The Collected Drama of H L Mencken
Page 5
THE BRIDEGROOM
No. No. No. No. No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Have you ever been refused life insurance? If so, when, by what company or companies, and why?
THE BRIDEGROOM
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
What is a staphylococcus?
THE BRIDEGROOM
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
(Sternly) What?
THE BRIDEGROOM
(Nervously) Yes.
THE CLERGYMAN
(Coming to the rescue) Wilt thou have this woman et cetera? Answer yes or no.
THE BRIDEGROOM
I will.
THE CLERGYMAN
(Turning to THE BRIDE) Mary, wilt thou have this gentleman to be thy wedded husband, to live together in the holy state of aseptic matrimony? Wilt thou love him, serve him, protect him from all adulterated victuals, and keep him hygienically clothed; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live ? If so—
THE BRIDE
(Instantly and loudly) I will.
THE CLERGYMAN
Not so fast! First, there is the little ceremony of the clinical thermometers. (He takes up one of the thermometers.) Open your mouth, my dear. (He inserts the thermometer.) Now hold it there while you count one hundred and fifty. And you, too. (To THE BRIDEGROOM.) I had almost forgotten you. (THE BRIDEGROOM opens his mouth and the other thermometer is duly planted. While the two are counting, THE CLERGYMAN attempts to turn back one of THE BRIDE’S eyelids, apparently searching for trachoma, but his rubber gloves impede the operation and so he gives it up. It is now time to read the thermometers. THE BRIDEGROOM’S is first removed.)
THE CLERGYMAN
(Reading the scale) Ninety-nine point nine. Considering everything, not so bad. (Then he removes and reads THE BRIDE’S.) Ninety-eight point six. Exactly normal. Cool, collected, at ease. The classical self-possession of the party of the second part. And now, my dear, may I ask you to hold out your tongue? (THE BRIDE does so.)
THE CLERGYMAN
Perfect. . . . There; that will do. Put it back. . . . And now for a few questions—just a few. First, do you use opiates in any form?
THE BRIDE
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Have you ever had goitre?
THE BRIDE
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Yellow fever?
THE BRIDE
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Hæmatomata?
THE BRIDE
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Siriasis or tachycardia?
THE BRIDE
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
What did your maternal grandfather die of?
THE BRIDE
Of chronic interstitial nephritis.
THE CLERGYMAN
(Interested) Ah, our old friend Bright’s! A typical case, I take, with the usual polyuria, œdema of the glottis, flame-shaped retinal hemorrhages and cardiac dilatation?
THE BRIDE
Exactly.
THE CLERGYMAN
And terminating, I suppose, with the classical uræmic symptoms—dyspnœa, convulsions, uræmic amaurosis, coma and collapse?
THE BRIDE
Including Cheyne-Stokes breathing.
THE CLERGYMAN
Ah, most interesting! A protean and beautiful malady! But at the moment, of course, we can’t discuss it profitably. Perhaps later on. . . . Your father, I assume, is alive?
THE BRIDE
(Indicating him) Yes.
THE CLERGYMAN
Well, then, let us proceed. Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
(With a touch of stage fright.) I do.
THE CLERGYMAN
(Reassuringly) You are in good health?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
Yes.
THE CLERGYMAN
No dizziness in the morning?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
No black spots before the eyes?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
No vague pains in the small of the back?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Gout?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Chilblains?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Sciatica?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Buzzing in the ears?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Myopia? Angina pectoris?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
Malaria? Marasmus? Chlorosis? Tetanus? Quinsy? Housemaid’s knee?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
You had measles, I assume, in your infancy?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
Yes.
THE CLERGYMAN
Chicken pox? Mumps? Scarlatina? Cholera morbus? Diphtheria?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
Yes. Yes. No. Yes. No.
THE CLERGYMAN
You are, I assume, a multipara?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
A what?
THE CLERGYMAN
That is to say, you have had more than one child?
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
No.
THE CLERGYMAN
(Professionally) How sad! You will miss her!
THE BRIDE’S FATHER
One job like this is en—
THE CLERGYMAN
(Interrupting suavely) But let us proceed. The ceremony must not be lengthened unduly, however interesting. We now approach the benediction.
(Dipping his gloved hands into the basin of bichloride, he joins the right hands of THE BRIDE and THE BRIDEGROOM.)
THE CLERGYMAN
(To THE BRIDEGROOM) Repeat after me: “I, John, take thee, Mary, to be my wedded and aseptic wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, convalescence, relapse and health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
(THE BRIDEGROOM duly repeats the formula, THE CLERGYMAN now looses their hands, and after another dip into the bichloride, joins them together again.)
