Sylvia's Marriage

by Upton Sinclair

  Sylvia went to her father, to talk with him about the difficult

  subject of venereal disease. The poor major had never expected to

  live to hear such a discourse from a daughter of his; however, with

  the blind child under his roof, he could not find words to stop her.

  "But, Sylvia," he protested, "what reason have you to suspect such a

  thing of Roger Peyton?"

  "I have the reason of his life. You know that he has the reputation

  of being 'fast'; you know that he drinks, you know that I once

  refused to speak to him because he danced with me when he was

  drunk."

  "My child, all the men you know have sowed their wild oats."

  "Papa, you must not take advantage of me in such a discussion. I

  don't claim to know what sins may be included in the phrase 'wild

  oats.' Let us speak frankly--can you say that you think it unlikely

  that Roger Peyton has been unchaste?"

  The major hesitated and coughed; finally he said: "The boy drinks,

  Sylvia; further than that I have no knowledge."

  "The medical books tell me that the use of alcohol tends to break

  down self-control, and to make continence impossible. And if that be

  true, you must admit that we have a right to ask assurances. What do

  you suppose that Roger and his crowd are doing when they go

  roistering about the streets at night? What do they do when they go

  off to Mardi Gras? Or at college--you know that Cousin Clive had to

  get him out of trouble several times. Go and ask Clive if Roger has

  ever been exposed to the possibility of these diseases."

  "My child," said the major, "Clive would not feel he had the right

  to tell me such things about his friend."

  "Not even when the friend wants to marry his cousin?"

  "But such questions are not asked, my daughter."

  "Papa, I have thought this matter out carefully, and I hava

  something definite to propose to you. I have no idea of stopping

  with what Clive Chilton may or may not see fit to tell about his

  chum. I want _you_ to go to Roger."

  Major Castleman's face wore a blank stare.

  "If he's going to marry your daughter, you have the right to ask

  about his past. What I want you to tell him is that you will get the

  name of a reputable specialist in these diseases, and that before he

  can have your daughter he must present you with a letter from this

  man, to the effect that he is fit to marry."

  The poor major was all but speechless. "My child, who ever heard of

  such a proposition?"

  "I don't know that any one ever did, papa. But it seems to me time

  they should begin to hear of it; and I don't see who can have a

  better right to take the first step than you and I, who have paid

  such a dreadful price for our neglect."

  Sylvia had been prepared for opposition--the instinctive opposition

  which men manifest to having this embarrassing subject dragged out

  into the light of day. Even men who have been chaste

  themselves--good fathers of families like the major--cannot be

  unaware of the complications incidental to frightening their

  women-folk, and setting up an impossibly high standard in

  sons-in-law. But Sylvia stood by her guns; at last she brought her

  father to his knees by the threat that if he could not bring himself

  to talk with Roger Peyton, she, Sylvia Castleman, would do it.

  15. The young suitor came by appointment the next day, and had a

  session with the Major in his office. After he had gone, Sylvia went

  to her father and found him pacing the floor, with an extinct cigar

  between his lips, and several other ruined cigars lying on the

  hearth.

  "You asked him, papa?"

  "I did, Sylvia."

  "And what did he say?"

  "Why, daughter----" The major flung his cigar from him with

  desperate energy. "It was most embarrassing!" he exclaimed--"most

  painful!" His pale old face was crimson with blushes.

  "Go on, papa," said Sylvia, gentle but firm.

  "The poor boy--naturally, Sylvia, he could not but feel hurt that I

  should think it necessary to ask such questions. Such things are not

  done, my child. It seemed to him that I must look upon him as--well,

  as much worse than other young fellows----"

  The old man stopped, and began to walk restlessly up and down. "Yes,

  papa," said Sylvia. "What else?"

  "Well, he said it seemed to him that such a matter might have been

  left to the honour of a man whom I was willing to think of as a

  son-in-law. And you see, my child, what an embarrassing position I

  was in; I could not give him any hint as to my reason for being

  anxious about these matters--anything, you understand, that might be

  to the discredit of your husband."

