CHAPTER I._A Wedding Trip

A WEDDING TRIP

EMILIA PARDO BAZÁN

TRANSLATED BY

MARY J. SERRANO

TRANSLATOR OF “MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, THE JOURNAL

OF A YOUNG ARTIST,” ETC.

NEW YORK

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY

104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY.

_All rights reserved._

THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,

RAHWAY, N. J.

A WEDDING TRIP.

CHAPTER I.

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.

“Write to me if the child should fall ill,” entreated the latter with

fatherly anxiety, his eyes filling with tears.

“Have no fear, Señor Joaquin. Come, come, you must not give way like

this. There is no illness to be feared there. Good-by, Mendoya; good-by,

Santián. Thanks! thanks! Señor Governor, on my return I shall claim

those bottles of Pedro Jimenez. Don’t pretend you have forgotten them!

Lucía, you had better get in now, the train will start immediately and

ladies cannot----”

And with a polite gesture he assisted the bride to mount the steps,

lifting her lightly by the waist. He then sprang up himself, scarcely

touching the step, after throwing away his half-smoked cigar. The iron

monster was already in motion when he entered the compartment and closed

the door behind him. The measured movement gradually grew more rapid

and the entire train passed before the party on the platform, leaving on

their sight a confused whirl of lines, colors, numbers, and rapid

glances from the passengers looking out at every window. For some

moments longer Lucía’s face could be distinguished, agitated and bathed

in tears, the flutter of her handkerchief could be seen, and her voice

heard saying:

“Good-by, papa. Father Urtazu, good-by, good-by. Rosario, Carmen,

adieu.”

Then all was lost in the distance, the course of the scaly serpent could

be traced only by a dark line, then by a blurred trail of thick smoke

that soon also vanished into space. Beyond the platform, now strangely

silent, shone the cloudless sky, of a steely blue, interminable fields

stretched monotonously far into the distance, the rails showed like

wrinkles on the dry face of the earth. A great silence rested upon the

railway station. The wedding party had remained motionless, as if

overwhelmed by the shock of parting. The friends of the bridegroom were

the first to recover themselves and to make a move to depart. They bade

good-by to the father of the bride with hasty hand-shakings and trivial

society phrases, somewhat carelessly worded, as if addressed by a

superior to an inferior, and then, in a body, took the road for the

city, once more indulging in the jests and laughter interrupted by the

departure of the train.

The retinue of the bride, on their side, began to recover themselves

also, and after a sigh or two, after wiping their eyes with their

handkerchiefs, and in some instances even with the back of the hand, the

group of black human ants set itself in motion to leave the platform.

The irresistible force of circumstances drew them back to real life.

The father of the bride, with a shake of his head and an eloquent shrug

of resignation, himself led the way. Beside him walked the Jesuit who

stretched his short stature to its utmost height in order to converse

with his companion, without succeeding, notwithstanding his laudable

efforts, in raising the circle of his tonsure above the athletic

shoulders of the afflicted old man.

“Come, come, Señor Joaquin,” said Father Urtazu, “a fine time you chose

to wear that Good Friday face! One would suppose the child had been

carried off by force or that the marriage was not according to your

taste! Be reasonable. Was it not yourself, unhappy man, who arranged the

match? What is all this grieving about, then?”

“If one could only be certain of the result in all one does,” said

Señor Joaquin, in a choking voice, slowly moving his bull-like neck.

“It is too late for those reflections now. But we were in such

haste--such haste! that I don’t know what those white hairs and all the

years we carry on our shoulders were for. We were just like the little

boys in my class when I promise to tell them a story, and they are ready

to jump out of their skins with impatience. By the faith of Alfonso, one

might have thought you were the bride yourself--no, not that, for the

deuce a hurry the bride was in----”

“Ah, father, what if you were right after all! You wanted to put off the

marriage----”

“Softly, softly, my friend, stop there; I wanted to prevent it. I speak

my mind frankly.”

Señor Joaquin looked more dejected than before.

