Summer 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 1960 |

The Wedding

From the Russian. Puffing and panting, a groomsman in top hat and white gloves threw off his coat in the hall and looking as if he wanted to proclaim something dreadful ran into the ball room. "The bridegroom is at the church already!" he announced, catching his breath with difficulty. Quiet descended. Suddenly everyone grew mournful. The father of the bride, a retired lieutenant colonel with a gaunt and hollow-cheeked face, feeling no doubt that his squat military figure in riding breeches was insufficiently solemn, firmly puffed up his cheeks and stood erect. He picked up an icon from a small table. His wife, a little old woman in a tulle cap with wide ribbons, stood beside him and welcomed everyone. The parental blessing began. Like a shadow the bride Liubochka noiselessly knelt before her father. Her veil fluttered at this, and she clutched at the flowers sprinkled over her dress. Several hair pins fell from her coiffure. Having knelt before the icon and ki

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