  "Go on, papa."

  "Well, I gave him a fatherly talking to about his way of life."

  "Did you ask him the definite question as to his health?"

  "No, Sylvia."

  "Did he tell you anything definite?"

  "No."

  "Then you didn't do what you had set out to do!"

  "Yes, I did. I told him that he must see a doctor."

  "You made quite clear to him what you wanted?"

  "Yes, I did--really, I did."

  "And what did he say?" She went to him and took his arm and led him

  to a couch. "Come, papa, let us get to the facts. You must tell me."

  They sat down, and the major sighed, lit a fresh cigar, rolled it

  about in his fingers until it was ruined, and then flung it away.

  "Boys don't talk freely to older men," he said. "They really never

  do. You may doubt this----"

  "What did he _say,_ papa?"

  "Why, he didn't know what to say. He didn't really say anything."

  And here the major came to a complete halt.

  His daughter, after studying his face for a minute, remarked, "In

  plain words, papa, you think he has something to hide, and he may

  not be able to give you the evidence you asked?"

  The other was silent.

  "You fear that is the situation, but you are trying not to believe

  it." As he still said nothing, Sylvia whispered, "Poor Celeste!"

  Suddenly she put her hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his

  eye. "Papa, can't you see what that means--that Celeste ought to

  have been told these things long ago?"

  "What good would that have done?" he asked, in bewilderment.

  "She could have known what kind of man she was choosing; and she

  might be spared the dreadful unhappiness that is before her now."

  "Sylvia! Sylvia!" protested the other. "Surely such things cannot be

  discussed with innocent young girls!"

  "So long as we refuse to do it, we are simply entering into a

  conspiracy with the man of loose life, so that he may escape the

  worst penalty of his evil-doing. Take the boys in our own set--why

  is it they feel safe in running off to the big cities and 'sowing

  their wild oats'--even sowing them in the obscure parts of their own

  town? Is it not because they know that their sisters and girl

  friends are ignorant and helpless; so that when they are ready to

  pick a wife, they will be at no disadvantage? Here is Celeste; she

  know
s that Roger has been 'wild,' but no one has hinted to her what

  that means; she thinks of things that are picturesque--that he's

  high-spirited, and brave, and free with his money."

  "But, my daughter," protested the major, "such knowledge would have

  a terrible effect upon young girls!" He rose and began to pace the

  floor again. "Daughter, you are letting yourself run wild! The

  sweetness, the virginal innocence of young and pure women--if you

  take that from them, there'd be nothing left to keep men from

  falling to the level of brutes!"

  "Papa," said Sylvia, "all that sounds well, but it has no meaning. I

  have been robbed of my 'innocence,' and I know that it has not

  debased me. It has only fitted me to deal with the realities of

  life. And it will do the same for any girl who is taught by earnest

  and reverent people. Now, as it is, we have to tell Celeste, but we

  tell her too late."

  "But we _won't_ have to tell her!" cried the major.

  "Dear papa, please explain how we can avoid telling her."

  "I will inform her that she must give the young man up. She is a

  good and dutiful daughter----"

  "Yes," replied Sylvia, "but suppose on this one occasion she were to

  fail to be good and dutiful? Suppose the next day you learn that she

  had run away and married Roger--what would you do about it then?"

  16. That evening Roger was to take his _fianc�e_ to one of the young

  people's dances. And there was Celeste, in a flaming red dress, with

  a great bunch of flaming roses; she could wear these colours, with

  her brilliant black hair and gorgeous complexion. Roger was fair,

  with a frank, boyish face, and they made a pretty couple; but that

  evening Roger did not come. Sylvia helped to dress her sister, and

  then watched her wandering restlessly about the hall, while the hour

  came and went. Later in the evening Major Castleman called up the

  Peyton home. The boy was not there, and no one seemed to know where

  he was.

