The Squire was the occupant of a grand old house with many spacious rooms and walls a yard thick. His dining-table, about twenty feet long, was heaped up with cold meats and bottles of wine. We were fortunate enough to escape with a plate of turkey and a glass of port each.
As we came home in the dusk we saw a lover and his lass who had just plighted their troth. The deacon insisted on their coming with us. “How was it done?” I asked.
“Oh, she says ‘What is your name?’; he replies, ‘Foma’; she rejoins, ‘Foma is my husband’s name.’ They are very fond of one another and arranged it of course. It is a custom to plight troth on Christmas Day.”
A few days later I was at the girl’s house and part of the betrothal ritual was concluded. There were about fourteen of us in one room awaiting the ceremony. Presently a knock came at the door, and the starosta, the old man of the village, entered, and with him the bridegroom. They carried loaves of bread in their hands. The starosta commenced a recitation in a sing-song voice. It ran something like this:
“We are German people, come from Turkey. We are hunters, good fellows. There was a time once in our country when we saw strange foot-prints in the snow, and my friend the prince here saw them, and we thought they might be a fox’s or a marten’s foot-prints, or it might be those of a beautiful girl. We hunters, we good fellows, are determined not to rest till we have found the animal. We have been in all cities from Germany to Turkey, and have sought for this fox, this marten or this princess, and at last we have seen the same strange foot-prints in the snow again, here by your court. And we have come in. Come, let us take her, the beautiful princess, for we see her in front of us—or can it be you would keep her till she grows a little older?”
Then the father made a speech in the same style, asking the name and lineage of the proud prince who sued for his daughter’s hand. Then, after considerable hesitation, both parties came to agreement, and the starosta leading the young man forward, and the father bringing the girl to him, the hands of the loving pair were joined and blessing was given. The rest of the evening was given over to carouse.
But to return to Christmas Day. We spent the night at the house of the farmer of the vodka monopoly. When we met the host he was dancing, and when we said good-night he was still dancing, and he had been dancing all the time. Beyond food there was no real entertainment. A young man played the guitar for four or five hours, and played the same tune the whole time. We had two dinners and two teas. At the second dinner the fifth course was roast sturgeon. I protested that I couldn’t eat any more.
“Don’t you think you could make all the other things squeeze up just a little and make room?” said the hostess.
“It’s the Chief of Police,” said the deacon.
“What is?”