Once a Week by A. A. Milne
GETTING MARRIED
I.--THE DAY
Probably you thought that getting married was quite a simple business.So did I. We were both wrong; it is the very dickens. Of course, I amnot going to draw back now. As I keep telling Celia, her Ronald is a manof powerful fibre, and when he says he will do a thing he doesit--eventually. She shall have her wedding all right; I have sworn it.But I do wish that there weren't so many things to be arranged first.
The fact that we had to fix a day was broken to me one afternoon whenCelia was showing me to some relatives of hers in the Addison Road. Igot entangled with an elderly cousin on the hearth-rug; and though Iknow nothing about motor-bicycles I talked about them for several hoursunder the impression that they were his subject. It turned outafterwards that he was equally ignorant of them, but thought they weremine. Perhaps we shall get on better at a second meeting. However, justwhen we were both thoroughly sick of each other, Celia broke off her gaychat with an aunt to say to me:
"By the way, Ronald, we did settle on the eleventh, didn't we?"
I looked at her blankly, my mind naturally full of motor-bicycles.
"The wedding," smiled Celia.
"Right-o," I said with enthusiasm. I was glad to be assured that Ishould not go on talking about motor-bicycles for ever, and that on theeleventh, anyhow, there would be a short interruption for the ceremony.Feeling almost friendly to the cousin, I plunged into his favouritesubject again.
On the way home Celia returned to the matter.
"Or you would rather it was the twelfth?" she asked.
"I've never heard a word about this before," I said. "It all comes as asurprise to me."
"Why, I'm _always_ asking you."
"Well, it's very forward of you, and I don't know what young people arecoming to nowadays. Celia, what's the _good_ of my talking to yourcousin for three hours about motor-bicycling? Surely one can get marriedjust as well without that?"
"One can't get married without settling the day," said Celia, comingcleverly back to the point.
Well, I suppose one can't. But somehow I had expected to be spared allthis bother. I think my idea was that Celia would say to me suddenly oneevening, "By the way, Ronald, don't forget we're being marriedto-morrow," and I should have said "Where?" And on being told the timeand place, I should have turned up pretty punctually; and after my bestman had told me where to stand, and the clergyman had told me what tosay, and my solicitor had told me where to sign my name, we should havedriven from the church a happy married couple ... and in the carriageCelia would have told me where we were spending the honeymoon.
However, it was not to be so.
"All right, the eleventh," I said. "Any particular month?"
"No," smiled Celia, "just any month. Or, if you like, every month."
"The eleventh of June," I surmised. "It is probably the one day in theyear on which my Uncle Thomas cannot come. But no matter. The eleventhlet it be."
"Then that's settled. And at St. Miriam's?"
For some reason Celia has set her heart on St. Miriam's. Personally Ihave no feeling about it. St. Andrew's-by-the-Wardrobe or St.Bartholomew's-Without would suit me equally well.
"All right," I said, "St. Miriam's."
There, you might suppose, the matter would have ended; but no.
"Then you will see about it to-morrow?" said Celia persuasively.
I was appalled at the idea.
"Surely," I said, "this is for you, or your father, or--or somebody toarrange."
"Of _course_ it's for the bridegroom," protested Celia.
"In theory, perhaps. But anyhow not the bridegroom personally. His bestman ... or his solicitor ... or ... I mean, you're not suggesting that Imyself---- Oh, well, if you insist. Still, I must say I don't see what'sthe good of having a best man _and_ a solicitor if---- Oh, all right,Celia, I'll go to-morrow."
So I went. For half an hour I padded round St. Miriam's nervously, andthen summoning up all my courage, I knocked my pipe out and entered.
"I want," I said jauntily to a sexton or a sacristan or something--"Iwant--er--a wedding." And I added, "For two."
He didn't seem as nervous as I was. He enquired quite calmly when Iwanted it.
"The eleventh of June," I said. "It's probably the one day in the yearon which my Uncle Thomas---- However, that wouldn't interest you. Thepoint is that it's the eleventh."
