A few days before his wedding Magnus had the misfortune, while shaving, of cutting off a small pimple on his upper lip. The tiny wound became infected, and on his wedding morning he observed with extreme disfavour that the small but objectionable sore was no better. He felt far from well. He had slept poorly and he had a sour taste in his mouth. He considered the approaching ceremony without enthusiasm.
The postman brought him a few letters forwarded from his London address. There was an invitation to dine in Kensington, an invitation to speak on Modern Criticism at a literary luncheon. A press-cutting agency sent three reviews of The Returning Sun, which had just been published. One was tolerant, one was severe, and the third endeavoured to be amusing at his expense. In the opinion of these three, at any rate, The Returning Sun was a failure.
There was also a copy of the Morning Call. Janet was responsible for its presence. She had carefully studied Lady Mercy’s scheme for the distribution of free gifts to registered readers, and discovered that a year’s subscription carried the bonus of a cottage-piano. It soon occurred to her that by paying a year’s subscription in Magnus’s name she could give him a very handsome wedding-present at a very trifling cost to herself, and being of an economical turn of mind—though generous in the acts of hospitality, that did not cost ready money—she took advantage of Lady Mercy’s kind offer and Magnus now possessed a piano, somewhat damaged in transit, that neither he nor Rose could play. He was also assured of tidings from the outer world for twelve months to come. And as though for a marriage greeting the present copy contained a news item of particular interest.
On the back page there was the photograph of a newly-wedded couple with the caption below: Mr J. J. Chamberlain French and Miss Frieda Forsyth, of New York, after their marriage yesterday at the London Register Office. A brief paragraph on an inner page repeated the information that Miss Forsyth was an American, and added that Mr French had resigned his commission in the Guards, and the bride and bridegroom were sailing in the Empress of Britain on its third luxury-cruise round the world.
Among a variety of minor sensations Magnus’s predominant feeling was amusement: not, however, the robust after-dinner merriment of bachelor-parties, but something akin to the weak laughter of a convalescent. Frieda had got her man, and even if she failed to keep him he could not desert her without proper compensation. And Frieda, whose fate had so troubled him, was going round the world in luxury, while he was about to settle himself in a small farm in Orkney. It was clearly an occasion for laughter, and had he been feeling better he might have laughed more heartily. But owing to his malaise there was a certain frailty in his amusement.
Magnus’s brother Robert, the schoolmaster in South Ronaldsay, had come to be his best man. It was Janet who had insisted on his being asked to perform the service, for Magnus had no great friendliness towards his brother, who was a dull and disagreeable person. But Janet maintained that it was his privilege to be best man, and Magnus’s duty to ask him to accept the office. So Robert had arrived and Magnus found his company not the least of his burdens.
In the early afternoon Robert discovered the press-cuttings and read them. ‘These people don’t seem to think much of that poem of yours,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Magnus.
‘It’s a pity,’ said Robert.
‘I don’t care a damn what they say.’
‘But they form public opinion, don’t they?’
‘To hell with public opinion.’
‘Well, perhaps you can afford to say that now. I don’t suppose public opinion matters much to a man farming twenty-five acres of land in the middle of Orkney.’
‘No, and your opinion doesn’t affect me either.’
‘If you had asked it earlier,’ said Robert, ‘I would certainly have advised you against this absurd idea of becoming a farmer. However, I suppose it’s too late to say anything now.’
‘Look here,’ said Magnus, ‘will you mind your own business? I know perfectly well what I’m doing, and I’m doing it because I want to, and for no other reason.’
‘Oh,’ said Robert. ‘I assumed you were marrying Rose because you had to.’
Magnus lost his temper. ‘I’ve never done anything in my life because I had to do it,’ he shouted. ‘I do as I please and I always have done as I pleased. Because you’re one of nature’s conscripts you think that everyone else must act as though circumstances were a sergeant-major and the whole world a Prussian parade-ground. But I’m not a conscript: I’m a volunteer and I always have been!’
Magnus paused. His rodomontade was growing dangerous. The military metaphor might be extended and his marriage be said to resemble confinement to barracks. But Robert failed to observe his opportunity.
‘You’re a dull fellow,’ said Magnus.
‘I’m quite content to be what I am.’
‘I know you are. Let’s have a drink, and forget it.’
But Robert refused to drink, so Magnus took his own dram and that which he had poured for Robert as well, and felt more cheerful because of them.
The marriage ceremony took place in the ben-room at the Bu, and the number of people who contrived to be present in that little space was remarkable. Yet they were only a small proportion of the guests. Others filled the passage outside or stood in the garden and peered through the windows. There were more in the kitchen, and still more in the barn that had been cleared for dancing. And through the gathering darkness late-comers were approaching the Bu from all directions, some on foot and some on bicycles, some in motor cars and a few in old-fashioned gigs. Rose was to be gratified in her desire for a large and popular wedding.
She made a charming picture in her bridal array, and bore herself with such dignified composure that, in comparison, Magnus’s behaviour seemed to be merely an improvisation of the bridegroom’s part. Rose received congratulations as one accustomed from early childhood to a multiplicity of compliments, but Magnus endeavoured to minimize the seriousness of the occasion by a jocular acceptance of all the well-wishing.
The marriage service was but a minor part of the celebrations. The minister left before the last guest had arrived, and feasting and dancing continued till the tardy dawn. Mary Isbister and her assistants had prepared such vast quantities of food as might have served for a siege. Sheep had been killed, poultry slaughtered without ruth or counting, puddings made, bread baked, ale brewed enough to drown a horse, whisky bought, cakes and biscuits had been bought, and the bride’s cog prepared with such heat, richness, potency, and savour that the mere perfume, as it was borne from mouth to mouth, fortified the senses and was carried in a sweet breeze of intoxication to the barn where the fiddlers waited.
