ARE EARLY MARRIAGES A MISTAKE?
I AM chary nowadays of offering counsel in connection with subjectsconcerning which I am not and cannot be an authority. Long ago I oncetook upon myself to write a paper about babies. It did not aim to be atextbook on the subject. It did not even claim to exhaust the topic. Iwas willing that others, coming after me, should continue theargument—that is if, upon reflection, they were still of opinion therewas anything more to be said. I was pleased with the article. I wentout of my way to obtain an early copy of the magazine in which itappeared, on purpose to show it to a lady friend of mine. She was thepossessor of one or two babies of her own, specimens in no wayremarkable, though she herself, as was natural enough, did her best toboom them. I thought it might be helpful to her: the views andobservations, not of a rival fancier, who would be prejudiced, but of anintelligent amateur. I put the magazine into her hands, opened at theproper place.
“Read it through carefully and quietly,” I said; “don’t let anythingdistract you. Have a pencil and a bit of paper ready at your side, andnote down any points upon which you would like further information. Ifthere is anything you think I have missed out let me know. It may bethat here and there you will be disagreeing with me. If so, do nothesitate to mention it, I shall not be angry. If a demand arises I shallvery likely issue an enlarged and improved edition of this paper in theform of a pamphlet, in which case hints and suggestions that to you mayappear almost impertinent will be of distinct help to me.”
“I haven’t got a pencil,” she said; “what’s it all about?”
“It’s about babies,” I explained, and I lent her a pencil.
That is another thing I have learnt. Never lend a pencil to a woman ifyou ever want to see it again. She has three answers to your request forits return. The first, that she gave it back to you and that you put itin your pocket, and that it’s there now, and that if it isn’t it ought tobe. The second, that you never lent it to her. The third, that shewishes people would not lend her pencils and then clamour for them back,just when she has something else far more important to think about.
“What do you know about babies?” she demanded.
“If you will read the paper,” I replied, “you will see for yourself.It’s all there.”
She flicked over the pages contemptuously.
“There doesn’t seem much of it?” she retorted.
“It is condensed,” I pointed out to her.
“I am glad it is short. All right, I’ll read it,” she agreed.
I thought my presence might disturb her, so went out into the garden. Iwanted her to get the full benefit of it. I crept back now and again topeep through the open window. She did not seem to be making many notes.But I heard her making little noises to herself. When I saw she hadreached the last page, I re-entered the room.
“Well?” I said.
“Is it meant to be funny,” she demanded, “or is it intended to be takenseriously?”
“There may be flashes of humour here and there—”
She did not wait for me to finish.
“Because if it’s meant to be funny,” she said, “I don’t think it is atall funny. And if it is intended to be serious, there’s one thing veryclear, and that is that you are not a mother.”
With the unerring instinct of the born critic she had divined my one weakpoint. Other objections raised against me I could have met. But thatone stinging reproach was unanswerable. It has made me, as I haveexplained, chary of tendering advice on matters outside my own departmentof life. Otherwise, every year, about Valentine’s day, there is muchthat I should like to say to my good friends the birds. I want to put itto them seriously. Is not the month of February just a little too early?Of course, their answer would be the same as in the case of my motherlyfriend.
“Oh, what do you know about it? you are not a bird.”
I know I am not a bird, but that is the very reason why they shouldlisten to me. I bring a fresh mind to bear upon the subject. I am nottied down by bird convention. February, my dear friends—in thesenorthern climes of ours at all events—is much too early. You have tobuild in a high wind, and nothing, believe me, tries a lady’s temper morethan being blown about. Nature is nature, and womenfolk, my dear sirs,are the same all the world over, whether they be birds or whether they behuman. I am an older person than most of you, and I speak with theweight of experience.