The clerk consulted his wedding-book. Then he made the surprisingannouncement that the only day he could offer me in June was theseventeenth. I was amazed.
"I am a very old customer," I said reproachfully. "I mean, I have oftenbeen to your church in my time. Surely----"
"We've weddings fixed on all the other days."
"Yes, yes, but you could persuade somebody to change his day, couldn'tyou? Or if he is very much set on being married on the eleventh youmight recommend some other church to him. I daresay you know of somegood ones. You see, Celia--my--that is, we're particularly keen, forsome reason, on St. Miriam's."
The clerk didn't appreciate my suggestion. He insisted that theseventeenth was the only day.
"Then will you have the seventeenth?" he asked.
"My dear fellow, I can't possibly say off-hand," I protested. "I am notalone in this. I have a friend with me. I will go back and tell her whatyou say. She may decide to withdraw her offer altogether."
I went back and told Celia.
"Bother," she said. "What shall we do?"
"There are other churches. There's your own, for example."
"Yes, but you know I don't like that. Why _shouldn't_ we be married onthe seventeenth?"
"I don't know at all. It seems an excellent day; it lets in my UncleThomas. Of course, it may exclude my Uncle William, but one can't haveeverything."
"Then will you go and fix it for the seventeenth to-morrow?"
"Can't I send my solicitor this time?" I asked. "Of course, if youparticularly want me to go myself, I will. But really, dear, I seem tobe living at St. Miriam's nowadays."
And even that wasn't the end of the business. For, just as I was leavingher, Celia broke it to me that St. Miriam's was neither in her parishnor in mine, and that, in order to qualify as a bridegroom, I shouldhave to hire a room somewhere near.
"But I am very comfortable where I am," I assured her.
"You needn't live there, Ronald. You only want to leave a hat there, youknow."
"Oh, very well," I sighed.
She came to the hall with me; and, having said good-bye to her, Irepeated my lesson.
"The seventeenth, fix it up to-morrow, take a room near St. Miriam's,and leave a hat there. Good-bye."
"Good-bye.... And oh, Ronald!" She looked at me critically as I stood inthe doorway. "You might leave _that_ one," she said.
II.--FURNISHING
"By the way," said Celia suddenly, "what have you done about thefixtures?"
"Nothing," I replied truthfully.
"Well, we must do _something_ about them."
"Yes. My solicitor--he shall do something about them. Don't let's talkabout them now. I've only got three hours more with you, and then I mustdash back to my work."
I must say that any mention of fixtures has always bored me intensely.When it was a matter of getting a house to live in I was all energy. Assoon as Celia had found it, I put my solicitor on to it; and within amonth I had signed my name in two places, and was the owner of a highlyresidential flat in the best part of the neighbourhood. But my effort soexhausted me that I have felt utterly unable since to cope with thequestion of the curtain-rod in the bathroom or whatever it is that Celiameans by fixtures. These things will arrange themselves somehow, I feelconfident.
Meanwhile the decorators are hard at work. A thrill of pride inflates mewhen I think of the decorators at work. I don't know how they got there;I suppose I must have ordered them. Celia says that _she_ ordered themand chose all the papers herself, and that all I did was to say that thepapers she had chosen were very pretty; but this doesn't sound
"And now," said Celia one day, "we can go and choose the electric-lightfittings."
"Celia," I said in admiration, "you're a wonderful person. I should haveforgotten all about them."
"Why, they're about the most important thing in the flat."
"Somehow I never regarded anybody as choosing them. I thought they justgrew in the wall. From bulbs."
When we got into the shop Celia became businesslike at once.
"We'd better start with the hall," she told the man.
"Everybody else will have to," I said, "so we may as well."
"What sort of a light did you want there?" he asked.
"A strong one," I said; "so as to be able to watch our guests carefullywhen they pass the umbrella-stand."
Celia waved me away and explained that we wanted a hanging lantern. Itappeared that this shop made a speciality not so much of the voltage asof the lamps enclosing it.