“By the Constitution!” he cried, in distressed accents, “what a trial

and what a responsibility it is for a father----”

“To have daughters,” ended the Jesuit, with a vague smile, pushing out

his thick lips with a gesture of indulgent disdain; “and worst of all,”

he added, “is to be more obstinate than a mule, if you will pardon me

for saying so, and to think that poor Father Urtazu knows nothing about

anything but his stones, and his stars, and his microscope, and is an

ignoramus and simpleton where real life is concerned.”

“Don’t make me feel any worse than I do already, father. It is trouble

enough not to be able to see Lucía, for I don’t know how long. All that

is wanting now is that the marriage should turn out badly and that she

should be unhappy----”

“Well, well, give up tormenting yourself about it. What is done cannot

be undone. In the matter of marriage only He who is above can tie and

untie, and who knows but that all may turn out well, notwithstanding my

forebodings and my foolish fears. For what am I but a poor blind

creature who can see only what is right before his eyes? Bah! It is the

same with this as with the microscope. You look at a drop of water with

the naked eye and it looks so clear that you want to drink it up. But

you place it under those innocent-looking little lenses and, presto! you

find yourself face to face with all sorts of crawling things and

bacteria dancing a rigadoon inside. In the same way He who dwells above

the clouds up there sees things that to us dunces here below seem so

simple, but which for Him have their meaning. Bah, bah! He will take

care to arrange everything for us, things we could never arrange for

ourselves though we should try never so hard.”

“You are right, our chief trust must be in God,” assented Señor Joaquin,

drawing a heavy sigh from the depths of his capacious chest. “To-night,

with all this worry, the confounded asthma will give me enough to think

of. I find it hard now to draw a breath. I shall sleep, if I sleep at

all, sitting up in bed.”

“Send for that rascal, Rada,--he is very clever,” said the Jesuit,

looking compassionately at the old man’s flushed face and swollen eyes,

lighted by the oblique rays of the autumnal sun.

While the wedding-party defiled with funereal slowness through the

ill-paved streets of Leon, the train hurried on, on, leaving behind the

endless rows of poplars, that looked like a staff of music, the notes of

a pale green traced on the crude red of the plains. Lucía, huddled up in

a corner of the compartment, wept, without bitterness, with a sense of

luxury, rather, with the vehement and uncontrollable grief of girlhood.

The groom was quite conscious that it was his place to say some word, to

show his affection, to sympathize with this first grief, to console it;

but there are certain situations in life in which simple natures display

tact and judgment, but in which the man of the world, the man of

experience, finds himself utterly at a loss what to do. At times a

drachm of heart is worth a ton of talent. Where vain formulas are

ineffectual, feeling, with its spontaneous eloquence, may be

all-powerful. After racking his brains to find some opening to begin a

conversation with his bride, it occurred to the bridegroom to take

advantage of a trivial circumstance.

“Lucía,” he said in a somewhat embarrassed voice, “change your seat, my

child; come over here; the sun falls full on you where you are, and that

is very injurious.”

Lucía rose with the stiffness of an automaton, crossed to the other side

of the compartment, and letting herself fall heavily into her seat,

covered her face again with her delicate handkerchief, and once more

gave vent in sobs to the tender emotions of her youthful breast.

The bridegroom frowned. It was not for nothing that he had spent forty

odd years of existence surrounded by good-humored people of easy

manners, shunning disagreeable and mournful scenes, which produced in

his system an extraordinary amount of nervous disturbance, disgusting

him, as the sublime horror of a tragedy disgusts persons of mediocre

intelligence. The gesture by which he manifested his impatience was

followed by a shrug of the shoulders which said clearly, “Let us give

the squall time to blow over; these tears will exhaust themselves, and

after the storm will come fine weather.” Resolved, then, to wait until

the clouds should clear away, he began a minute examination of his

traveling equipage, informing himself as to whether the buckles of the

shawl strap worked well, and whether his cane and his umbrella were

properly fastened in a bundle with Lucía’s parasol. He also convinced

himself to his satisfaction that a Russian leather satchel with plated

clasps, which he carried at his side, attached to a leather strap slung

across his shoulders, opened and shut easily, carefully replacing the

little steel key of the satchel in his waistcoat pocket afterward.

He then took his railway-guide from one of the pockets of his overcoat

and proceeded to check off with his fore-finger the names of the

stations at which they were to stop on their route.