She Was Ablaze With Ornaments And
Embroidery Of Gold, On Neck And Shoulders And Wrist; A Wide Lace Collar
Fell Over A Bodice Of Purple Silk; Silken Too, And Of Brightest Green,
Was Her Pleated Skirt.
The priest seemed ineffably bored with his task,
and mumbled through one or two pages of holy books in
Record time; there
were holdings of candles, interchange of rings, sacraments of bread and
wine and other solemn ceremonies - the most quaint being the
stephanoma, or crowning, of the happy pair, and the moving of their
respective crowns from the head of one to that of the other. It ended
with a chanting perlustration of the church, led by the priest: this is
the so-called "pesatura."
I endeavoured to attune my mind to the gravity of this marriage, to the
deep historico-ethnologico-poetical significance of its smallest detail.
Such rites, I said to myself, must be understood to be appreciated, and
had I not been reading certain native commentators on the subject that
very morning? Nevertheless, my attention was diverted from the main
issue - the bridegroom's face had fascinated me. The self-conscious male
is always at a disadvantage during grotesquely splendid buffooneries of
this kind; and never, in all my life, have I seen a man looking such a
sorry fool as this individual, never; especially during the
perambulation, when his absurd crown was supported on his head, from
behind, by the hand of his best man.
Meanwhile a handful of boys, who seemed to share my private feelings in
regard to the performance, had entered the sacred precincts, their
pockets stuffed with living cicadas.
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