THE CLERGYMAN
(To THE BRIDE) Repeat after me: “I, Mary, take thee, John, to be my aseptic and eugenic husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, to love, to cherish and to nurse, till death do us part; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
(THE BRIDE duly promises. THE BEST MAN then hands over the ring, which THE CLERGYMAN drops into the bichloride. It turns green. He fishes it up again, wipes it dry with a piece of aseptic cotton and presents it to THE BRIDEGROOM, who places it upon the third finger of THE BRIDE’S left hand. Then THE CLERGYMAN goes on with the ceremony, THE BRIDEGROOM repeating after him.)
THE CLERGYMAN
Repeat after me: “With this sterile ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
(THE CLERGYMAN then joins the hands of THE BRIDE and BRIDEGROOM once more, and dipping his own right hand into the bichloride, solemnly sprinkles the pair.)
THE CLERGYMAN
Those whom God hath joined together, let no pathogenic organism put asunder. (To the assembled company.) Forasmuch as John and Mary have consented together in aseptic wedlock, and have witnessed the same by the exchange of certificates, and have given and pledged their troth, and have declared the same by giving and receiving an aseptic ring, I pronounce that they are man and wife. In the name of Mendel, of Galton, of Havelock Ellis and of David Starr
Jordan.1 Amen.
(THE BRIDE and BRIDEGROOM now kiss, for the first and last time, after which they gargle with two percent carbolic and march out of the room, followed by THE BRIDE’S FATHER and the spectators. THE BEST MAN, before departing after them, hands THE CLERGYMAN a ten-dollar gold-piece in a small phial of twenty per cent bichloride. THE CLERGYMAN, after pocketing it, washes his hands with green soap. THE BRIDESMAIDS proceed to clean up the room with the remaining bichloride. This done, they and THE CLERGYMAN go out. As soon as they are gone, the operating table is pushed back into place by an orderly, a patient is brought in, and a surgeon proceeds to cut off his leg.)
Death: A Philosophical Discussion
The back parlor of any average American home. The blinds are drawn and a single gas-jet burns feebly. A dim suggestion of festivity: strange chairs, the table pushed back, a decanter and glasses. A heavy, suffocating, discordant scent of flowers—roses, carnations, lilies, gardenias. A general stuffiness and mugginess, as if it were raining outside, which it isn’t.
A door leads into the front parlor. It is open, and through it the flowers may be seen.
They are banked about a long black box with huge nick el handles, resting upon two folding horses. Now and then a man comes into the front room from the street door, his shoes squeaking hideously. Sometimes there is a woman, usually in deep mourning. Each visitor approaches the long black box, looks in-to it with ill-concealed repugnance, snuffles softly, and then backs off toward the door. A clock on the mantel-piece ticks loudly. From the street come the usual noises—a wagon rattling, the clang of a trolley car’s gong, the shrill cry of a child.
In the back parlor six pallbearers sit upon chairs, all of them bolt upright, with their hands on their knees. They are in their Sun day clothes, with stiff white shirts. Their hats are on the floor beside their chairs. Each wears upon his lapel the gilt badge of a fraternal order, with a crêpe rosette. In the gloom they are indistinguishable; all of them talk in the same strained, throaty whisper. Between their remarks they pause, clear their throats, blow their noses, and shuffle in their chairs. They are intensely uncomfortable. Tempo: Adagio lamentoso, with occasionally a rise to andante maesto. So:
FIRST PALLBEARER
Who woulda thought that he woulda been the next?
SECOND PALLBEARER
Yes; you never can tell.
THIRD PALLBEARER
(An oldish voice, oracularly.) We’re here to-day and gone to-morrow.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
I seen him no longer ago than Chewsday. He never looked no better. Nobody would have—
FIFTH PALLBEARER
I seen him Wednesday. We had a glass of beer together in the Huffbrow Kaif.1 He was laughing and cutting up like he always done.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
You never know who it’s gonna hit next. Him and me was pallbearers together for Hen Jackson no more than a month ago, or say five weeks.
FIRST PALLBEARER
Well, a man is lucky if he goes off quick. If I had my way I wouldn’t want no better way.
SECOND PALLBEARER
My brother John went thataway. He dropped like a stone, settin’ there at the supper table. They had to take his knife out of his hand.
THIRD PALLBEARER
I had an uncle to do the same thing, but without the knife. He had what they call appleplexy. It runs in my family.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
They say it’s in his’n, too.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
But he never looked it.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
No. Nobody woulda thought he woulda been the next.
FIRST PALLBEARER
Them are the things you never can tell anything about.
SECOND PALLBEARER
Ain’t it true!
THIRD PALLBEARER
We’re here to-day and gone to-morrow.
(A pause. Feet are shuffled. Somewhere a door bangs.)
FOURTH PALLBEARER
(Brightly.) He looks elegant. I hear he never suffered none.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
No; he went too quick. One minute he was alive and the next minute he was dead.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
Think of it: dead so quick!
