Chapter 18 APPENDIX 〇1 COUNTRY WEDDING
This concludes the story of Germain's marriage, as the shrewd farmer told me himself.Forgive me, dear reader, for not being able to express it better; for it takes the rustic language of the country peasants that I sang (as I said before) to really express it.The French spoken by the peasants is too pure for us, and the development of the language since Rabelais and Montaigne has deprived us of much of the old rich vocabulary.This is the case with all developments, and we must tolerate it.But it is still a pleasure to hear the beautiful vernacular of the old lands of central France; especially because it is true to the witty and cold character of the people who use it.Some precious ancient idioms have been preserved in the area of Tours, but since the Renaissance, this area has made great strides into civilization.It was full of castles, avenues, foreigners, and activity.Berry is stagnant, and, I believe, the most conservative place at the moment, with the exception of Brittany and the southernmost departments of France.Some customs are queer and amusing, and I hope, dear reader, I hope to entertain you for a while, if you will allow me to give you a detailed account of a country wedding, such as that of Germain, which I attended with great interest some years ago. up.
[Note] Rabelais (about 1483︱1553), a representative writer of the French Renaissance, author of "The Giant"; Montaigne (1533︱1592), France Famous essayist, author of "Essay Collection".
well!Everything is passing away.Since my birth alone my native country has undergone more changes in thought and customs than in the centuries before the Revolution.Half the Celtic, pagan, or medieval rites that I saw prevailing in my childhood have disappeared.Perhaps in another year or two, the main railway line will be paved in our deep valleys, sweeping away our ancient traditions and wonderful legends with lightning speed.
It was in winter, around Carnival, the best time of the year for us to have weddings.In summer, when people have no leisure, the work of the farm cannot be delayed for three days, not to mention the laborious lifting of the mental and physical intoxication left by the festival, which requires a few more days.I was sitting under the wide canopy of an ancient stove when the sound of pistols, the barking of dogs, and the screeching of bagpipes announced to me the approach of the betrothed.After a while, Father Maurice and his wife, Germain and Little Marie, followed by Jacques and his wife, as well as the main relatives and godparents of both sexes, all crowded into the courtyard.
Little Mary had not yet received her wedding present, or dowry as it is called locally, and she was wearing the best of her modest clothes: a dark denim dress, a white shawl in bright sprigging, a peach-coloured shawl. The apron was of a red calico, which was so fashionable at the time and is now neglected, and a hat of snow-white muslin, of a style which had survived with great difficulty, reminiscent of those of Anna Boleyn and Agnès Sorel.She was bright-faced and smiling, without arrogance, though there was a reason for it.Germain beside her is dignified and tender, as young Jacob greeted Rachel at Laban's well.Any other girl would put on a great air and a smug attitude; for no matter what class you are in, it is always something to be proud of when you marry with your own beautiful eyes.The girl's eyes were watery, shining with the brilliance of love; it was obvious that she was deeply in love and had no spare time to consider other people's opinions.Her lovely determination was still on her face; there was frankness and sincerity about her; she was successful without arrogance, conscious of her strength without standing out in the slightest.I have never seen such a lovely fiancée, and when her young girlfriend asked her if she was happy, she answered unequivocally:
certainly!I'm not going to complain to a merciful God.
[Note 1] Anna Boleyn (1507︱1536), wife of King Henry III of England; Agnès Sorel, mistress of King Charles VII of France.
【Note 2】The story contained in the twenty-ninth chapter of "Genesis of the Bible" was once drawn by Raphael.
Papa Morris made his speech; he made the usual civilities and welcomes.He first tied a cinnamon branch with a ribbon on the top of the stove, commonly known as a notice, that is, a wedding invitation; then he gave each of the guests a small cross, intertwined with red and blue ribbons, red represents the bride, Blue represents the bridegroom; male and female guests must keep this mark on their wedding day, women on their hats, men on their buttonholes.Here are the permits and admission tickets.
Then Papa Maurice made another speech, and he invited the parents and his whole family, that is to say, all his children, relations, friends, and servants, to the benediction, the banquet, the sideshows, the ball, and all that followed.He did not forget to say: You are honored to be invited.This sentence is very true, although we feel that the meaning is reversed, because it expresses the meaning of honoring those who are worthy of invitation.
Although the invitation was very generous and every family in the whole diocese was invited, the country people were very cautious about etiquette and only allowed two people from each family, one was the parent and the other was the child.
After the invitation ceremony, the unmarried couple and their relatives went to the farm for lunch.
Afterwards, little Marie took care of her three sheep in the common, and Germain went to work in the field, as if nothing had happened.
The day before the wedding, at about two o'clock in the afternoon, came the band, the bagpipers, and the hurdy-gurdy, their instruments adorned with long streamers, and played the march in due time, to non-native footsteps, the tempo was It's a bit slower, but it's well-proportioned for use on fertile soil and rough roads.Gunshots from young people and children announced that the wedding was about to begin.More and more people gathered, dancing on the grass in front of the house, creating a joyous atmosphere.When night fell, people began to make strange preparations. They were divided into two groups, and when it was completely dark, the ceremony of giving gifts was held.