"How do you like that?" asked the man, pointing to a magnificent affairin brass. He wandered off to a switch, and turned it on.
"Dare you ask him the price?" I asked Celia. "It looks to me about athousand pounds. If it is, say that you don't like the style. Don't lethim think we can't afford it."
"Yes," said Celia, in a careless sort of way. "I'm not sure that I careabout that. How much is it?"
"Two pounds."
I was not going to show my relief. "Without the light, of course?" Isaid disparagingly.
"How do you think it would look in the hall?" said Celia to me.
"I think our guests would be encouraged to proceed. They'd see that wewere pretty good people."
"I don't like it. It's too ornate."
"Then show us something less ornate," I told the man sternly.
He showed us things less ornate. At the end of an hour Celia said shethought we'd better get on to another room, and come back to the hallafterwards. We decided to proceed to the drawing-room.
"We must go all out over these," said Celia; "I want these to be reallybeautiful."
At the end of another hour Celia said she thought we'd better get on tomy workroom. My workroom, as the name implies, is the room to which I amto retire when I want complete quiet. Sometimes I shall go there afterlunch ... and have it.
"We can come back to the drawing-room afterwards," she said. "It'sreally very important that we should get the right ones for that. Yourroom won't be so difficult, but, of course, you must have awfully niceones."
I looked at my watch.
"It's a quarter to one," I said. "At 2.15 on the seventeenth of June weare due at St. Miriam's. If you think we shall have bought anything bythen, let's go on. If, as seems to me, there is no hope at all, thenlet's have lunch to-day anyhow. After lunch we may be able to find someway out of the _impasse_."
After lunch I had an idea.
"This afternoon," I said, "we will begin to get some furnituretogether."
"But what about the electric fittings? We must finish off those."
"This is an experiment. I want to see if we can buy a chest of drawers.It may just be our day for it."
"And we settle the fittings to-morrow. Yes?"
"I don't know. We may not want them. It all depends on whether we canbuy a chest of drawers this afternoon. If we can't, then I don't seehow we can ever be married on the seventeenth of June. Somebody's got tobe, because I've engaged the church. The question is whether it's goingto be us. Let's go and buy a chest of drawers this afternoon, and see."
The old gentleman in the little shop Celia knew of was delighted to seeus.
"Chestesses? Ah, you _'ave_ come to the right place." He led the wayinto the depths. "There now. There's a chest--real old, that is." Hegave it a hearty smack. "You don't see a chest like that nowadays. Theycan't _make_ 'em. Three pound ten. You couldn't have got that to-morrer.I'd have sold it for four pound to-morrer."
"I knew it was our day," I said.
"Real old, that is. Spanish me'ogany, all oak lined. That's right, sir,pull the drawers out and see for yourself. Let the lady see. There's noimitation there, lady. A real old chest, that is. Come in 'ere in a weekand you'd have to pay five pounds for it. Me'ogany's going up, you see,that's how."
"Well?" I said to Celia.
"It's perfectly sweet. Hadn't we better see some more?"
We saw two more. Both of them Spanish me'ogany, oak lined,pull-the-drawers-out-and-see-for-yourself-lady. Half an hour passedrapidly.
"Well?" I said.
"I really don't know which I like best. Which do you?"
"The first; it's nearer the door."
"There's another shop just over the way. We'd better just look theretoo, and then we can come back to decide to-morrow."
We went out. I glanced at my watch. It was 3.30, and we were beingmarried at 2.15 on the seventeenth of June.
"Wait a moment," I said, "I've forgotten my gloves."
I may be a slow starter, but I am very firm when roused. I went into theshop, wrote a cheque for the three chests of drawers, and told the manwhere to send them. When I returned, Celia was at the shop opposite,pulling the drawers out of a real old mahogany chest which was standingon the pavement outside.
"This is even better," she said. "It's perfectly adorable. I wonder ifit's more expensive."
"I'll just ask," I said.