  Nor the next day did there come any explanation. At the Peytons it

  was still declared that no one had heard from Roger, and for another

  day the mystery continued, to Celeste's distress and mortification.

  At last, from Clive Chilton, Sylvia managed to extract the truth.

  Roger was drunk--crazy drunk, and had been taken off by some of the

  boys to be straightened out.

  Of course this rumour soon got to the rest of the family and they

  had to tell Celeste, because she was frantic with anxiety. There

  were grave consultations among the Castleman ladies. It was a wanton

  affront to his _fianc�e_ that the boy had committed, and something

  must be done about it quickly. Then came the news that Roger had

  escaped from his warders, and got drunker than ever; he had been out

  at night, smashing the street lamps, and it had required extreme

  self-control on the part of the town police force to avoid

  complications.

  "Miss Margaret" went to her young daughter, and in a tear-flooded

  scene informed her of the opinion of the family, that her

  self-respect required the breaking of the engagement. Celeste went

  into hysterics. She would _not_ have her happiness ruined for life!

  Roger was "wild," but so were all the other boys--and he would atone

  for his recklessness. She had the idea that if only she could get

  hold of him, she could recall him to his senses; the more her mother

  was scandalised by this proposal, the more frantically Celeste wept.

  She shut herself up in her room, refusing to appear at meals, and

  spending her time pacing the floor and wringing her hands.

  The family had been through all this with their eldest daughter

  several years before, but they had not learned to handle it any

  better. The whole household was in a state of distraction, and the

  conditions grew worse day by day, as bulletins came in concerning

  the young man. He seemed to have gone actually insane. He was not to

  be restrained even by his own father, and if the unfortunate

  policemen could be believed, he had violently attacked them.

  Apparently he was trying to break down the unwritten law that the

  sons of the "best families" are not arrested.

  Poor Celeste, with pale, tear-drenched face, sent for her elder

  sister, to make one last appeal. Could Sylvia not somehow get hold

  of Roger and bring him to his senses? Could she not interview some

  of the other boys, and find out what he meant by his conduct?

  So Sylvia went to her cousin Clive, and had a talk with

  him--assuredly the most remarkable talk that that young man had ever

  had in his life. She told him that she wanted to know the truth

  about Roger Peyton, and after a cross-examination that would have

  made the reputation of a criminal lawyer, she got what she wanted.

  All the young men in town, it seemed, knew the true state of

  affairs, and were in a panic concerning it; that Major Castleman had

  sent for Roger and informed him that he could not marry his

  daughter, until he produced a certain kind of medical certificate.

  No, he couldn't produce it! Was there a fellow in town who could

  produce it? What was there for him to do but to get drunk and stay

  drunk, until Celeste had cast him off?

  It was Clive's turn then to do some plain speaking. "Look here,

  Sylvia," he said, "since you have made me talk about this----"

  "Yes, Clive?"

  "Do you know what people are saying--I mean the reason the Major

  made this proposition to Roger?"

  She answered, in a quiet voice: "I suppose, Clive, it has something

  to do with Elaine."

  "Yes, exactly!" exclaimed Clive. "They say--" But then he stopped.

  He could not repeat it. "Surely you don't want that kind of talk,

  Sylvia?"

  "Naturally, Clive, I'd prefer to escape that kind of talk, but my

  fear of it will not make me neglect the protection of my sister."

  "But Sylvia," cried the boy, "you don't understand about this! A

  woman _can't_ understand about these things----"

  "You are mistaken, my dear cousin," said Sylvia--and her voice was

  firm and decisive. "I _do_ understand."

  "All right!" cried Clive, with sudden exasperation. "But let me tell

  you this--Celeste is going to have a hard time getting any other man

  to propose to her!"

  "You mean, Clive, because so many of them are----?"

  "Yes, if you must put it that way," he said.

  There was a pause, then Sylvia went on: "Let us discuss the

  practical problem, Clive. Don't you think it would have been better

  if Roger, instead of going off and getting drunk, had set about

  getting himself cured?"