Except for the busy women who filled and replenished the tables, a fine air of leisure characterized the early behaviour of the guests. The night was before them, and while they waited their turn to eat they stood in little groups in the barn, at the house-end, in the yard—for the night was fine though cold—and gossiped and drank the ale that was brought to them. But a richer atmosphere enfolded them when dancing began, and the fiddlers’ music quickened their blood, and the ale came faster.
Rose danced as vigorously as though she were already lightened of her child, and Magnus, who had drunk liberally and often, forgot his malaise, and threw off his coat, and clasped whatever girl was nearest, and felt that a wedding was the finest way of spending a night he had ever found. Then he grew thirsty and went indoors. Peter was sitting with half a dozen men of his own age and three or four stout, brisk, and talkative women.
‘Come away, Mansie,’ he said, and made room for him, and gave him a glass of whisky. ‘Man, we were just talking about the old days and the hard drinking there was in Orkney. My father used to tell about a wedding in Hoy when they brewed far stronger ale than they do nowadays, and some time after their tea all the men went outside together to settle an argument about which of them were fou’ and which were still sober. And some said the moon was rising in the east, and some in the west. And they werena fou’. And some said there were two moons in the sky. And they werena fou’ either. But one man said there was no moon at all, and he was fou’: he was damn fou’, fair fou’, fine fou’, skin fou’, blin’ fou’, and fou’ altogether.’
‘He must have been like Peter o’ Taing,’ said an old man with blue eyes and a white beard. ‘He’s dead now, but he lived to a great age. I mind him saying once—and he was fou’ at the time—“Man, I’ve only got one vice, but it’s given me more pleasure than all my virtues”.’
Then someone remembered that Peter o’ Taing had once been asked at what age a woman would no longer take a man, and he had answered, ‘So long as her shin will bleed I wouldna trust her.’
The conversation grew Rabelaisian. A succession of ripe anecdotes followed this story, and all the dead worthies of the country were remembered, their eccentricities recalled, their quips and the quirks of their robust independence recited with deep relish. A new ambition revealed itself to Magnus while he listened to these tales, and he thought how enviable was a rustic immortality. His mind leapt forward and he greatly desired that in time to come his jests and the oddities of his behaviour would be remembered and woven to a legend. He would cultivate a humorous eccentricity; he would be unorthodox and witty; in his old age he would be a notable figure in the country and his conversation would bristle with memorable remarks; he would, in fact, prepare to become a tradition. But while he was meditating how to set about it, and when he had but finished his second dram, Rose came in to look for him, and said that she hoped he hadn’t been drinking too much, and took him away to dance again, and was no sooner dancing with him than she complained about the odour of whisky on his breath.
‘It’ll be worse by morning,’ said Magnus, and lifted her briskly round in a Highland Schottische.
The barn was now like the inside of a smoky lamp on a summer evening when the moths, maddened by the light, have come to dance in the round globe. It was hot as a lamp, noisy, full of ceaseless movement and a smoky yellow light. Red faces shone with sweat and the girls’ bright frocks were creased and crumpled. But the fiddlers played with a tireless spirit and ale was there for all who wanted it.
Magnus went outside to cool himself and met a man called Jock of the Brecks whose wife, some little time before, had taken him home and put him to bed thinking he had drunk enough and might disgrace her if he were allowed to drink more. But Jock was a shrewd fellow, amiable in his temper yet not easily discouraged. He had agreed to go to bed, and then, as soon as his wife had left him, he got up again, and dressed himself, and took his bicycle and put a bottle of whisky in his pocket and returned to the wedding as fast as he could. Now Magnus took a drink from his bottle and told him he had done well. And Jock had a drink himself and invited some other men, dimly seen in the darkness of the yard, to join them and drink also. The party grew and Jock’s story induced such merriment in them that a witty fellow called Johnny Peace began to make a song about it, and declared that with another dram or two to help him he would make a very good song indeed. Then Magnus said that he would sing a song, and gave them the scandalous ditty of Reilly’s Farm. This jocular noise attracted more people, and presently there were almost as many men listening to him as there were dancing. So Magnus sang, for an encore, the dolorous but robust ballad of Samuel Hall, and the sonorous notes of its vindictive refrain echoed magnificently about the yard.
During the penultimate verse Rose interrupted the recital. She thrust her way through the audience and taking Magnus firmly by the arm bade him to come with her.
‘Do you think that’s the way to behave at a wedding?’ she demanded.
‘It’s my wedding as well as yours,’ said Magnus, ‘and I’m going to enjoy myself.’
‘You’ve had your last drink for this night,’ said Rose, ‘except a cup of tea.’
But already the full darkness of night was fading, and sombre grey was creeping into the sky. Rose went to change her dress and Magnus to make ready for their journey. A honeymoon is not usual among the Orkney farmers, but Magnus had determined to take Rose to Edinburgh for a week. He was not ashamed of his bride, and he was going to show that he wasn’t ashamed of her. They were to cross the Firth that morning.
The remainder guests were breakfasting when they left. A short distance from the house their car stopped beside a man, one who had lately been dancing and drinking most vigorously, who now was faring homewards, slowly but resolutely, on his hands and knees. Magnus got out and asked if he needed help.
‘Is this the road to Birsay?’ asked the crawler.
‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘But you’ve six miles to go.’
‘It’s early yet,’ said the crawler, and plodded on.