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Love Story (45)

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Upon reflection, our ¡Èpost-game party¡É (as Stratton referred to it) was pretentiously unpretentious. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin¡Çs. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself set up with a round, as a tribute to ¡Èthe greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers.¡É
¡ÈLike hell,¡É argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table. ¡ÈHe¡Çs better than all the Clearys put together.¡É Philip¡Çs meaning, I believe (he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or Bill Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry his lovely daughter. I mean, we were all smashed, and it was just an excuse for getting more so.
I let Phil pick up the tab, a decision which later evoked one of Jenny¡Çs rare compliments about my intuition (You¡Çll be a human being yet, Preppie¡É). I got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I mean the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny¡Çs, maybe mine too; I don¡Çt remember anything except that the moment was liquid.
Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus, and we waited and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome truth started to get to me.
¡ÈJenny, we¡Çre legally married!¡É
¡ÈYeah, now I can be a bitch.¡É


²òÀâ¡§¤³¤Î¾Ï¤ÎºÇ¸å¤Ç¤¹¡£
Upon reflection¡Ê»×¤¦¤Ë¡§reflection¤Ï¡ÖÈ¿¼Í¡¢±Æ¶Á¡¢½Ïθ¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë, our ¡Èpost-game¡ÊÄÌÎã¡Ö¥Ð¡¼¤Ê¤É¤Ç°û¤ó¤À¸åͧã¤Ê¤É¤Î²È¤Ç°û¤ßľ¤¹¤³¤È¡×¤ò¤¤¤¤¤Þ¤¹¡× party¡É (as Stratton referred to it) was pretentiously¡Ê¶Ä¡¹¤·¤¯¡Ë unpretentious¡Ê¶Ä¡¹¤·¤¯¤Ê¤¤¡Ë. Jenny and I had absolutely rejected the champagne¡Ê¤³¤³¤Ç¤Ï¡ÖìÔÂô¤Ê¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë route, and since there were so few of us we could all fit into one booth, we went to drink beer at Cronin¡Çs. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself set up with¡Ê¡¦¡¦¡¦¤ò½àÈ÷¤¹¤ë¡Ë a round¡Ê¡ã¼ò¤Ê¤É¤Î¡äÁ´°÷¤Ø¤Î¤Ò¤È¤ï¤¿¤ê¢ÍºÇ½é¤Î°ìÇÕ¤ÏŹ¤Î¤ª¤´¤ê¤À¤Ã¤¿¤È¤¤¤¦¤³¤È¤Ç¤¹¡Ë, as a tribute¡Ê¤³¤³¤Ç¤Ï¡Ö¾Þ»¿¤Î°õ¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë to ¡Èthe greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers¡Ê£±£¹£µ£´¡Ý£µ£¸¤Ë¼ÂºÝ¤ËÂç³èÌö¡Ë.¡É
¡ÈLike hell¡Ê¡Èthe greatest Harvard hockey player since the Cleary brothers.¡É¤Ê¤ó¤Æ¤È¤ó¤Ç¤â¤Ê¤¤¡Ë,¡É argued¡Ê¼çÄ¥¤·¤¿¡Ë Phil Cavilleri, pounding¡Ê¥¬¥ó¥¬¥ó᤯¡Ë his fist on the table. ¡ÈHe¡Çs better than all the Clearys put together¡Ê´ó¤»½¸¤á¤ë¡Ë.¡É Philip¡Çs meaning, I believe (he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or Bill Cleary might have skated, neither got to marry¡Ê¡¦¡¦¡¦¤È·ëº§¤¹¤ë¤Ë¤Ï»ê¤é¤Ê¤«¤Ã¤¿¡Ë his lovely daughter. I mean, we were all smashed¡Ê¿ì¤Ã¤Ñ¤é¤Ã¤¿¡Ë, and it was just an excuse for getting more so¡Ê¡ásmashed¡Ë.
I let Phil pick up the tab¡ÊPhil¤¬Á´ÈñÍѤò»ý¤Ä¤Î¤òÀ©¤·¤Ê¤«¤Ã¤¿¡§tab¤Ï¡Ö´ªÄê½ñ¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë, a decision which later evoked¡Ê°ú¤­µ¯¤³¤·¤¿¡Ë one of Jenny¡Çs rare compliments about my intuition¡áľ´Ñ¡¢Æ¶»¡ÎÏ (You¡Çll be a human being yet¡Ê½õư»ì¤È¶¦¤Ë»È¤ï¤ì¤Æ¡Ö¤¤¤Ä¤ÎÆü¤Ë¤«¡×¡Ë, Preppie¡É). I got a little hairy¡Êº¤Æñ¤Ê¡¢°·¤¤Æñ¤¤¡Ë at the end when we drove him to the bus, however. I mean the wet-eyes bit¡Ê¾ìÌÌ¡Ë. His, Jenny¡Çs, maybe mine too; I don¡Çt remember anything except that the moment was liquid¡Ê¤³¤³¤Ç¤Ï¡ÖÉÔ°ÂÄê¤Ê¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë.
Anyway, after all sorts of blessings, he got onto the bus, and we waited and waved until it drove out of sight. It was then that the awesome¡Ê¤È¤Æ¤â¤è¤¤¡Ë truth started to get to ¡ÊÅþÃ夹¤ë¡Ëme.
¡ÈJenny, we¡Çre legally married!¡É
¡ÈYeah, now I can be a bitch¡Ê°ÕÃϤΰ­¤¤½÷¡Ë.¡É

