Carmen Aldao was pale and feverish, with deep circles under her eyes. Her eyelids had a heavy, purplish look, as though she had passed a sleepless night. She wore the white dress with the net-work of imitation pearls, a black lace mantilla, fastened with jeweled pins, a spray of natural orange blossoms on her breast, long gloves, and carried a lace handkerchief and a prayer-book and rosary inlaid with pearl.
After bowing to her lover, who said “good-morning” to her in a somewhat constrained voice, and then smiling at the rest of the company, she remained standing in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do next. But when Señor Aldao, at a signal from Uncle Felipe, said, “Let us proceed to the chapel,” Carmen advanced, and went up to her father with a frank and eager air.
“Forgive me if I have ever offended you,” she said, in a vibrating, though restrained voice, “and I pray you give me your blessing.”
As she spoke, she fastened on her father an eloquent, profound, and almost dreadful look, so intense was it. Her father turned away, murmuring, “May God bless you!”
I believe that I saw something glistening in his eyes. There are some things which grate on the nerves.
Her friends devoted themselves to arranging the bride’s dress, pulling out her flounces and picking up the pearl beads, some of which were already rolling around the floor. Not walking arm in arm, and in considerable disorder, we set out for the chapel.
It was fragrant with flowers, and entirely carpeted with ferns and anise, while the altar was lighted up with countless tapers. The ceremony was rather long, as they were married and took the communion at the same time. I heard the clearly pronounced “yes” of the bride, and the indistinct one of the bridegroom. I heard read what everybody calls St. Paul’s Epistle, though it may not be so. There the husband is compared to Christ, the wife to the Church; and, in confirmation of the man’s superiority, the embroidered stole fell over the head of the bride at the same time that it fell on her husband’s shoulder. Carmen Aldao, crossing her hands on her breast, bowed her head and submitted to the yoke.
A number of peasants were among the spectators, attracted by curiosity, and were crowding each other with a respectful murmur in their efforts to see over the heads of the gentry. When the mass was over, the fire-crackers went off, the country pipes gave forth their characteristic harsh sounds, and the people all rushed out in a body, while the bride was surrounded by her friends, who filched the orange leaves and buds from her dress, and gave her hearty smacks.
That was an awkward moment. Where should we go? What should we do? How should we entertain the company?
Castro Mera, who was young and lively, proposed that we should go over to the yew, have the piano brought out into the garden, and get up a dance, while the married couple and Father Moreno were breakfasting, as they had not been able to do so before on account of the mass and communion service. They all consented to this arrangement, but the dancing had scarcely begun when the bride reappeared without her mantilla. She had only taken a sip of chocolate, and came to fulfill her social duties. She herself played the first country dance down in the garden. The second was played by a young lady from Pontevedra, and Castro Mera then danced it with her, whom I may now with propriety call my aunt. Afterward a young lady from San Andrés proposed to have a waltz. I had dragged myself through the country dance only so that people should not discover how much I was suffering with my bruises; but when I heard them say “waltz,” a Wertherian thought flashed through my mind: “I will embrace the bride before the arms of her lover have touched her.” Rising quickly, and forgetting all about my sprains, I invited her to take a turn. She refused, smilingly, but her friends pushed her on, and then, making a grimace as though to say, “Well, it will be for the last time,” she rested her left arm on mine and allowed my right arm to encircle her waist.