About eleven o'clock I started dressing. My coat cut into my shoulders. My boots pinched me on the balls of my feet. For thirty years I had been suffering from gout--a sequel to the Pütz punches. My shirt bosom stiff as a board, necktie too short, everything awful.
About two o'clock I drove to the bride's home, where the wedding was to be celebrated.
And now, gentlemen, comes a dream, or rather a nightmare, with all the sensations of choking, of being strangled, of sinking into a pit.
And yet full of happy moments, when I thought, "Everything will be all right. You have your good heart and your fine intentions. You will spread a carpet for her to tread on. She will walk the earth like a queen and never notice her chains."
While one coach after another came rolling into the courtyard and a gallery of strange faces crowded at the windows, I ran about the garden like one possessed, spattering my new fine patent leathers with mud, and letting the tears run freely down my cheeks.
But that pleasure was cut short. They were calling out for me everywhere.
I went into the house. The old man, beside himself with glee at seeing as his guests all his old adversaries, men he had had tilts with, or had insulted, or cheated, was running from one to the other, pressing everybody's hand and swearing eternal friendship.
I wanted to say "How do you do" to a couple of friends but I was pushed with a great halloo into a room where they said my bride was awaiting me.
There she stood.
In white silk--bridal veil like a lighted cloud around her--myrtle wreath black and spiny on her hair--like a crown of thorns.