A Book of Burlesques | Page 9

palms upon his trousers legs, squares his
shoulders, and plunges into the program that he has played at all
weddings for fifteen years past. It begins with Mendelssohn's Spring
Song, pianissimo. Then comes Rubinstein's Melody in F, with a touch
of forte toward the close, and then Nevin's "Oh, That We Two Were
Maying" and then the Chopin waltz in A flat, Opus 69, No. 1, and then
the Spring Song again, and then a free fantasia upon "The Rosary" and
then a Moszkowski mazurka, and then the Dvorák Humoresque (with
its heart-rending cry in the middle), and then some vague and turbulent
thing (apparently the disjecta membra of another fugue), and then
Tschaikowsky's "Autumn," and then Elgar's "Salut d'Amour," and then
the Spring Song a third time, and then something or other from one of
the Peer Gynt suites, and then an hurrah or two from the Hallelujah
chorus, and then Chopin again, and Nevin, and Elgar, and----
But meanwhile, there is a growing activity below. First comes a closed

automobile bearing the six ushers and soon after it another automobile
bearing the bridegroom and his best man. The bridegroom and the best
man disembark before the side entrance of the church and make their
way into the vestry room, where they remove their hats and coats, and
proceed to struggle with their cravats and collars before a mirror
which hangs on the wall. The room is very dingy. A baize-covered table
is in the center of it, and around the table stand six or eight chairs of
assorted designs. One wall is completely covered by a bookcase,
through the glass doors of which one may discern piles of cheap Bibles,
hymn-books and back numbers of the parish magazine. In one corner is
a small washstand. The best man takes a flat flask of whiskey from his
pocket, looks about him for a glass, finds it on the washstand, rinses it
at the tap, fills it with a policeman's drink, and hands it to the
bridegroom. The latter downs it at a gulp. Then the best man pours out
one for himself.
The ushers, reaching the vestibule of the church, have handed their silk
hats to the sexton, and entered the sacred edifice. There was a
rehearsal of the wedding last night, but after it was over the bride
ordered certain incomprehensible changes in the plan, and the ushers
are now completely at sea. All they know clearly is that the relatives of
the bride are to be seated on one side and the relatives of the
bridegroom on the other. But which side for one and which for the
other? They discuss it heatedly for three minutes and then find that they
stand three for putting the bride's relatives on the left side and three for
putting them on the right side. The debate, though instructive, is
interrupted by the sudden entrance of seven women in a group. They
are headed by a truculent old battleship, possibly an aunt or something
of the sort, who fixes the nearest usher with a knowing, suspicious
glance, and motions to him to show her the way.
He offers her his right arm and they start up the center aisle, with the
six other women following in irregular order, and the five other ushers
scattered among the women. The leading usher is tortured damnably by
doubts as to where the party should go. If they are aunts, to which
house do they belong, and on which side are the members of that house
to be seated? What if they are not aunts, but merely neighbors? Or

perhaps an association of former cooks, parlor maids, nurse girls? Or
strangers? The sufferings of the usher are relieved by the battleship,
who halts majestically about twenty feet from the altar, and motions
her followers into a pew to the left. They file in silently and she seats
herself next the aisle. All seven settle back and wriggle for room. It is a
tight fit.
(Who, in point of fact, are these ladies? Don't ask the question! The
ushers never find out. No one ever finds out. They remain a joint
mystery for all time. In the end they become a sort of tradition, and
years hence, when two of the ushers meet, they will cackle over old
dreadnaught and her six cruisers. The bride, grown old and fat, will
tell the tale to her daughter, and then to her granddaughter. It will
grow more and more strange, marvelous, incredible. Variorum
versions will spring up. It will be adapted to other weddings. The
dreadnaught will become an apparition, a witch, the Devil in skirts.
And as the years pass, the date of the episode will be pushed back. By
2017 it will be dated 1150. By 2475 it