Love Story (44)

¸¶Ê¸¡§
¡ÈAre you two ready?¡É asked Mr. Blauvelt.
¡ÈYes,¡É I said for both of us.
¡ÈFriends,¡É said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, ¡Èwe are here to witness the union of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen to read on this sacred occasion.¡É
The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited the poem she had selected. It was very moving, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett:

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire ¡Ä


From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed, eyes wide with amazement and adoration combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way a kind of prayer for

A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.


Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing. I mean, I couldn¡Çt stand there and recite lace-doily phrases. I couldn¡Çt. But a section of Walt Whitman¡Çs Song of the Open Road, though kind of brief, said it all for me.

¡Ä I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?


I finished, and there was a wonderful hush in the room. Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I – ourselves recited the marriage vows, taking each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish, till death do us part.
By the authority vested in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced us man and wife.


²òÀâ¡§
¡ÈAre you two ready?¡É asked Mr. Blauvelt.
¡ÈYes,¡É I said for both of us.
¡ÈFriends,¡É said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, ¡Èwe are here to witness¡Ê¤³¤³¤Ç¤Ï¡Ö¤ËΩ¤Á¹ç¤¦¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë the union of two lives in marriage. Let us listen to the words they have chosen to read on this sacred¡Ê¿ÀÀ»¤Ê¡Ë occasion.¡É
The bride first. Jenny stood facing me and recited¡Ê¤³¤³¤Ç¤Ï¡ÖϯÆÉ¤¹¤ë¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë the poem she had selected. It was very moving¡Ê¿Í¤ò´¶Æ°¤µ¤»¤ë¡Ë, perhaps especially to me, because it was a sonnet¡Ê£±£´¹Ô»í¡£¤³¤Î»í¤ÎÁ´Éô¤Ï²¼µ­»²¾È¡Ë by Elizabeth Barrett¡Ê¥Ó¥¯¥È¥ê¥¢²¦Ä«»þÂå¤Î»í¿Í¡Ë:

When our two souls stand up erect¡Ê¤Þ¤Ã¤¹¤°¤Ë¡Ë and strong¡ÊÎ϶¯¤¯¡Ë,
Face to face, silent, drawing¡Ê°ú¤«¤ì¤ë¡Ë nigh¡Ê¡ánear¡Ë and nigher,
Until the lengthening(¿­¤Ó¤¿) wings break into fire ¡Ä¡ÊÃà¸ìÌõ¤Ï¡Ö¿­¤Ó¤¿Í㤬²Ð¤ÎÃæ¤Ë¿¯Æþ¤¹¤ë¤Þ¤Ç¡×¤Ç¤¹¤¬¡¢Ê¸Ì®¤«¤é¡Ö»à¤Ì¤Þ¤Ç¡×¤ÈÌõ¤·¤Æ¤ª¤­¤Þ¤¹¡Ë