I went in and, without an unnecessary word, bought that chest too. ThenI came back to Celia. It was 3.45, and on the seventeenth of June at2.15---- Well, we had four chests of drawers towards it.
"Celia," I said, "we may just do it yet."
III.--THE HONEYMOON
"I know I oughtn't to be dallying here," I said; "I ought to be doingsomething strenuous in preparation for the wedding. Counting the bellsat St. Miriam's, or varnishing the floors in the flat, or---- Tell mewhat I ought to be doing, Celia, and I'll go on not doing it for a bit."
"There's the honeymoon," said Celia.
"I knew there was something."
"Do tell me what you're doing about it?"
"Thinking about it."
"You haven't written to any one about rooms yet?"
"Celia," I said reproachfully, "you seem to have forgotten why I ammarrying you."
When Celia was browbeaten into her present engagement, she said franklythat she was only consenting to marry me because of my pianola, whichshe had always coveted. In return I pointed out that I was only askingher to marry me because I wanted somebody to write my letters. Thereopened before me, in that glad moment, a vista of invitations andaccounts-rendered all answered promptly by Celia, instead of put offtill next month by me. It was a wonderful vision to one who (veryproperly) detests letter-writing. And yet, here she was, even before theceremony, expecting me to enter into a deliberate correspondence withall sorts of strange people who as yet had not come into my life at all.It was too much.
"We will get," I said, "your father to write some letters for us."
"But what's he got to do with it?"
"I don't want to complain of your father, Celia, but it seems to me thathe is not doing his fair share. There ought to be a certaingive-and-take in the matter. _I_ find you a nice church to be marriedin--good. _He_ finds you a nice place to honeymoon in--excellent. Afterall, you are still his daughter."
"All right," said Celia, "I'll ask father to do it. 'Dear Mrs. Bunn, mylittle boy wants to spend his holidays with you in June. I am writing toask you if you will take care of him and see that he doesn't do anythingdangerous. He has a nice disposition, but wants watching.'" She pattedmy head gently. "Something like that."
I got up and went to the writing-desk.
"I can see I shall have to do it myself," I sighed. "Give me the addressand I'll begin."
"But we haven't quite settled where we're going yet, have we?"
I put the pen down thankfully and went back to the sofa.
"Good! Then I needn't write to-day, anyhow. It is wonderful,
"We had almost fixed on England, hadn't we?"
"Somebody was telling me that Lynton was very beautiful. I should liketo go to Lynton."
"But _every one_ goes to Lynton for their honeymoon."
"Then let's be original and go to Birmingham. 'The happy couple left forBirmingham, where the honeymoon will be spent.' Sensation."
"'The bride left the train at Ealing.' More sensation."
"I think the great thing," I said, trying to be businesslike, "is tofix the county first. If we fixed on Rutland, then the rest wouldprobably be easy."
"The great thing," said Celia, "is to decide what we want. Sea, orriver, or mountains, or--or golf."
At the word golf I coughed and looked out of the window.
Now I am very fond of Celia--I mean of golf, and--what I really mean, ofcourse, is that I am very fond of both of them. But I do think that on ahoneymoon Celia should come first. After all, I shall have plenty ofother holidays for golf ... although, of course, three weeks in thesummer without any golf at all---- Still, I think Celia should comefirst.
"Our trouble," I said to her, "is that neither of us has ever been on ahoneymoon before, and so we've no idea what it will be like. After all,why should we get bored with each other? Surely we don't depend on golfto amuse us?"
"All the same, I think your golf _would_ amuse me," said Celia."Besides, I want you to be as happy as you possibly can be."
"Yes, but supposing I was slicing my drives all the time, I should bemiserable. I should be torn between the desire to go back to London andhave a lesson with the professional and the desire to stay onhoneymooning with you. One can't be happy in a quandary like that."
"Very well then, no golf. Settled?"
"Quite. Now then, let's decide about the scenery. What sort of soil doyou prefer?"
