Of
course, a man who is capable of that, is capable of anything. Here
comes the bride with her father. Think of being tied to her until
a merciful death part you. Think of being son-in-law to that old
man, until heaven shall be pleased to remove him. Think of calling
that stout English lady, mother-in-law, until she is at last
overtaken by apoplexy. Think of calling all those relations
brothers and sisters, Ascanio, Onorato, Andrea, Isabella, Bianca,
Faustina! It is a day's work to learn their names and titles. She
wears a veil--to hide her satisfaction--a wreath of orange
flowers, artificial, too, made of paper and paste and wire,
symbols of innocence, of course, pliable and easily patched
together. She looks down, lest the priest should see that her eyes
are laughing. Her father is whispering words of comfort and
encouragement into her ear. 'Mind your expression,' he is saying,
no doubt--'you must not look as though you were being sacrificed,
nor as though you were too glad to be married, for everybody is
watching you. Do not say, I will, too loudly nor inaudibly either,
and remember that you are my daughter.' Very good advice. Now she
kneels down and he crosses to the other side. She bends her head
very low. She is looking under her elbow to see the folds of her
train.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413