  The other looked at her, with evident surprise. "You mean in that

  case Celeste might marry him?"

  "You say the boys are all alike, Clive; and we can't turn our girls

  into nuns. Why didn't some of you fellows point that out to Roger?"

  "The truth is," said Clive, "we tried to." There was a little more

  cordiality in his manner, since Sylvia had shown such a unexpected

  amount of intelligence.

  "Well?" she asked. "What then?"

  "Why, he woul
dn't listen to anything."

  "You mean--because he was drunk?"

  "No, we had him nearly sober. But you see--" And Clive paused for a

  moment, painfully embarrassed. "The truth is, Roger had been to a

  doctor, and been told it might take him a year or two to get cured."

  "Clive!" she cried. "Clive! And you mean that in the face of that,

  he proposed to go on and marry?"

  "Well, Sylvia, you see--" And the young man hesitated still longer.

  He was crimson with embarrassment, and suddenly he blurted out: "The

  truth is, the doctor told him to marry. That was the only way he'd

  ever get cured."

  Sylvia was almost speechless. "Oh! Oh!" she cried, "I can't believe

  you!"

  "That's what the doctors tell you, Sylvia. You don't

  understand--it's just as I told you, a woman can't understand. It's

  a question of a man's nature----"

  "But Clive--what about the wife and her health? Has the wife no

  rights whatever?"

  "The truth is, Sylvia, people don't take this disease with such

  desperate seriousness. You understand, it isn't the one that

  everybody knows is dangerous. It doesn't do any real harm----"

  "Look at Elaine! Don't you call that real harm?"

  "Yes, but that doesn't happen often, and they say there are ways it

  can be prevented. Anyway, fellows just can't help it! God knows we'd

  help it if we could."

  Sylvia thought for a moment, and then came back to the immediate

  question. "It's evident what Roger could do in this case. He is

  young, and Celeste is still younger. They might wait a couple of

  years and Roger might take care of himself, and in time it might be

  properly arranged."

  But Clive did not seem too warm to the proposition, and Sylvia, who

  knew Roger Peyton, was not long in making out the reason. "You mean

  you don't think he has character enough to keep straight for a year

  or two?"

  "To tell you the honest truth, we talked it out with him, and he

  wouldn't make any promises."

  To which Sylvia answered: "Very well, Clive--that settles it. You

  can help me find some man for Celeste who loves her a little more

  than that!"

  17. That afternoon came Aunt Nannie, the Bishop's wife, in shining

  chestnut-coloured silk to match a pair of shining chestnut-coloured

  horses. Other people, it appeared, had been making inquiries into

  Roger Peyton's story, and other people besides Clive Chilton had

  been telling the truth. Aunt Nannie gathered the ladies of the

  family in a hurried conference, and Sylvia was summoned to appear

  before it--quite as in the days of her affair with Frank Shirley.

  "Miss Margaret" and Aunt Varina were solemn and frightened, as of

  old; and, as of old, Aunt Nannie did the talking. "Sylvia, do you

  know what people are saying about you?"

  "Yes, Aunt Nannie" said Sylvia.

  "Oh, you do know?"

  "Yes, of course. And I knew in advance that they would say it."

  Something about the seraphic face of Sylvia, chastened by terrible

  suffering, must have suggested to Mrs. Chilton the idea of caution.

  "Have you thought of the humiliation this must inflict upon your

  relatives?"

  "I have found, Aunt Nannie," said Sylvia, "that there are worse

  afflictions than being talked about."

  "I am not sure," declared the other, "that anything could be worse

  than to be the object of the kind of gossip that is now seething

  around our family. It has been the tradition of our people to bear

  their afflictions in silence."

  "In this case, Aunt Nannie, it is obvious that silence would have

  meant more afflictions, many more. I have thought of my sister--and

  of all the other girls in our family, who may be led to sacrifice by

  the ambitions of their relatives." Sylvia paused a moment, so that