This took place at the bride's house, in the hut of Madame Guillette.Madame Guillette, together with her daughter, had a dozen young and handsome shepherdesses, her daughter's relatives and friends, two or three respectable housewives, and neighbors who could speak and answer well, strictly observing the ancient customs.Then twelve strong men were chosen from among their relatives and friends, and finally there was an old Mamaman from the parish, who could speak a lot.
In Brittany the role of the country tailor is performed in our country by the hemp thresher or the woolcomer (these two occupations are often combined).He attends all weddings and funerals, because he is essentially learned and eloquent, and on such occasions he always intends to be a spokesman, and performs well some of the ceremonies that have been practiced since ancient times.His occupation of running around made him go in and out of other people's homes, and he couldn't stay in his own home, which naturally made him rap, funny, able to speak and sing.
Hitters are especially skeptics.His other character with the country, the gravediggers we're about to speak of, are often country darings.They often speak of ghosts, and are well aware of the craft of these evil spirits, and are not at all afraid of them.Especially at night, gravediggers, hemp men and ghosts all use their skills.It is in the night that the Damamen tell tragic legends.let me digress a few words
When the hemp is just right, that is to say soaked enough in running water and dried on the bank, people transport the hemp to the yard, and stand up in small bunches, with the bottom spread out and the top bunched into a circle. At night, it was a bit like a long line of little white ghosts, propped up on their slender legs, walking soundlessly along the walls and heels.
At the end of September, when the nights were still warm, under the faint moonlight, people began to play hemp.During the day, the hemp has been baked in the furnace; at night, the hemp is drawn out and beaten while it is hot.The hemp beater uses a wooden frame with a wooden stick on it, which falls into the groove below, and hammers the hemp stick without cutting it.What I heard in the countryside at night was the crisp sound of three quick strikes.Then there was silence again; at this time, the small bundle of hemp was pulled out with the hand, and the other end was used to strike.Then there were three more hammer blows; it was the other hand manipulating the stick.This continues until the moon is dimly illuminated by the dawn.Since this kind of work is only done a few days a year, the dogs, unaccustomed to the noise, barked mournfully in all directions.
This is the season of strange and mysterious sounds in the country.Wild geese fly over this area. During the day, the naked eye can barely distinguish them, and at night they can only hear their calls; these hoarse and mournful calls disappear in the clouds, as if the suffering souls are calling, saying goodbye, trying to find They follow the way to the sky, but the irresistible fate forces them to soar close to the ground and circle around people's houses.There is something strangely erratic and mysteriously restless about the flight of these migratory birds.Sometimes, the birds can't figure out the direction of the wind when the unpredictable breeze fights and rises and falls aloft.When you lose your way during the day, you can see the leading goose flying around in the air, making a 180-degree turn, and flying to the end of the triangular formation. Its partner also turned over skillfully and rearranged behind it. .After several efforts in vain, the leader goose which was exhausted often gave up the leader, and the other one came out to try and gave way to the third one. The third one finally found the wind direction and led the group forward triumphantly.But how many shouts, reproaches, admonitions, brutish oaths, and restless inquiries were exchanged among these winged travelers in a language no one understood!
These mournful tumults could be heard, sometimes for a long time, over the houses in this heavenly night; and seeing nothing, one could not help feeling a kind of terror and pity until the cry The black mass of birds disappeared into the boundless sky.
There are other sounds peculiar to this time of year, chiefly in the orchards.The fruit-picking has not yet begun, and a thousand unusual popping sounds make the fruit trees look like animals.A branch bends and falls when its load suddenly reaches the limit of growth; or an apple breaks off the branch and falls with a dull sound on the wet ground at your feet.Then you'll hear an animal you don't see brushing off branches and grass and slipping away: it's the peasant's dog, a loafing creature curious and restless, aggressive and timid, wandering about, never sleeping, always Looking for something, it hides in the thorns and spies on you. When it hears the sound of an apple falling to the ground, it runs away, thinking that you are throwing stones at it.
It was in these dim, grey-brown nights that the Mapper told his strange tales, of imps and white hares, of stricken souls and wizards turned into wolves, of witch-nights and cemeteries in the Crossroads The prophesying owl.I remember one night I spent the first half of the night next to the running hemp machine. The eerie hammering sound of the machine interrupted the man's narration at the most horrific point, and our veins couldn't help I shuddered.The old man often continued to tell the story while playing hemp; there were four or five words that we missed, not to mention scary words, and we dared not ask him to repeat them, as the omission made his already eerie and mysterious stories even more terrifying and magical. atmosphere of.The maid informed us in vain that it was too late to be outside, and that bedtime had struck long ago: they really wanted to hear it, too; and then we walked suspiciously through the village to our house!How deep the church porch seemed to us, how thick and dark the shadows of the old trees!As for the cemetery, we dared not look at it; we closed our eyes as we passed it.
But the Mackerel is not, like the sacristy, for the pleasure of frightening; he loves to amuse, he is witty, and when it comes time to sing about love and marriage, he is sentimental; it is he who collects and remembers The oldest songs are preserved here and passed on to posterity.Therefore, in the wedding, he will play the following role of giving the bride price to little Mary.