HERE COMES THE GROOM** 

It’s a woman’s world. When a guest returns from a wedding, the first thing that is asked is, “How did the bride look?” No one ever rushes to meet that returning guest, panting in tones hoarse with suspense, “The groom, the groom—what of him?” Every one clamors to hear the unexpurgated account of the bride’s costume from the topmost petal of her orange blossoms to the uttermost ends of her train, but no living soul is in the least interested in ascertaining whether the groom wore a cut away coat or a one-piece bathing-suit. The newspapers battle to get the bride’s photograph; they do everything but get out an extra about it. They publish it together with a description of her gown, her gifts, and her antecedents, in the most important place they can find; but no paper devotes even so much as a typographical error to the description of the groom’s costume. Now and then, at long and weary intervals, an impersonal society reporter coldly writes that “the groom wore the conventional black” and lets him go at that, but even that curt courtesy is dying out. The groom is just about as important a figure at a wedding as the Czar is in Russia at present.

A PITIFUL CASE

In all this sad world there is no sadder sight than that of the groom standing at the altar, more married against than marrying. He is mercifully allowed to turn his self-conscious back to the wedding guests, who regard him with the same glitter in their eyes with which the spectators at a bullfight look on the bull. He does not see them, as he stands there awaiting the cue for his dramatic, “I do,” and dreading that he may go up in his lines, but to his blushing ears are lightly wafted their delightful little whispered comments:

            “What on earth did she see in him?”

            “I can’t understand Ethel,—with all the beaux she had, too.”

            “It must be his money.”

            “I suppose she thought that she’d better marry young. She’s the type that fades early.”

            “Well, you’ll see. This will last just about six months.”

EVEN THE WAR GROOM

They haven’t the slightest respect for a uniform; they won’t even have mercy on a war groom. He can hear their refreshing little whispers about, “Well, I suppose they’ll let anything into the army, these days, just to encourage recruiting.” After he has lived through the siege of a wedding ceremony, it’s no wonder the groom murmurs to himself, “War was never like this.”

            There is one good thing about being married, though; the groom can never be bored during the ceremony. There are so many little things for him to do. He can wonder why he ever started all this, anyway. He can reflect on all those promises he is making and realize that when he utters his “I do,” he has said something. If they’d only set a time limit on all this loving and cherishing and forsaking all others; that’s the trouble with the whole arrangement,—it’s so painfully permanent. He can won der if there is any possible chance of the ring being found at the right moment. He can pray for a miracle to happen,—a miracle that will quickly and painlessly untangle the bride’s veil from around his ankles. He can wonder if he looks the way he feels. Though he may not be clairvoyant, he can see the mental reservations that are going on under the bride’s veil when she falteringly promises to obey him. He can wonder how he is ever going to get down that interminable aisle with the eyes of all her relatives and old lovers upon him,—and look as if he didn’t mind in the least. Or he can spend the time just in dreading the reception.

THE WORST PART OF THE MARRIAGE

For the worst is yet to come. After he is thoroughly married, af ter “The Voice that Breathed O’er Eden” has had its say, after he has managed to get down the aisle, clinging desperately to his brand-new wife,—then comes the climax of the atrocities. He must stand beside his bride, a target for congratulations. He must shake hands with all her uncles, and her cousins, whom he curses by the dozens, and he must try to bear up when her most unappetizing aunts insist on kissing him. He must behave just as if he remembered all those strange people who invariably ap pear at weddings,—and “strange” is putting it mildly. Most of them are positively bizarre.

            Any student of abnormal psychology would be deeply inter ested in studying the groom at the wedding reception. The far away look in his eyes, the rigid smile, the hectic flush, the way he fervently grasps the hand of the approaching guest and ex claims, “Thank you,” in tones of heartfelt gratitude before the guest has had a chance to utter a word—all these would afford a complete course of study to any conscientious student.

            And when it’s eventually over, and the bride departs to change her wedding gown for her whither-thou-goest-I-have to-go costume, the groom is still a pathetic figure. He is not yet out of his misery. For the hour of weeping has begun, and everybody connected with the bride, especially mother and aunts and spinster friends of the family, begins to shed tears as the moment for her departure draws near. It is always such a pretty compliment to the groom. Even when he and the bride have fought their way through bombardments of confetti, there is no peace for him. The bride’s playful little brother and several kindred spirits have thoughtfully decorated the waiting motor with bows and streamers of white ribbon, so that no passer-by need be in any doubt as to the nature of the fleeing occupants.

            From beginning to end, the process of getting married is a sad one for the groom. The bride plays the stellar role; she is always in the limelight. Every one admires her and is interested only in her. The groom is just a sort of stage property. It takes two to make a wedding—that’s the only reason he happens to be there at all. He is lost in a fog of oblivion which envelops him from the first strains of the Wedding March to the beginning of the honeymoon.

            Perhaps, some day, something will be done to alleviate all the horrible suffering of grooms. There is always some noble soul who rises to fill a crying need, and some day, in the dim Utopian future, there will be born a mighty genius, a benefactor

all humanity, who will invent a bridegroomless wedding.

Vogue, June 15, 1917