(John Bull, Esquire, and Monsieur, his neighbour, talk on matrimonial matters.)

J.B.—“So, my dear fellow, you are going to be married, it is quite decided.”

Monsieur.—“Yes, quite.”

J.B.—“And who is the lady, if I may be so bold?”

Monsieur.—“A charming English girl.”

J.B.—“Ah! charming, of course.... But what else?”

Monsieur.—“What else? But that is already a great deal, it seems to me. What would you have, my dear sir? A pair of heavenly blue eyes....”

J.B.—“I congratulate you.”

Monsieur.—“A lovely figure....” J.B.—“A lovely figure! My dear fellow, my countrywomen get all that over from Paris. The Bon MarchÉ supplies any amount of lovely figures at six or seven francs apiece.... For a Frenchman, you seem to be going in for matrimony rather young.”

Monsieur.—“That is true; but a bachelor’s life is so dull and so dear in England! I am getting tired of it. Besides, I don’t know, but I fancy there is something about the English life that induces one to marry. Existence in England is wretched, unless you have a house of your own. There are no cafÉs ... your clubs and restaurants are dismal ... and your women are delightful ... how can one hesitate long? In one of the suburbs of London, I have discovered a dear little house, hidden under linden-trees, and covered with virginia creepers, jasmine, and honeysuckle. It took my fancy, and as I looked at the two big bolts on the front door, I thought to myself that, after paying the rent and taxes, it must be pleasant to push over the bolts and feel oneself master of something.... The feeling grows, and sets one thinking that it is time to be getting a little property together.... Yes, decidedly the best thing to be done in England is to marry.”

J.B.—“The young lady has money, I presume?” Monsieur.—“I don’t know in the least, my friend. You do not imagine, I suppose, that I went to my future father-in-law, and asked him what he was going to give his daughter on her wedding day, as the custom is in France.”

J.B.—“No, of course not. Ah! you Frenchmen are bad diplomatists. There is no need to ask such questions point-blank ... you can make inquiries ... satisfy yourself.”

Monsieur.—“I am quite in the dark on the matter.”

J.B.—“And if your wife proves to be penniless?”

Monsieur.—“Well, in that case, we must live carefully, that is all.”

J.B.—“My dear fellow, I am very much afraid you are going to make a fool of yourself.”

Monsieur.—“Why, how many times have I heard you speak of marriage as a duty, a sacred institution!”

J.B.—“Yes; but I don’t see why it should not be a useful one at the same time.... For my part, I have a weakness for the Three per Cents, I don’t mind owning it.”

Monsieur.—“And I have a weakness for pretty women.”

J.B.—“You’ll get over it. And if your wife is pretty now, she will not be so always. Englishwomen are not so talented as their French sisters in the art d’accommoder les restes, you know.”

Monsieur.—“I shall have a clever wife.”

J.B.—“Her cleverness will cease to strike you, when you have lived with her a little while.”

Monsieur.—“An excellent pianist.”

J.B.—“Before six months are over, you will know all her pieces by heart.... There is nothing serious about all these things. Marriage improves a woman’s position from a social point of view; a man is wrong who does not take care that it improves his, from a financial point of view.”

Monsieur.—“I am no speculator.”

J.B.—“Neither am I, and this is the very reason why I like the Three per Cents. Beauty fades, ephemeral charms disappear, and solid qualities remain. Girls that have money want to be married as well as those that have none; it would be unfair, my dear boy, to pass them over, because they have money. Your Balzac says that a man who sets foot in his wife’s dressing-room is either a philosopher or a fool. I go further than Balzac, and maintain that a man who marries must be a philosopher or a fool, unless he takes advantage of it to improve his position. You speak of love, my dear fellow, but matrimony is the very profanation of love. It is only in Eastern countries that love and woman are properly understood. It is habit that kills love; in the East, women are slaves that do not live with men from morning to night: they appear before their husbands only from time to time, and exhaling the most exquisite perfumes. But, in Europe, upon my word, they believe themselves their husbands’ equals.... In England, they take cheese and stout before going to bed. You see them with their heads covered with curls, and you think how pretty they look, don’t you? But, my dear innocent fellow, don’t you know that to obtain those lovely curls, the sweet creatures must go to bed with their heads loaded with waving-pins and curl-papers? Yes ... it is thus that your wife will probably adorn herself for the night in order to be beautiful ... not for you at the moment, but for other people, you perhaps included, on the morrow. On the morrow, mark you, my boy! When you have undergone this kind of treatment for a few months—I give you twelve, if you are a good diplomatist—you will penetrate into your wife’s apartment with about as much emotion as you would enter the ’bus for the Bank. No, matrimony is dinner without dessert; no little delicacies, no luxuries: a continual, eternal, sempiternal pot-au-feu.... Respect, esteem, if you like....”

