenting chaos of London to carry out the marriage ceremonies of a Bladesover tenant or one of the chubby middling sort of people in some dependent country town.  There a marriage is a public function with a public significance.  There the church is to a large extent the gathering-place of the community, and your going to be married a thing of importance to every one you pass on the road.  It is a change of status that quite legitimately interests the whole neighbourhood.  But in London there are no neighbours, nobody knows, nobody cares.  An absolute stranger in an office took my notice, and our banns were proclaimed to ears that had never previously heard our names.  The clergyman, even, who married us had never seen us before, and didn’t in any degree intimate that he wanted to see us again.

Neighbours in London!  The Ramboats did not know the names of the people on either side of them.  As I waited for Marion before we started off upon our honeymoon flight, Mr. Ramboat, I remember, came and stood beside me and stared out of the window.

“There was a funeral over there yesterday,” he said, by way of making conversation, and moved his head at the house opposite.  “Quite a smart affair it was with a glass ’earse….”

And our little procession of three carriages with white-favour-adorned horses and drivers, went through all the huge, noisy, indifferent traffic like a lost china image in the coal-chute of an ironclad.  Nobody made way for us, nobody cared for us; the driver of an omnibus jeered; for a long time we crawled behind an unamiable dust-cart.  The irrelevant clatter and tumult gave a queer flavour of indecency to this public coming together of lovers.  We seemed to have obtruded ourselves

shamelessly.  The crowd that gathered outside the church would have gathered in the same spirit and with greater alacrity for a street accident….

At Charing Cross—­we were going to Hastings—­the experienced eye of the guard detected the significance of our unusual costume and he secured us a compartment.

“Well,” said I, as the train moved out of the station, “That’s all over!” And I turned to Marion—­a little unfamiliar still, in her unfamiliar clothes—­and smiled.

She regarded me gravely, timidly.

“You’re not cross?” she asked.

“Cross!  Why?”

“At having it all proper.”

“My dear Marion!” said I, and by way of answer took and kissed her white-gloved, leather-scented hand….

I don’t remember much else about the journey, an hour or so it was of undistinguished time—­for we were both confused and a little fatigued and Marion had a slight headache and did not want caresses.  I fell into a reverie about my aunt, and realised as if it were a new discovery, that I cared for her very greatly.  I was acutely sorry I had not told her earlier of my marriage.

But you will not want to hear the history of my honeymoon.  I have told all that was needed to serve my present purpose.  Thus and thus it was the Will in things had its way with me.  Driven by forces I did not understand, diverted altogether from the science, the curiosities and work to which I had once given myself, I fought my way through a tangle of traditions, customs, obstacles and absurdities, enraged myself, limited myself, gave myself to occupations I saw with the clearest vision were dishonourable and vain, and at last achieved the end of purblind Nature, the relentless immediacy of her desire, and held, far short of happiness, Marion weeping and reluctant in my arms.