When I left Celia that day we had agreed on this much: that we wouldn'tbother about golf, and that the mountains, rivers, valleys, and so onshould be left entirely to nature. All we were to enquire for was (inthe words of an advertisement Celia had seen) "a perfect spot for ahoneymoon."
In the course of the next day I heard of seven spots; varying from aspot in Surrey "dotted with firs," to a dot in the Pacific spottedwith--I forget what, natives probably. Taken together they were theseven only possible spots for a honeymoon.
"We shall have to have seven honeymoons," I said to Celia when I hadtold her my news. "One honeymoon, one spot."
"Wait," she said. "I have heard of an ideal spot."
"Speaking as a spot expert, I don't think that's necessarily better thanan only possible spot," I objected. "Still, tell me about it."
"Well, to begin with, it's close to the sea."
"So we can bathe when we're bored. Good."
"And it's got a river, if you want to fish----"
"I don't. I should hate to catch a fish who was perhaps on his honeymoontoo. Still, I like the idea of a river."
"And quite a good mountain, and lovely walks, and, in fact, everything.Except a picture-palace, luckily."
"It sounds all right," I said doubtfully. "We might just spend the nextday or two thinking about my seven spots, and then I might ... possibly... feel strong enough to write."
"Oh, I nearly forgot. I _have_ written, Ronald."
"You have?" I cried. "Then, my dear, what else matters? It's a perfectspot." I lay back in relief. "And there, thank 'evings, is another thingsettled. Bless you."
"Yes. And, by the way, there _is_ golf quite close too. But that," shesmiled, "needn't prevent us going there."
"Of course not. We shall just ignore the course."
"Perhaps, so as to be on the safe side, you'd better leave your clubsbehind."
"Perhaps I'd better," I said carelessly.
All the same I don't think I will. One never knows what may happen ...and at the outset of one's matrimonial career to have to go to theexpense of an entirely new set of clubs would be a most regrettablebusiness.
IV.--SEASONABLE PRESENTS
"I suppose," I said, "it's too late to cancel this wedding now?"
"Well," said Celia, "the invitations are out, and the presents arepouring in, and mother's just ordered the most melting dress for herselfthat you ever saw. Besides, who's to live in the flat if we don't?"
"There's a good deal in what you say. Still, I am alarmed, seriouslyalarmed. Look here." I drew out a printed slip and flourished it beforeher.
"Not a writ? My poor Ronald!"
"Worse than that. This is the St. Miriam's bill of fare for weddings.Celia, I had no idea marriage was so expensive. I thought onerolled-gold ring would practically see it."
It was a formidable document. Starting with "full choir and organ" whichcame to a million pounds, and working down through "boys' voices only,"and "red carpet" to "policemen for controlling traffic--per policeman,5s.," it included altogether some two dozen ways of disposing of mysavings.
"If we have the whole _menu_," I said, "I shall be ruined. You wouldn'tlike to have a ruined husband."
Celia took the list and went through it carefully.
"I might say 'Season,'" I suggested, "or 'Press.'"
"Well, to begin with," said Celia, "we needn't have a full choir."
"Need we have an organ or a choir at all? In thanking people for theirkind presents you might add, 'By the way, do you sing?' Then we couldarrange to have all the warblers in the front. My best man or mysolicitor could give the note."
"Boys' voices only," decided Celia. "Then what about bells?"
"I should like some nice bells. If the price is 'per bell' we might givean order for five good ones."
"Let's do without bells. You see, they don't begin to ring till we'veleft the church, so they won't be any good to _us_."
This seemed to me an extraordinary line to take.
"My dear child," I remonstrated, "the whole thing is being got up notfor ourselves, but for our guests. We shall be much too preoccupied toappreciate any of the good things we provide--the texture of the redcarpet or the quality of the singing. I dreamt last night that I quiteforgot about the wedding-ring till 1.30 on the actual day, and the onlycab I could find to take me to a jeweller's was drawn by a camel. Ofcourse, it may not turn out to be as bad as that, but it will certainlybe an anxious afternoon for both of us. And so we must consider theentertainment entirely from the point of view of our guests. Whethertheir craving is for champagne or bells, it must be satisfied."