If I were going to build a house with my wife, I should not choose aseason of the year when the bricks and planks and things were liable tobe torn out of her hand, her skirts blown over her head, and she leftclinging for dear life to a scaffolding pole. I know the feminine bipedand, you take it from me, that is not her notion of a honeymoon. InApril or May, the sun shining, the air balmy—when, after carrying up toher a load or two of bricks, and a hod or two of mortar, we could knockoff work for a few minutes without fear of the whole house being sweptaway into the next street—could sit side by side on the top of a wall,our legs dangling down, and peck and morsel together; after which I couldwhistle a bit to her—then housebuilding might be a pleasure.
The swallows are wisest; June is their idea, and a very good idea, too.In a mountain village in the Tyrol, early one summer, I had theopportunity of watching very closely the building of a swallow’s nest.After coffee, the first morning, I stepped out from the great, cool, darkpassage of the wirtschaft into the blazing sunlight, and, for noparticular reason, pulled-to the massive door behind me. While fillingmy pipe, a swallow almost brushed by me, then wheeled round again, andtook up a position on the fence only a few yards from me. He wascarrying what to him was an exceptionally large and heavy brick. He putit down beside him on the fence, and called out something which I couldnot understand. I did not move. He got quite excited and said somemore. It was undoubtable he was addressing me—nobody else was by. Ijudged from his tone that he was getting cross with me. At this point mytravelling companion, his toilet unfinished, put his head out of thewindow just above me.
“Such an odd thing,” he called down to me. “I never noticed it lastnight. A pair of swallows are building a nest here in the hall. You’vegot to be careful you don’t mistake it for a hat-peg. The old lady saysthey have built there regularly for the last three years.”
Then it came to me what it was the gentleman had been saying to me: “Isay, sir, you with the bit of wood in your mouth, you have been and shutthe door and I can’t get in.”
Now, with the key in my possession, it was so clear and understandable, Ireally forgot for the moment he was only a bird.
“I beg your pardon,” I replied, “I had no idea. Such an extraordinaryplace to build a nest.”
I opened the door for him, and, taking up his brick again, he entered,and I followed him in. There was a deal of talk.
“He shut the door,” I heard him say, “Chap there, sucking the bit ofwood. Thought I was never going to get in.”
“I know,” was the answer; “it has been so dark in here, if you’ll believeme, I’ve hardly been able to see what I’ve been doing.”
“Fine brick, isn’t it? Where will you have it?”
Observing me sitting there, they lowered their voices. Evidently shewanted him to put the brick down and leave her to think. She was notquite sure where she would have it. He, on the other hand, was sure hehad found the right place for it. He pointed it out to her and explainedhis views. Other birds quarrel a good deal during nest building, butswallows are the gentlest of little people. She let him put it where hewanted to, and he kissed her and ran out. She cocked her eye after him,watched till he was out of sight, then deftly and quickly slipped it outand fixed it the other side of the door.
“Poor dears” (I could see it in the toss of her head); “they will thinkthey know best; it is just as well not to argue with them.”
Every summer I suffer much from indignation. I love to watch theswallows building. They build beneath the eaves outside my study window.Such
cheerful little chatter-boxes they are. Long after sunset, when allthe other birds are sleeping, the swallows still are chattering softly.It sounds as if they were telling one another some pretty story, andoften I am sure there must be humour in it, for every now and then onehears a little twittering laugh. I delight in having them there, soclose to me. The fancy comes to me that one day, when my brain has grownmore cunning, I, too, listening in the twilight, shall hear the storiesthat they tell.
One or two phrases already I have come to understand: “Once upon atime”—“Long, long ago”—“In a strange, far-off land.” I hear these wordsso constantly, I am sure I have them right. I call it “Swallow Street,”this row of six or seven nests. Two or three, like villas in their owngrounds, stand alone, and others are semi-detached. It makes me angrythat the sparrows will come and steal them. The sparrows will hang aboutdeliberately waiting for a pair of swallows to finish their nest, andthen, with a brutal laugh that makes my blood boil, drive the swallowsaway and take possession of it. And the swallows are so wonderfullypatient.
“Never mind, old girl,” says Tommy Swallow, after the first big cry isover, to Jenny Swallow, “let’s try again.”
