A nephew of the head of the house acts as master of ceremony and points the guests their places. At the right of the bride the bishop, next the bride’s mother. On the left of my sergeant, I, beside me Gianettina, my charming little companion for the day. Opposite the bride sits the father, by him his friends and companions. They are insolent, much-bedecorated old men, with long, hanging beards; knives and silver pistols are stuck into their girdles. They wear little black caps on their heads, and they sit and stare greedily down at the little plates.
They are put out and constrained by the presence of the women, and perhaps likewise by me. They speak Serbian and my little neighbor blushes when she translates their speeches for me softly. She knows I know no Serbian, and she never forgets to add to the answer in Italian, that she hopes the gospodin will learn Serbian. She tells me the names of the men, who are for the most part relatives of her father. When she comes to a young man in a white coat, who has hard, crabbed features, her face grows sad: “Once he asked to marry my sister, and she refused him. Papa, however, liked him! Ah!—what blows fell on Nine then;—but she didn’t give in.” Would he like to marry you now I suggest? “No, no. She wouldn’t have him either. Besides she was altogether too young,” she hastened to explain.
The banquet begins.
Two serving maids and the nephew of the head of the house enter with huge, four cornered bottles; one little drink and a dried fig open the meal. That is the custom evidently to banish the taste of cigarettes which are always in evidence. Then wine is poured into glasses—the heavy, thick, ink-black wine of Lissa—and each one selects his favorite morsel from the plates. Before the sugared eggs are passed around the wine takes effect—only a few clean out their plates with rye bread—and next comes the minestra, then baked macaroni with hashée made from the entrails of young lambs; fowl roasted in sugar, small barboni baked in oil, baked ink-fish with citron, pullets cooked with fresh vegetables and beef and served upon huge platters. First one and then another of the guests hands over to the attendants first the silver pistols and then the knives; then they unfasten the heavy leathern girdles and loosen their neckbands. Louder and more boisterous rises the laughter, redder the faces, even the face of my little companion grows rosy when I insist that she translate for me some of the witticisms.
Now, fritolli are brought in, round sweet cakes fried in oil, turkeys, from which each one cuts a slice, or rather tears it off, as it happens. Fresh wine is continually brought, while the master of the house announces the year and place of vintage; wines from the islands, from Greece. Occasionally a guest rises and drinks the health of the bride’s father, the bridegroom or some guest. Outside in the court-yard are heard the noisy voices of workmen and servants who are eating at a long table. The Perovic family have never been niggards.
The heat is insufferable despite open doors and windows; and I long for the fresh air and coffee. How long can this debauchery continue? At length the champagne comes and after that the special dish of honor.
Upon a long wooden tray, borne by two servants, a roast lamb is brought, and placed upon a serving table which is shoved up to the lower end of the large table. With a lordly gesture the master of ceremonies steps forward, takes up a large knife, ground thin as a hair. The master of the house speaks a few words. Then all the young people sitting round the table bow their heads quickly and cover their eyes with the edge of the table cloth. All laugh and talk and holler. My little companion whispers to me to do just what the others do. I see the master of ceremonies lift a huge knife, and then with one blow which makes the glasses dance, sever the entire roasted lamb. One more blow and the “jaraz” lies cut in four parts.
The guests drop the edge of the table cloth, wipe their eyes and hair—the ones who did not skilfully hide and shelter themselves with the cloth. The master of the house congratulates the master of ceremonies upon his skill and dexterity.
This officially ends the meal. To be sure cakes and fruit are brought in, but only the ladies taste of them. The men continue to drink. The Archimandrite rises, thanks the master of the house for the banquet. The kissing of shoulders begins again, and I attempt to take advantage of the opportunity by making my own adieux, when the hands of my little companion grab me by the arm and she whispers: “Please don’t go now. I’m afraid! I’m afraid!” I see that she is watching anxiously a little group at one end of the table.
Beside the master of the house stands that young gloomy looking man—the wooer whom Nine had rejected. He is smiling scornfully and whispering in the ear of the old man. The old man laughs in an ugly manner, swallows glass after glass of wine. Then he pounds on the table and roars: “Who mentions his name, he is dead!” The others nod approval, slap him on the back, and touch drinking glasses with him. In the meantime the gloomy looking man goes up to talk with the bride and groom. His face is sad and tragic. He is telling them something that affects them deeply. The young bride nods approval, my sergeant pulls down his coat, straightens up and clears his throat, and walks up to the old man.