Cybele Combe
Mrs. Rowlands’ letter came by the same mail; you felt as if she had written it as a counterblast:
My dear Miss Winterhead,—
I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to hear that you are bringing a citizen of that very remarkable country you have been travelling in, to wake us all up, and, yes, uplift us all, in our little world at West Mill. I am sure you will not mind my taking such an abstract view of a step which to you, of course, is primarily a personal matter. But we women, when we marry, have to pass out of the self-centred, personal atmosphere in which our effete system of education nurtures us, and take upon ourselves public duties and public responsibilities as the mothers of the women and men that are to be. Your family should start life with good chances: there is nothing, I have always held, like the infusion of some overseas blood to virilize our English stock. (I was deeply interested in what you said in your letter a few weeks ago about the Mormons.) I only hope that your husband does not bring with him from America that curious survival of the attitude miscalled “chivalry” towards women which is still found among his fellow-countrymen. You, with your up-to-date viewpoint, will in any case teach him to realize that the old clinging, sex-conscious attitude of a woman towards her husband can lead to nothing but the divorce court. Husband and wife (I know you agree with me) must be comrades before they are anything else: they must not be afraid to speak their minds to one another and stand up to one another if need be—I remember putting this to Harry when we became engaged, and he thoroughly agreed with me.
And now, I do hope that, whether you are married here or in London, you will be married according to the ceremonial of the Book of Modern Prayer. You will excuse my entering into technicalities, but I know you are one of those to whom the shell and the outward forms of religion (quite rightly) do not appeal, so I thought you would not mind my advising you as to the state of the case. The Revision of the Prayer Book, which arose out of the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline appointed in 1904, is, since last year, an accomplished fact. Most unfortunately, the Revisers could not, even at the last, come to a complete agreement on all points of detail, and consequently there are now five service-books which have equal authority in the Church, (1) the Book of Common Prayer, just as it used to be, (2) the Abridged Book of Common Prayer, which is the same with the tautologies cut out, (3) the Book of Ancient and Modern Prayer, which is only used by the Westernizers, (4) the Revised Book of Common Prayer, a temporizing document which was highly recommended by all the Bishops and is, as far as I know, used nowhere, (5) the Book of Modern Prayer, which is in use at West Mill. This last, although its compilers were men who believe that God exists (in so far as it is possible for us to be sure that anything exists, and in what ever sense we can do so) is far better suited than the others for those who, like yourself, have no such definite convictions. It has completely abolished the old marriage-by-capture terminology of the earlier Prayer Book, about “obeying,” “honouring” and what not. It is sensible enough to allow for the possibility that, while it is to be hoped the contract is a permanent one, it may quite conceivably have to be rescinded at the close of a period of ten years. It is very important just now that people in a prominent position, like yourself, should use this formula, because so many people attend weddings who do not ordinarily come to Church at all: and we want them to realize what it is that Christians do and what it is that Christians do not claim. I do hope you will pardon my troubling you about all this; but it is as well to look ahead, isn’t it?
Yours most sincerely in the truth,
Agape Rowlands
Lady Lushcombe,[[5]] too, was among the first to congratulate me. I was the more touched by this, as she was having great trouble at the time with her fourth husband; and I could appreciate the kindly thought which induced her to type at all, though the contents of her letter were not precisely cheering:
My precious Opal,—
(You must still let me call you mine, even though this Yankee ogre is going to run away with you)—How to congratulate you on the splendid news which has just been broadcasted here? I assure you, nobody talks of anything else. Bertha was in here yesterday, and she positively raved about you. We are all so glad that you are bringing your tame bear back to England with you, and look forward with tremendous excitement to the day when you will exhibit him. I do most earnestly hope that you will be happy: I’m sure you deserve to be; one gives up so much, does one not, in tying oneself up to a stranger for years and years like that. I believe marriage will be good for you, because from having no brothers or sisters you’ve had a very easy life up to now, and it must be difficult for you to sympathize with all the unhappiness there is in the world. Now you’ve taken your coat off and come into the ring with the rest of us: more strength to your arm! You’ll find men are more intolerable the more you get to know them; hopelessly selfish, and quite without manners. The only thing to do with them, my dear, is to disregard them. “Think only of thyself,” I was reading the other day in a perfectly fascinating Arabian philosopher: “think only of thyself, and nothing that happens to others will be able to violate thy peace of mind”—I thought that so wonderful, especially as the philosopher (I’ve forgotten his name) was unmarried, you know. The great thing is, I’m sure, to get all the enjoyment you can out of your romance while it lasts. Simply forget that the future must bring disillusionment, and plunge yourself in your happiness. And whenever trouble does come, be sure you come straight to me and let me hear all about it: I’ve not lived forty years for nothing! Once again, my sweet Opal, all my best wishes to you. I will tell you my own news when you get home.