A wedding in the family...Part Deux
Dear friend,
“Le mariage, c’est la volonté à deux de créer l’unique,” murmured Monsieur as we watched Viola and her new husband begin their first dance, to the tune of “At Last.”
“Marriage is the desire of two to create one.”
“That’s lovely!,” I said.
“Friedrich Nietzsche,” he replied with a smug air.
Under ordinary circumstances, my husband and I have an understanding that he is not to quote Nietzsche at family occasions. He who wrote “God is dead” might cast a gloomy shadow over moments that we all wish to remember fondly.
But even Nietzsche, who was prone to fits of depression and died insane, would have smiled happily last week. In addition, Viola’s wedding took place on the Feast of the Guardian Angels.
Months of planning go into a wedding, not to mention years of “éducation,” as the French describe the process of bringing up children. And in the end, just as with planning a wedding, the result is always a bit surprising.
In the flurry of details and decisions, the shape of the final project becomes indistinct – until it appears, full-blown and real, on that special day. The bride you have known from birth to adulthood walks down the aisle on her father’s arm and walks away as a married woman.
The process began in an orderly and measured manner.
In February, eight months before the date of the wedding, we started with Viola’s dress. It began as a sketch by the couturière on a scrap of paper. Two weeks before the wedding, the bride-to-be stood before the mirror in the atelier, scrutinizing her reflection. Madame Gilles, the dressmaker, hovered nervously behind her.
“Let’s see that drawing again,” commanded Viola in a dangerously calm tone of voice.
“You look sweet and sylphlike,” I ventured timidly, instinctively attempting to soothe. Viola is too well-brought-up to roll her eyes.
“Maman,” she replied sternly. “Je suis une femme. I want to look like a woman. Not a nymph.”
For another hour, she and Madame Gilles plucked, pinched and pinned the satin underdress and the filmy lace that overlay it. Finally, they arrived at an understanding. Wreathed in smiles, Madame Gilles bid us good-bye. Through the window, we saw her hurrying toward her sewing machine. At home, Viola and I sank exhausted into chaises longues under the trees.
As the day approached, Monsieur took to sending me texts titled, “Update from Chaos Central.” There were eight gardeners now, weeding and watering, pruning and deadheading, potting up plants to scatter artlessly on the gravel in front of various outbuildings. One day, 15 men arrived to rake leaves, scatter pine needles, plant a few new trees.
“Waouh, that looks like a rock band,” said Viola's sister Sophie, who had come to help wrap presents for the bridesmaids. She paused on the perron to admire 14 muscular young men wielding girobroyeurs in unison around the edge of the Great Lawn. Their mustachio’d patron directed them like a conductor.
Delivery trucks came and went. The wine arrived from Monsieur’s Argentine vineyard. Sofas and poufs were carried in. These, I informed a skeptical Monsieur, were essential to create comfortable seating around the dance floor. Knives and forks, chairs and tables, tablecloths, napkins, plates and glasses, napkins, candles, lanterns followed. The tent went up.
But where was the second tent, the one to protect guests and the wedding party during the ceremony? It had been inadvertently canceled. With Napoleonic sang froid and his indomitable faith in weather forecasts, Monsieur took charge. One hundred and sixty chairs were moved under the shade of ancient trees. Beaux temps had been predicted for the morrow.
The morning of the wedding indeed brought le beaux temps – and, of course, a whirlwind. Le petit James needed help putting on his shoes and had forgotten his socks. La petite Dorothée had no hair ribbon. La grande Clara’s hair was still wet. Charlot clung to their mother's breast, staring gravely down at the commotion. Meanwhile, in the bibliothèque, the bridesmaids were having their hair put up in chignons and makeup applied.
Viola’s dress arrived with Madame Gilles. Her sister and I helped her into it. We all sighed with admiration mixed with profound relief. It was la perfection!
The couturière had also transformed Tante Bette’s seed pearl necklace into a tiara. I had worn it at my wedding around my throat. Now, Madame Gilles fastened it into Viola’s hair. Her sister and I carefully unfolded the veil. Sophie had worn it on her wedding day, as had I, my sister, our mother and her sister, our grandmother and her mother. It settled over Viola’s dark curls, covering her face with a tracery of fine lace.
Turning away from the mirror, Viola looked serenely outward.
“I’m ready,” she said, after a moment. And so were we.
A très bientôt, au Chateau de Courtomer,
P.S. To reserve for your own wedding at Chateau de Courtomer in 2022 or 2023, please write to Heather or Béatrice (both are bilingual in English and French), or, of course to me, at info@chateaudecourtomer.com.
We look forward to hearing from you!