From the corner of my eye I saw Phil Cavilleri, pale, slack-jawed¡Ê¸ý¤ò¤Ý¤«¤ó¤È¤¢¤±¤¿¡Ë, eyes wide with amazement¡Ê¶Ãس¡Ë and adoration¡Ê¿òÇÒ¡Ë combined. We listened to Jenny finish the sonnet, which was in its way¡Ê¤½¤ì¤Ê¤ê¤Ë¡Ë a kind of prayer¡Êµ§¤ê¤Î¸ÀÍÕ¡Ë for

A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding¡Ê¤ò¼è¤ê´¬¤¯¡Ë it.¢Í¤³¤ì¤é¤ÏºÇ¸å¤Î£²¹Ô¤Ç¤¹¡£


Then it was my turn. It had been hard finding a piece of poetry I could read without blushing¡Ê´é¤òÀÖ¤é¤á¤ë¡Ë. I mean, I couldn¡Çt stand there and recite lace-doily¡Ê¡Ö¥±¡¼¥­¡¦¿©´ï¤Ê¤É¤Î²¼¤ËÉߤ¯±ß·Á¤Î¥ì¡¼¥¹Éߤ­ÉۡפΰդǤ¹¤¬blushing¤ÈƱ¤¸°ÕÌ£¤Ç»È¤ï¤ì¤Æ¤¤¤ë¤â¤Î¤È»×¤¤¤Þ¤¹¡Ë phrases. I couldn¡Çt. But a section of Walt Whitman¡Çs¡ÊÊÆ¹ñ¤Î̱¼ç¼çµÁ¤Î»í¿Í¤Ç¤¢¤ë¤ÈƱ»þ¤ËÆùÂλ¿Èþ¤Î»í¤ò½ñ¤¤¤¿¡Ë Song of the Open Road, though kind of brief, said it all for me.

¡Ä I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching¡ÊÀâ¶µ¡Ë or law;
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by¡Ê¤ËÃé¼Â¤Ç¤¢¤ë¡Ë each other as long as we live?¢ÍÈó¾ï¤ËŤ¤»í¤ÎºÇ¸å¤ÎÉôʬ¤Ç¤¹¡£


I finished, and there was a wonderful hush¡ÊÀŤ±¤µ¡Ë in the room. Then Ray Stratton handed me the ring, and Jenny and I – ourselves recited the marriage vows, taking¡Ê¤³¤³¤Ç¤Ï¡ÖÕ¸¤ë¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë each other, from that day forward, to love and cherish¡Ê¤òÂç»ö¤Ë¤¹¤ë¡Ë, till death do us part.¡Ê·ëº§¤ÎºÝ¤ÎÀÀ¤¤¤Î¸ÀÍÕ¤ÎÍ×Ìó¤Ç¤¹¡Ë
By the authority vested¡ÊÍ¿¤¨¤é¤ì¤¿¡Ë in him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts¡Ê¥Þ¥µ¥Á¥å¡¼¥»¥Ã¥Ä½£¤ÎÀµ¼°Ì¾¾Î¡£Êƹñ¤Î½£¤ÎÀµ¼°Ì¾¾Î¤ÇCommonwealth¤¬»È¤ï¤ì¤ë¤Î¤Ï¾¤Ë¥±¥ó¥¿¥Ã¥­¡¼½£¡¢¥Ú¥ó¥·¥ë¥ô¥¡¥Ë¥¢½£¡¢¥ô¥¡¡¼¥¸¥Ë¥¢½£¡Ë, Mr. Timothy Blauvelt pronounced¡Ê¡¦¡¦¡¦¤Ë¡¦¡¦¡¦¤Ç¤¢¤ë¤È¿½¤·ÅϤ·¤¿¡Ë us man and wife¡ÊÉ×ÉØ¡Ë.

¡ÊÃí¡Ë¾åµ­¤Î£±£´¹Ô»í¤ÎÁ´Éô¡§
When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point,---what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Beloved,---where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.,

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Love Story (43)

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The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for deluding Jenny¡Çs relatives was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost would make the occasion far too trying for unlapsed Catholics. It was in Phillips Brooks House, an old building in the north of Harvard Yard. Timothy Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided. Naturally, Ray Stratton was there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend from the Exeter days, who had taken Amherst over Harvard. Jenny asked a girl friend from Briggs Hall and – maybe for sentimental reasons – her tall, gawky colleague at the reserve book desk. And of course Phil.
I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil. I mean, just to keep him as loose as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood there, looking tremendously uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the other¡Çs preconceived notion that this ¡Èdo-it-yourself wedding¡É (as Phil referred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) ¡Èan incredible horror show.¡É Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few words directly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier that spring when one of Jenny¡Çs musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on the idea.