FIRST PALLBEARER
Gone!
SECOND PALLBEARER
Passed away!
THIRD PALLBEARER
Well, we all have to go some time.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
Yes; a man never knows but what his turn’ll come next.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
You can’t tell nothing by looks. Them sickly fellows generally lives to be old.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
Yes; the doctors say it’s the big stout person that goes off the soonest. They say typhord never kills none but the healthy.
FIRST PALLBEARER
So I have heered it said. My wife’s youngest brother weighed 240 pounds. He was as strong as a mule. He could lift a sugar-barrel, and then some. Once I seen him drink damn near a whole keg of beer. Yet it finished him in less’n three weeks—and he had it mild.
SECOND PALLBEARER
It seems that there’s a lot of it this fall.
THIRD PALLBEARER
Yes; I hear of people taken with it every day. Some say it’s the water. My brother Sam’s oldest is down with it.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
I had it myself once. I was out of my head for four weeks.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
That’s a good sign.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
Yes; you don’t die as long as you’re out of your head.
FIRST PALLBEARER
It seems to me that there is a lot of sickness around this year.
SECOND PALLBEARER
I been to five funerals in six weeks.
THIRD PALLBEARER
I beat you. I been to six in five weeks, not counting this one.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
A body don’t hardly know what to think of it scarcely.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
That’s what I always say: you can’t tell who’ll be next.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
Ain’t it true! Just think of him.
FIRST PALLBEARER
Yes; nobody woulda picked him out.
SECOND PALLBEARER
Nor my brother John, neither.
THIRD PALLBEARER
Well, what must be must be.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
Yes; it don’t do no good to kick. When a man’s time comes he’s got to go.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
We’re lucky if it ain’t us.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
So I always say. We ought to be thankful.
FIRST PALLBEARER
That’s the way I always feel about it.
SECOND PALLBEARER
It wouldn’t do him no good, no matter what we done.
THIRD PALLBEARER
We’re here to-day and gone to-morrow.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
But it’s hard all the same.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
It’s hard on her.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
Yes, it is. Why should he go?
FIRST PALLBEARER
It’s a question nobody ain’t ever answered.
SECOND PALLBEARER
Nor never won’t.
THIRD PALLBEARER
You’re right there. I talked to a preacher about it once, and even he couldn’t give no answer to it.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
The more you think about it the less you can make it out.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
When I seen him last Wednesday he had no more ideer of it than what you had.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
Well, if I had my choice, that’s the way I would always want to die.
FIRST PALLBEARER
Yes; that’s what I say. I am with you there.
SECOND PALLBEARER
Yes; you’re right, both o
f you. It don’t do good to lay sick for months, with doctors’ bills eatin’ you up, and then have to go anyhow.
THIRD PALLBEARER
No; when a thing has to be done, the best thing to do is to get it done and over with.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
That’s just what I said to my wife when I heerd.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
But nobody hardly thought that he woulda been the next.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
No; but that’s one of them things you can’t tell.
FIRST PALLBEARER
You never know who’ll be the next.
SECOND PALLBEARER
It’s lucky you don’t.
THIRD PALLBEARER
I guess you’re right.
FOURTH PALLBEARER
That’s what my grandfather used to say: you never know what is coming.
FIFTH PALLBEARER
Yes; that’s the way it goes.
SIXTH PALLBEARER
First one, and then somebody else.
FIRST PALLBEARER
Who it’ll be you can’t say.
SECOND PALLBEARER
I always say the same: we’re here to-day—
THIRD PALLBEARER
(Cutting in jealously and humorously.) And to-morrow we ain’t here.
(A subdued and sinister snicker. It is followed by sudden silence. There is a shuffling of feet in the front room, and whispers. Necks are craned. The pallbearers straighten their backs, hitch their coat collars and pull on their black gloves. The clergyman has arrived. From above comes the sound of weeping.)
The Wedding: A Stage Direction
The scene is a church in an American city of about half a million population, and the time is about eleven o’clock of a fine morning in early spring. The neighborhood is well-to-do, but not quite fashionable. That is to say, most of the families of the vicinage keep two servants (alas, more or less intermittently!), and eat dinner at half-past six, and about one in every four boasts a colored butler (who attends to the fires, washes windows and helps with the sweeping), and a last year’s automobile. The heads of these families are merchandise brokers; jobbers in notions, hardware and drugs; manufacturers of candy, hats, badges, office furniture, blank books, picture frames, wire goods and patent medicines; managers of steamboat lines; district agents of insurance companies; owners of commercial printing offices, and other such business men of substance—and the prosperous lawyers and popular family doctors who keep them out of trouble. In one block live a Congressman and two college professors, one of whom has written an unimportant textbook and got himself into “Who’s Who in America.” In the block above lives a man who once ran for Mayor of the city, and came near being elected.