THE GRAND MARRIAGE
BY LUDOVIC HALÉVY
Translated by J. Matthewman.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
Nov. 25th, 1893. 4 o'clock.
This morning at ten o'clock I was just settling down to attack Beethoven's Twenty-fifth symphony, when the door opened, and who should walk in but mama. Mama awake and stirring at ten o'clock! And not only awake and stirring, but dressed and ready to go out—mantled and bonneted.
I could not remember ever to have seen her stirring so early before. She never manages to get to church on Sunday before the middle of the one o'clock mass. The other evening she said, laughingly, to Abbé Pontal:
"Monsieur l'Abbé, our dear religion would be absolutely perfect if you substituted a mass at two for that at one. Then the concerts at the Conservatoire could be put an hour later, and Sunday in winter would be all that could be desired."
At mama's entrance I was stupefied, and exclaimed: "You are going out, mama?"
"No, I've just come in."
"You've just come in?"
"Yes, I had something to do this morning—to choose some stuffs for the hangings—that blue, you know, which is so difficult to find."
"Have you found it?"
"No—no. But that they say they can get it for me—and I hope that—They are going to send it by the day after to-morrow at the latest."
Mama got quite confused in her explanation. She finally announced that we were going to a soirée at the Mercerey's. There was to be a little music. She had known of it for several days, but had forgotten to mention it to me before. I didn't show the slightest sign of surprise, but while listening to mama, I studied her carefully, and thought to myself: "What's the meaning of all this? Mama rambling about at this unearthly hour, matching blues! A soirée musicale at the Mercerey's! Mama evidently confused, too! There's something hidden."
So I let her flounder and never uttered a sound. When she had finished she took a few steps toward the door, just as actors do in a theatre when they pretend they are going out, then she turned back and tried to say with an air of indifference, as if the thought had only just occurred to her: "Which gown do you think of putting on to-night?"
"To-night, mama? Really, I don't know. I might put the gray on—or the blue—or the rose."
"No, no; not the rose. Put the blue on. You looked quite nice in it the day before yesterday at Aunt Clarice's. Besides, your papa doesn't like the rose, and as he is going with us to the Mercerey's—"
"Papa going to the Mercerey's!"
"Yes, certainly."
"Does he know that there's to be some music?"
"Yes."
"He knows—and yet he is going?"
"Yes. What is there surprising in that?"
"Oh, nothing, mama; nothing at all."
Whereupon she really left the room, and I was quite alone. Then, without a moment's hesitation, I said to myself: "A marriage on the tapis. They're going to show me off to some one. That's why pap is obliged to go."
Fancy papa letting himself be dragged by mama to a soirée musicale! The whole world will seem topsy-turvy. There are only three places which he finds bearable in the evening—the club, the opera during the ballet, and the little theatres where people go to laugh and amuse themselves generally—the theatres where young girls are not allowed to go, but where I intend to go when I am married.
Yes, I'm sure there's an interview in the wind. It must be something of great importance, for mama has been in a state of the highest excitement ever since this morning. She ate no breakfast, and didn't manage to conceal her unrest at all. Not only has she inspected my blue dress carefully, but she has also examined me with equal thoroughness. She fell into a fit of veritable despair on verifying the fact that there was a slight flaw on my features.
"What's that?" she cried.
"Where? What? mama!"
"On the tip of your nose."
"Have I anything on the tip of my nose?"
"Yes, a horrid gash."
"Oh, good gracious! A gash?"
Quite horrified, I rushed to the mirror. Then I breathed freely again. It was the merest trifle—where the kitten had given me a pat with its paw. Nothing worth mentioning—a little reddish mark that was hardly visible to the naked eye, and which could easily be got rid of before evening.
But in mama's solicitous eyes the little mark assumed the proportions of a disfiguring wound. The tip of my nose has never received so much touching attention before. Mama made me sit still in an armchair during half of the day, with cold-water cloths fixed like a pair of goggles on the said tip of the aforementioned nose.
Poor mama! She's so anxious to see me married. It's quite natural, after all. She looks very well herself yet in the evening, and it is awkward to have to drag a big marriageable daughter around at her heels.
I don't like it, either, for that matter. I know that I make her look older, and, therefore, as soon as we enter a room in the evening I slip away from her, and try to see as little as possible of her afterward until the carriage is announced. So each goes her own way, and interferes as little as possible with the other.
She's a dear, good old soul. There are mothers who simply bully their daughters, and worry them into marrying at five minutes' notice. Quite a leap in the dark. Mama isn't one of them.
Besides, she knows I have made up my mind not to be hurried—and not to decide carelessly. Marriage is not a trifling thing. If a mistake is made it is for life; so it's well to know what one is doing when one takes the plunge. When I get married it will be in all seriousness. I don't intend to tumble head over ears in love with the first newcomer, be he fair or dark, who says to his mother: "I've found the girl of my choice. I love her, and her alone. I'll have her or nobody."
Oh, no! I'm not going into that stupidity. I intend to keep my eyes open, and my wits about me.
Last spring I declined five very likely wooers simply because none of them offered all the advantages of birth, fortune, and position which I consider I am justified in demanding.
I shall follow the same course of action during the winter campaign—the same calm prudence. I am not yet twenty, so I can afford to wait.
Since this morning I have felt highly satisfied with myself—very highly satisfied. I have not been in the least affected by mother's open agitation. To-day, as usual, I have glanced through my notes.
On my eighteenth birthday I find I wrote the following simple words on the first page of my notebook, which I still keep carefully under lock and key: