The Syncopated Marriage

By William F. Jenkins

HERE was a time when you went along a long wooden hall, past one of those closets-under-the-stairs that they used to build in residences for the middle classes, and down a flight of stairs into what was once a cellar. They had torn out the two upper floors, so you were in a large, high, brick-walled room with a concrete floor. And on that floor were the tables of the restaurant. There used to be a girl who sang there, who hit the note accurately every time. By that you know it was a most unusual cabaret.

Now it has changed. There is a liveried attendant to take your hat, and the chairs in the ante-room are painted light blue and pink. But in the olden days,—which is to say quite six months ago—a crowd of us dined there nearly every night.

Cary brought his moustache and a perfect profile to the gathering; Hamilton appeared in the perfect similitude of a prosperous business man. There were about six of us in all. The only really picturesque figure, however, was the artist of the bunch. Lou Graves wore a windsor tie, for atmosphere. In business hours he drew advertisements for a corset factory, but in the hours he devoted to Art he painted nudes and composed what he claimed was music.

This particular evening he was late in appearing. We had been discussing things in general—which always means “woman”—and I held the floor.

“I maintain,” I declared firmly, “that there is no fool like a dam’ fool. Any man can be as big a fool as any woman, but his friends usually manage to prevent him from doing it. It is only after he is married that he is hopeless, because then his friends have no influence over him. That is why all the ‘booful baby’ letters are written by married men. That is why—”

They interrupted me ungently, so I became explicit.

“There is a man whose name I have forgotten,” I said, “but which Lou Graves can furnish, who takes his wife back regularly every six months. Three years ago he married her. He had eighteen hundred dollars in the bank. Eight months later she eloped with a neighbour and the eighteen hundred dollars. He did not follow her, but simply began to save up again. He thought of a new advertising scheme or something and in a year he had two thousand dollars. In the meantime she had opened negotiations and he let her come back to him. Three months later she eloped with the two thousand dollars and another neighbour. In six months the usual thing happened. She repented, he took her back, and to show his confidence in her put his bank account in their joint names. She did not elope for four months this time. But two months ago she took the fifteen hundred dollars he had accumulated (I don’t remember how) and went to Florida with still another neighbour. He says he will take her back again! Can you beat that for sheer idiocy?”

While waiting for an adequate reply I attacked my food.

There was a small, spectacled man with an apologetic beard at the next table. He was alone, and I noticed when I lifted my eyes after escorting a forkful of spaghetti to my mouth that he had been listening.

He hesitated a moment and then rose.

“I beg pardon,” he said diffidently, “but would you mind if I said something to you about a similar case?”

We made room for him.

“I know a man who has done practically the same thing as your friend,” said the spectacled person, “and I consider him a very intelligent man. He loves his wife. She does not love him. But—haven’t you heard of cases where men have been so infatuated with women of the demi-monde that they have squandered fortunes on them—ruined themselves for what they must have known were mere momentary affairs with the women? So it is with this man. His wife—I speak from experience—is a woman with reddish hair. Moreover, she has a most damnable temper! She has eloped no less than three times, with no less than three different men, and each time her elopement has cost her husband his savings. But consider! He entertains a great, an incredible, love for her. So much so that if she were in truth a woman of the half-world, there is no doubt that he would furnish us with another example of the lengths to which men will go when inspired with such a passion. He saves, perhaps, five hundred dollars. For that his wife will return to him. He has her to himself for a month at least, possibly two, and for as long after that as he can keep her from meeting someone else she likes better. Do you understand? He regards her exactly as a woman with whom he wished to conduct an affair, on her part a very mercenary affair. Would one of you gentlemen begrudge five hundred dollars for two months with the most charming woman in the world?”

“No!” said Cary. Cary entertains a pale lavender passion for a lady (of a chorus which shall be nameless), which passion is quite hopeless because of his financial condition.

Hamilton was less frank, but even he shook his head decidedly.

“Then, do you think this man is a fool? She is to him the most charming woman in the world. And why not? Cleopatra had a peculiar nose, Catherine the Great had freckles, Madame de Maintenon even had a double chin! Why shouldn’t he love a woman with a hellish temper?”

There was no answer.

“I’m sure you will pardon my intrusion,” continued the gentleman with the spectacles, again his apologetic self, “but I felt I had to justify this unknown man. I know exactly how he felt.”

He started to back away from our table. We cordially invited him to stay, but he pleaded an engagement which must be kept, and left.

As he made for the Broadway doorway, to go up through the hall, he passed Lou Graves just coming in. We saw Lou give him a curious nod and then come quickly on to our table.

“Do you remember the fellow I told you about who takes his wife back every little while?” he asked me hurriedly. “Well, look at that chap just going out the door—”

We nodded to each other.

“He’s the man!” we exclaimed in chorus.

“Nothing of the sort. Where’d you get that idea? He’s the last man the woman ran away with!”