And half an hour later, full of fresh plans, they are choosing anotherlikely site, chattering cheerfully once more. I watched the building ofa particular nest for nearly a fortnight one year; and when, after two orthree days’ absence, I returned and found a pair of sparrows comfortablyencsonced therein, I just felt mad. I saw Mrs. Sparrow looking out.Maybe my anger was working upon my imagination, but it seemed to me thatshe nodded to me:
“Nice little house, ain’t it? What I call well built.”
Mr. Sparrow then flew up with a gaudy feather, dyed blue, which belongedto me. I recognised it. It had come out of the brush with which thegirl breaks the china ornaments in our drawing-room. At any other time Ishould have been glad to see him flying off with the whole thing, handleincluded. But now I felt the theft of that one feather as an addedinjury. Mrs. Sparrow chirped with delight at sight of the gaudymonstrosity. Having got the house cheap, they were going to spend theirsmall amount of energy upon internal decoration. That was their ideaclearly, a “Liberty interior.” She looked more like a Cockney sparrowthan a country one—had been born and bred in Regent Street, no doubt.
“There is not much justice in this world,” said I to myself; “but there’sgoing to be some introduced into this business—that is, if I can find aladder.”
I did find a ladder, and fortunately it was long enough. Mr. and Mrs.Sparrow were out when I arrived, possibly on the hunt for cheap photoframes and Japanese fans. I did not want to make a mess. I removed thehouse neatly into a dust-pan, and wiped the street clear of every traceof it. I had just put back the ladder when Mrs. Sparrow returned with apiece of pink cotton-wool in her mouth. That was her idea of a colourscheme: apple-blossom pink and Reckitt’s blue side by side. She droppedher wool and sat on the waterspout, and tried to understand things.
“Number one, number two, number four; where the blazes”—sparrows areessentially common, and the women are as bad as the men—“is numberthree?”
Mr. Sparrow came up from behind, over the roof. He was carrying a pieceof yellow-fluff, part of a lamp-shade, as far as I could judge.
“Move yourself,” he said, “what’s the sense of sitting there in therain?”
“I went out just for a moment,” replied Mrs. Sparrow; “I could not havebeen gone, no, not a couple of minutes. When I came back—”
“Oh, get indoors,” said Mr. Sparrow, “talk about it there.”
“It’s what I’m telling you,” continued Mrs. Sparrow, “if you would onlylisten. There isn’t any door, there isn’t any house—”
“Isn’t any—” Mr. Sparrow, holding on to the rim of the spout, turnedhimself topsy-turvy and surveyed the street. From where I was standingbehind the laurel bushes I could see nothing but his back.
He stood up again, looking angry and flushed.
“What have you done with the house? Can’t I turn my back a minute—”
“I ain’t done nothing with it. As I keep on telling you, I had only justgone—”
“Oh, bother where you had gone. Where’s the darned house gone? that’swhat I want to know.”
They looked at one another. If ever astonishment was expressed in theattitude of a bird it was told by the tails of those two sparrows. Theywhispered wickedly together. The idea occurred to them that by force orcunning they might perhaps obtain possession of one of the other nests.But all the other nests were occupied, and even gentle Jenny Swallow,once in her own home with the children round about her, is not to betrifled with. Mr. Sparrow called at number two, put his head in at thedoor, and then returned to the waterspout.
“Lady says we don’t live there,” he explained to Mrs. Sparrow. There wassilence for a while.
“Not what I call a classy street,” commented Mrs. Sparrow.
“If it were not for that terrible tired feeling of mine,” said Mr.Sparrow, “blame if I wouldn’t build a house of my own.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Sparrow, “—I have heard it said that a little bit ofwork, now and then, does you good.”
“All sorts of wild ideas about in the air nowadays,” said Mr. Sparrow,“it don’t do to listen to everybody.”
“And it don’t do to sit still and do nothing neither,” snapped Mrs.Sparrow. “I don’t want to have to forget I’m a lady, but—well, any manwho was a man would see things for himself.”
“Why did I every marry?” retorted Mr. Sparrow.
They flew away together, quarrelling.