A Wedding Trip

That the wedding was not a fashionable one was to be seen at a glance. The bride and groom, indeed, so far as could be judged from externals, might mix in the most select society, but the greater number of the guests--the chorus, so to say--belonged to that portion of the middle class which merges into and is scarcely to be distinguished from the mass of the people. Among them were some curious and picturesque groups, the platform of the railway station at Leon presenting a scene that would have greatly interested a genre painter.

Just as in the ideal bridal scenes that we see painted on fans, it was noticeable here that the train of the bride was composed exclusively of the gentler, that of the bridegroom of the sterner sex. There was also noticeable a striking difference between the social conditions of the two parties. The bride’s escort, much the more numerous of the two, looked like a populous ant-hill. The women, both young and old, wore the traditional black woolen dress, which, for the women of the lower classes who have some pretentions to gentility, has almost come to be the prescribed costume of ceremony; for the people still retain the privilege of donning gay colored garments on festive and joyous occasions. Among these human ants were several who were young and pretty, some of them joyous and excited with thoughts of the wedding, others lugubrious looking, their eyes red with weeping, thinking of the approaching parting. They were marshaled by half a dozen duennas of mature years who, from out the folds of their manto, cast around them on all sides sharp and suspicious glances. The whole troop of female friends flocked around the newly made bride, manifesting the puerile and eager curiosity which the spectacle of the supreme situations of life is apt to awaken in the breasts of the multitude. They devoured with their eyes the girl they had seen a thousand times before, whose every feature they knew by heart--the bride who, arrayed in her traveling dress, seemed to them a different being from the girl they had hitherto known.

The heroine of the occasion might be some eighteen years old; she might be thought younger, if one judged by the childish expression of her mouth and the rounded contour of her cheeks, older, judging by the luxuriant curves of her figure and the exuberant life and vigor revealed in her whole person. Here were no high and narrow shoulders and impossible hips such as we see represented in fashion plates, that put one in mind of a doll stuffed with bran; this was a woman, not of the conventional type of an ephemeral fashion, but of the eternal type of the feminine form, such as nature and classic art have designed it. Perhaps this physical superiority detracted to a certain extent from the effect of the fanciful traveling dress of the bride, perhaps curves less rounded, firmer outlines of the arm and neck were required in order to wear with the necessary ease the semi-masculine dress of maroon-colored cloth and the coarse straw toque, on whose crown perched, with wings outspread over a nest formed of feathers, a humming-bird with irridescent plumage.

It was evident that these adornments of dress were new to the bride, and that the skirt, gathered and fastened around the waist, and the tight jacket, which followed closely the lines of the bust, made her feel ill at ease as a young girl at her first ball feels ill at ease in her décolleté gown, for in every unaccustomed fashion in dress there is something immodest for the woman of simple habits. Besides, the mold was too narrow for the beautiful statue which it inclosed and which threatened at every moment to burst it, not so much by reason of its volume as because of the freedom and vigor of its youthful movements. The race of the strong and robust old man, the father, who stood there erect, his eyes fastened on his daughter, was not belied in this splendid specimen of womanhood. The old man, tall, firm and upright as a telegraph post, and a middle-aged Jesuit of short stature, were the only men noticeable among the feminine swarm.

The bridegroom was accompanied by some half-dozen friends, and if the retinue of the bride was the link that joins the middle class to the people, that of the bridegroom touched on the boundary line, in Spain as vague as it is extensive, between the middle class and the higher ranks. A certain air of official gravity, a complexion faded and smoked by the flare of the gas-jets, an indefinable expression of optimistic satisfaction and maturity of age, were signs indicative of men who had reached the summit of human aspirations in those countries which are in their decline--a government situation. One among them seemed to take precedence of the rest, by whom he was treated with marked deference.

