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I heard that last Sunday evening Theresa had hysterics and said that she would not marry this man. They had to get the priest to her." "Where is the other one?" asked Frau Brechenmacher. "Why didn't he marry her?" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Gone disappeared. He was a traveller, and only stayed at their house two nights.
"Beer they've given it, too," whispered Frau Rupp, "and white wine and an ice. It never did have a stomach; she ought to have left it at home." Frau Brechenmacher turned round and looked towards the bride's mother. She never took her eyes off her daughter, but wrinkled her brown forehead like an old monkey, and nodded now and again very solemnly.
"N no," she replied, taking up the discarded boots and placing them on the oven to dry. Herr Brechenmacher yawned and stretched himself, and then looked up at her, grinning. "Remember the night that we came home? You were an innocent one, you were." "Get along! Such a time ago I forget." Well she remembered. "Such a clout on the ear as you gave me... But I soon taught you."
Herr Brechenmacher, completely overawed by this grand manner, so far forgot his rights as a husband as to beg his wife's pardon for jostling her against the banisters in his efforts to get ahead of everybody else.
Frau Brechenmacher, following her man down the room after greeting the bridal party, knew that she was going to enjoy herself. She seemed to fill out and become rosy and warm as she sniffed that familiar festive smell. Somebody pulled at her skirt, and, looking down, she saw Frau Rupp, the butcher's wife, who pulled out an empty chair and begged her to sit beside her.
As he dandled these treasures before Theresa the hot room seemed to heave and sway with laughter. Frau Brechenmacher did not think it funny. She stared round at the laughing faces, and suddenly they all seemed strange to her. She wanted to go home and never come out again.
I want the light. You go and dress in the passage." Dressing in the dark was nothing to Frau Brechenmacher. She hooked her skirt and bodice, fastened her handkerchief round her neck with a beautiful brooch that had four medals to the Virgin dangling from it, and then drew on her cloak and hood. "Here, come and fasten this buckle," called Herr Brechenmacher.
"Fritz will get you some beer," she said. "My dear, your skirt is open at the back. We could not help laughing as you walked up the room with the white tape of your petticoat showing!" "But how frightful!" said Frau Brechenmacher, collapsing into her chair and biting her lip.
"But, my God," Frau Rupp cried, "they've given that child of Theresa's a piece of sausage. It's to keep her quiet. There's going to be a presentation now your man has to speak." Frau Brechenmacher sat up stiffly. The music ceased, and the dancers took their places again at the tables. Herr Brechenmacher alone remained standing he held in his hands a big silver coffee-pot.
She stripped the mattress off the baby's bed to see if he was still dry, then began unfastening her blouse and skirt. "Always the same," she said "all over the world the same; but, God in heaven but STUPID." Then even the memory of the wedding faded quite. She lay down on the bed and put her arm across her face like a child who expected to be hurt as Herr Brechenmacher lurched in.
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