"I'm sure they'll be better without bells. Because when the policemencall out 'Mr. Spifkins' carriage,' Mr. Spifkins mightn't hear if therewere a lot of bells clashing about."
"Very well, no bells. But, mind you," I said sternly, "I shall insist ona clergyman."
We went through the rest of the _menu_, course by course.
"I know what I shall do," I said at last. "I shall call on my friend theClerk again, and I shall speak to him quite frankly. I shall say, 'Hereis a cheque for a thousand pounds. It is all I can afford--and, by theway, you'd better pay it in quickly or it will be dishonoured. Can youdo us up a nice wedding for a thousand inclusive?'"
"Like the Christmas hampers at the stores."
"Exactly. A dozen boys' voices, a half-dozen of bells, ten yards ofawning, and twenty-four oranges, or vergers, or whatever it is. We oughtto get a nice parcel for a thousand pounds."
"Or," said Celia, "we might send the list round to our friends assuggestions for wedding presents. I'm sure Jane would love to give us acouple of policemen."
"We'd much better leave the whole thing to your father. I incline moreand more to the opinion that it is _his_ business to provide thewedding. I must ask my solicitor about it."
"He's providing the bride."
"Yes, but I think he might go further. I can't help feeling that thebells would come very
"And that reminds me," smiled Celia, "there's been some talk about apresent from Miss Popley."
I have come to the conclusion that it is impossible to get marrieddecently unless one's life is ordered on some sort of system. Mine neverhas been; and the result is that I make terrible mistakes--particularlyin the case of Miss Popley. At the beginning of the business, when thenews got round to Miss Popley, I received from her a sweet letter ofcongratulation. Knowing that she was rather particular in these mattersI braced myself up and thanked her heartily by return of post. Threedays later, when looking for a cheque I had lost, I accidentally cameacross her letter. "Help, help!" I cried. "This came days ago, and Ihaven't answered yet." I sat down at once and thanked herenthusiastically. Another week passed and I began to feel that I mustreally make an effort to catch my correspondence up; so I got out all myletters of congratulation of the last ten days and devoted an afternoonto answering them. I used much the same form of thanks in all of them... with the exception of Miss Popley's, which was phrased particularlywarmly.
So much for that. But Miss Popley is Celia's dear friend also. When Imade out my list of guests I included Miss Popley; so, in her list, didCelia. The result was that Miss Popley received two invitations to thewedding.... Sometimes I fear she must think we are pursuing her.
"What does she say about a present?" I asked.
"She wants us to tell her what we want."
"What _are_ we to say? If we said an elephant----"
"With a small card tied on to his ear, and 'Best wishes from MissPopley' on it. It would look heavenly among the other presents."
"You see what I mean, Celia. Are we to suggest something worth athousand pounds, or something worth ninepence? It's awfully kind of her,but it makes it jolly difficult for us."
"Something that might cost anything from ninepence to a thousandpounds," suggested Celia.
"Then that washes out the elephant."
"Can't you get the ninepenny ones now?"
"I suppose," I said, reverting to the subject which most weighed on me,"she wouldn't like to give the men's voices for the choir?"
"No, I think a clock," said Celia. "A clock can cost anything youlike--or don't like."
"Right-o. And perhaps we'd better settle now. When it comes, how manytimes shall we write and thank her for it?"
Celia considered. "Four times, I think," she said.
. . . . .
Well, as Celia says, it's too late to draw back now. But I shall be gladwhen it's all over. As I began by saying, there's too much "arranging"and "settling" and "fixing" about the thing for me. In the necessarynegotiations and preparations I fear I have not shone. And so I shall betruly glad when we have settled down in our flat ... and Celia canrestore my confidence in myself once more by talking loudly to herdomestic staff about "The Master."
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