This group was animated by a noisy joviality restrained by official decorum; curiosity was rife here too, less open and ingenuous but keener and more epigrammatic in its expression than among the swarm of the female friends of the bride. There were whispered conversations, witticisms of the café, accentuated by a gesture of the hand or a push of the elbow, bursts of laughter quickly suppressed, glances of intelligence; cigar-ends were thrown on the ground with a martial air, arms were folded as if they had a tacit understanding with each other. The gray overcoat of the groom was noticeable among the black coats, and his tall figure dominated the figures of the men around him. Half a century, less a lustrum, successfully combated by the skill of the tailor and the arts of the toilet, shoulders that stooped in spite of their owner’s efforts to hold them erect, a countenance against whose pallor, suggestive of habitual late hours, were defined, sharply as lines drawn with pen and ink, the pointed ends of the mustache, hair whose scantiness was apparent even under the smooth brim of the ash-colored felt hat, skin wrinkled and pursy under the eyes, eyelids of a leaden hue, eyes lusterless and dull but a carriage still graceful, and the carefully preserved remains of former good looks--such was the picture presented by the bridegroom. Perhaps the very elegance of his dress served to make all the more evident the ravages of time; the long overcoat was a trifle too tight for the waist, less slender than it had once been, the felt hat, jauntily tipped to one side, called loudly for the smooth cheeks and temples of youth. But all this notwithstanding, among that assemblage of vulgar provincial figures the figure of the bridegroom had a certain air of courtliness, the ease of a man accustomed to the commodious and comfortable life of great cities, and the dash of one who knows no scruples and stops at nothing when self-interest is in question. He showed himself superior to the group of his friends even in the good-humored reserve with which he received the innuendos and whispered jests, so appropriate to the bourgeois character of the wedding.

The engine now announced by a shrill whistle or two the approaching departure of the train; the hurry and movement on the platform increased and the floor trembled under the weight of the baggage-laden barrows. The warning cries of the officials were at last heard. Up to this time the wedding party had been conversing in groups in low and confidential tones; the approaching crisis seemed to reanimate them, to break the spell as it were, transforming the scene in an instant. The bride ran to her father with open arms, and the old man and the young girl clasped each other in a long embrace--the hearty embrace of the people in which the bones crack and the breathing is impeded. From the lips of both, almost simultaneously, came rapid phrases in quick succession.

“Be sure and write to me every day, eh? Take care not to drink water when you are perspiring. Your husband has money--ask more if that should run out.”

“Don’t worry, father. I will do all in my power to come back soon. Take care of yourself, for Heaven’s sake--take care of your asthma. Go once in a while to see Señor de Rada. If you should fall ill, send me a telegram on the instant. On your word of honor?”

Then followed the hugs and hearty kisses, the sobs and snifflings of the retinue of the bride, and the last commissions, the last good-wishes.

“May you be as happy as the patriarchs of old.”

“San Rafael be with you, child.”

“Lucky girl that you are! To be in France without as much as stirring from your seat!”

“Don’t forget my wrap. Are the measures in the trunk? Will you be sure not to mistake the threads?”

“Take care not to get open-work embroidery--that is to be had here.”

“Open wide those big eyes of yours and look about you, so that when you come back you will be able to give us an account of all that you have seen.”

“Father Urtazu,” said the bride, approaching the Jesuit already mentioned, and taking hold of his hand, on which she pressed her lips, letting fall on it at the same time two crystalline tears, “pray for me.”

And drawing closer to him, she added, in a low voice:

“If anything should happen to papa you will let me know at once, will you not? I will send you our address at every place where we may make any stay. Take care of him for me. Promise me to go occasionally to see how he is getting on. He will be so lonely.”

The Jesuit raised his head and fixed on the young girl his eyes, that squinted slightly, as is apt to be the case with the eyes of persons accustomed to concentrate their gaze; then, with the vague smile characteristic of those given to meditation, and in the confidential tone befitting the occasion:

“Go in peace,” he answered, “and God our Lord be with you, for He is a safe companion. I have said the Itinerary for you that we may come back well and happy. Bear in mind what I have told you, little one; we are now, so to speak, a dignified married lady, and although we think our path is going to be strewn with roses and that everything is to be honey and sweetness in our new state, and that we are going out into the world to throw care to the winds and to enjoy ourselves--be on your guard! be on your guard! From the quarter where we least expect it, trouble may come, and we may have annoyances and trials and sufferings to endure that we knew nothing about when we were children. It will not do to be foolish, then, remember. We know that above there, directing the shining stars in their course, is the only One who can understand us and console us when He thinks proper to do so. Listen, instead of filling your trunks with finery, fill them with patience, child, fill them with patience. That is more useful than either arnica or plasters. If He who was so great, had need of it to help Him to bear the cross, you who are so little----”

The homily might have lasted until now, accompanied and emphasized from time to time by little slaps on the shoulder, had it not been interrupted by the shock, rude as reality, of the train getting in motion. There was a momentary confusion. The groom hastened to take leave of everybody with a certain cordial familiarity in which the experienced eye could detect a tinge of affectation and patronizing condescension. He threw his right arm around his father-in-law, placing his left hand, covered with a well-fitting yellow castor glove, on the old man’s shoulder.