Monsieur.—“Whose fault is that, my dear Mr. Bull? A woman is what her husband makes her; it is Balzac who says that too. In love, as in cookery, you have but one sauce.... It is possible to respect a woman, and at the same time to be in love with her: respect and esteem are the daily bread of matrimony; but a little honey on it now and then does no harm.”

J.B.—“Moonshine—childishness—nonsense—my dear sir!”

Monsieur.—“Call it nonsense and childishness, as much as you like; but happiness is made up of all kinds of nonsense, abandon—a word, by-the-bye, for which you have no equivalent in English—hearty laughter, good kisses and the like; such nonsenses have a far more pleasant sound to my ear than the sacred bonds of matrimony, the gravity of family life....”

J.B.—“Mon cher ami, it is easy to see that you come from a frivolous country, where the women lead the men by the nose....”

Monsieur.—“And the men enjoy it.”

J.B.—“A social system that is not built upon the submission of woman is shaky.”

Monsieur.—“And what about happiness ... and joy? Where do you look for them? In your banking account?”

J.B.—“One would think you had a supreme contempt for banking accounts, upon my word.” Monsieur.—“Not I. Peace of mind may come from a good banking account, I admit, but joy comes from the heart.... Matrimony seems to me to be the finest institution going, I assure you; and I think it a great fault of novelists to end their stories with the marriage ceremony.... If ever I turned novelist—Heaven protect me and the public from such a calamity!—my story should open with orange blossoms and old slippers, and I should not disdain a pretty little plump mother in her thirties, as a heroine for the middle chapters of my book.”

J.B.—“I was congratulating you just now upon the news of your marriage ... but it is the young lady that I should like to congratulate from the bottom of my heart. My dear fellow, if you get spreading those ideas of yours about this country, we matter-of-fact Britons shall soon look in vain for women who will marry us.... And whilst you are on the chapter of confidences, you might initiate me into your secret and tell me how you do away with ... the little drawbacks of matrimony.”

Monsieur.—“I do not do away with them, but I foresee them and am prepared to meet them.”

J.B.—“Very good; but how?”

Monsieur.—“I cannot say that I have plans of campaign well marked out ... but, in my own mind, I say to myself: In matrimonial life, a little diplomacy is necessary to prevent its becoming humdrum, and I fully intend that my conjugal life shall not be humdrum. The bond and habit are the two mortal enemies of love. Bonjour, contrat! adieu, amour! Well, since legal marriage was invented by some idiot or scoundrel, it is for a sensible man to make the best of it, and to forget, as quickly as possible, all the incongruous nonsense that has been dinned into his ears, about marriage being a stern reality and a rather disagreeable undertaking. I am going to try it; but I start with the firm intention of being and remaining my wife’s lover. I shall do my best to forget that I am married. The illusion of the stage is all gone for him who penetrates behind the scenes. We shall each have our own quarters. Madame will sometimes allow Monsieur to conduct her to his room; sometimes it will be Monsieur who will glide into Madame’s, when all around is hushed in slumber. We shall each have a room that will be closed to the other: the boudoir for Madame, the study for Monsieur. These two retreats I look upon as the strongholds of love in matrimonial life.”

J.B.—“Well done.”

Monsieur.—“Let me explain. A man who would continue to inspire esteem and love in a sensible wife, must not live constantly in her society. To keep up a certain prestige in her eyes, he must lead a busy life, and if ever he has nothing to do, he must be able to appear as if he had. Therefore, when I have nothing particular in hand, I shall lock myself into my study. There I shall read the paper and smoke a cigar; but before shutting myself in, I shall be careful to ask my wife to kindly see that I am not disturbed, as I shall be busy all the morning, or all the afternoon, as the case may be. On the other hand, when Madame has her vapours, or does not feel very sociable, she will retire to her boudoir and send me word that she is indisposed. In this boudoir, that I shall have coquettishly furnished, she will receive a friend, read a novel, rest and dissipate her ill humour. By this arrangement, we shall only be together when we feel attracted towards each other, and I shall not be doomed to pass whole evenings yawning in my wife’s society. Why should a man do before his wife that which would be considered the height of rudeness, if she were any other woman?”

J.B.—“Ah! my dear fellow, it is a fine thing to be young! Your illusions are wonderful. I rather like that growlery idea of yours, though: never show your wife that she is entitled to expect amiability from you at all seasons, without having any effort to make to obtain it. People get none the worse served for being a little hard to please, in all circumstances of this life. I suppose you have not informed the lady in question of these plans of yours?”

Monsieur.—“Indeed I have, my dear Mr. Bull, and what is more, she approves highly of them....”

J.B.—“Well, my dear fellow, since you have made up your mind to go in for matrimony, I am glad to see that you are preparing to rob it of its drawbacks. When a man has entered into a compact that he cannot draw out of, he is a fool if he does not do his best to turn it to his own advantage.... But I fancy the ladies must be expecting us in the drawing-room.”

Monsieur.—“Let us go and join them.”