²òÀâ¡§
The wedding was that Sunday¡ÊÉû»ìŪ¤Ë¡ÖÆüÍËÆü¤Ë¡×¤È¤¤¤¦»È¤¤Êý¡£¡Ö¤¢¤ÎÆüÍËÆü¤Ë¡×¤È¤¤¤¦¤Î¤Ï¥«¥È¥ê¥Ã¥¯¤Ç¤ÏÄÌÎãÆüÍËÆü¤Ë¥ß¥µ¤¬¹Ô¤ï¤ì¤ë¤³¤È¤òǰƬ¤ËÃÖ¤¤¤¿É½¸½¤À¤È»×¤¤¤Þ¤¹¡Ë. Our reason for deluding¡Êµ½¤¯¡Ë Jenny¡Çs relatives was out of genuine concern that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost¡ÊÉã¤È»Ò¤ÈÀ»Îî¡Ë would make the occasion far too trying¡Ê¶ì¤·¤¤¡¢¤Ä¤é¤¤¡Ë for unlapsed¡Ê¡Ölapsed¡×¤Ï¡ÖÂÄÍ¤¿¡¢ÀÔ¶µ¤Î¡×¤Î°Õ¡Ë Catholics¡Ê¥«¥È¥ê¥Ã¥¯¶µÅ̤¿¤Á¡Ë. It was in Phillips Brooks House, an old building in the north of Harvard Yard. Timothy Blauvelt, the college Unitarian chaplain, presided¡Ê»Ê²ñ¤ò̳¤á¤¿¡Ë. Naturally, Ray Stratton¡Ê¥ª¥ê¥Ð¡¼¤Î¥ë¡¼¥à¥á¡¼¥È¡Ë was there, and I also invited Jeremy Nahum, a good friend from the Exeter¡ÊËÜ¥Ö¥í¥°¤Ç¤Ï³ä°¦¤·¤¿Éôʬ¤Ë½Ð¤Æ¤­¤Þ¤¹¤¬¡¢¥ª¥ê¥Ð¡¼¤¬Â´¶È¤·¤¿¹â¹»¤Ç¤¹¡Ë days, who had taken Amherst¡Ê¥Þ¥µ¥Á¥å¡¼¥»¥Ã¥Ä½£¤Ë¤¢¤ëÂç³Ø¡Ë over¡Ê¡¦¡¦¡¦¤ËÍ¥À褷¤Æ¡Ë Harvard. Jenny asked a girl friend from Briggs Hall¡Ê¥¸¥§¥Ë¥Õ¥¡¡¼¤ÎÎÀ¤Ç¤¹¡Ë and – maybe for sentimental reasons – her tall, gawky¡Ê¤®¤³¤Á¤Ê¤¤¡Ë colleague at the reserve book desk. And of course Phil.
I put Ray Stratton in charge of Phil¡Ê»ä¤ÏPhil ¤òRay Stratton¤ËǤ¤»¤¿¡Ë. I mean, just to keep him as loose¡Ê¶ÛÄ¥¤·¤Æ¤¤¤Ê¤¤¡Ë as possible. Not that Stratton was all that calm! The pair of them stood there, looking tremendously¡Ê¤È¤Æ¤â¡¢Èó¾ï¤Ë¡¢ÌÔÎõ¤Ë¡Ë uncomfortable, each silently reinforcing the other¡Çs preconceived¡ÊÁ°¤«¤é¤â¤Ã¤Æ¤¤¤¿¡Ë notion that this ¡Èdo-it-yourself wedding¡É (as Phil referred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting¡áͽ¸À¤¹¤ë) ¡Èan incredible¡Ê¿®¤¸¤é¤ì¤Ê¤¤¡Ë horror show.¡É Just because Jenny and I were going to address a few words directly to one another! We had actually seen it done earlier that spring when one of Jenny¡Çs musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on the idea¡Ê²æ¡¹¤Ë¤½¤Î¥¢¥¤¥Ç¥¢¤òÇä¤ê¹þ¤ó¤À¡Ë.

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