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CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11 - раздел История, Эрик Сигл. История любви   Jennifer Was Awarded Her Degree On Wednesday. All Sorts Of Re...

 

Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relatives

from Cranston, Fall River-and even an aunt from Cleveland-flocked to

Cambridge to attend the ceremony. By prior arrangement, I was not introduced

as her fiance, and Jenny wore no ring: this so that none would be offended

(too soon) about missing our wedding.

"Aunt Laura , this is my boyfriend Oliver," Jenny would say, always

adding, "He isn't a college graduate."

There was plenty of rib poking, whispering and even open speculation,

but the relatives could pry no specific information from either of us-or

from Phil, who I guess was happy to avoid a discussion of love among the

atheists.

On Thursday, I became Jenny's academic equal, receiving my degree from

Harvard-like her own, magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in

this capacity got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meant

walking ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost moved

to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively proved my

theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in Widener Library.

But I refrained. Let the joy be universal.

I have no idea whether Oliver Barrett III was present. More than

seventeen thousand people jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and

I certainly was not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used

my allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus, Old

Stony- face could enter and sit with the Class of '26. But then why should

he want to? I mean, weren't the banks open?

 

The wedding was that Sunday. Our reason for excluding Jenny's 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, 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-hertall, 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's preconceived notion that this "do-it-yourself wedding" (as Phil

referred to it) was going to be (as Stratton kept predicting) "an incredible

horror show." 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's musical friends, Marya Randall, married a design student

named Eric Levenson. It was a very beautiful thing, and really sold us on

the idea.

"Are you two ready?" asked Mr. Blauvelt.

"Yes," I said for both of us.

"Friends," said Mr. Blauvelt to the others, "we 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.

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 high and higher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire...

 

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't stand there and recite lace-doily

phrases. I couldn't. But a section of Walt Whitman's Song of the Open Road,

though kind of brief, said it all for me:

 

• . . 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.

 

Upon reflection, our "post-game party" (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's. As I recall, Jim Cronin himself

set us up with a round, as a tribute to "the greatest Harvard hockey player

since the Cleary brothers."

"Like hell," argued Phil Cavilleri, pounding his fist on the table.

"He's better than all the Clearys put together." Philip's meaning, I believe

(he had never seen a Harvard hockey game), was that however well Bobby or

Billy 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's rare compliments about my intuition ("You'll be a human being yet,

Preppie"). It got a little hairy at the end when we drove him to the bus,

however. I mean, the wet-eyes bit. His, Jenny's, maybe mine too; I don't

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.

"Jenny, we're legally married!"

"Yeah, now I can be a bitch."

 

 

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Chapter 1
    What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles

CHAPTER 2
    Oliver Barrett IV Ipswich, Mass. Age 20 Major: Social Studies Dean's List: '6

CHAPTER 3
    I got hurt in the Cornell game. It was my own fault, really. At a heated juncture, I made the unfortunate error of referring to their center as a &

CHAPTER 4
    "Jenny's on the downstairs phone." This information was announced to me by the girl on bells, although I had not identified myself or my

CHAPTER 5
    I would like to say a word about our physical relationship. For a strangely long while there wasn't any. I mean, there wasn't anything more signifi

CHAPTER 6
    I love Ray Stratton. He may not be a genius or a great football player (kind of slow at the snap), but he was always a good roommate and loyal frie

CHAPTER 7
    Ipswich, Mass., is some forty minutes from the Mystic River Bridge, depending on the weather and how you drive. I have actually made it on occasion

CHAPTER 8
  "Jenny, it's not Secretary of State, after all!" We were finally driving back to Cambridge, thank God. "Still, Oliver, you could have been more enth

CHAPTER 9
  There remained the matter of Cranston, Rhode Island, a city slightly more to the south of Boston than Ipswich is to the north. After the debacle of introducing Jen

CHAPTER 10
  Mr. William F. Thompson, Associate Dean of the Harvard Law School, could not believe his ears. "Did I hear you right, Mr. Barrett?" "Yes

CHAPTER 12
    If a single word can describe our daily life during those first three years, it is "scrounge." Every waking moment we were concentrating on how

CHAPTER 13
  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett III request the pleasure of your company at a dinner in celebration of Mr. Barrett's sixtieth birthday Saturday,

CHAPTER 14
  It was July when the letter came. It had been forwarded from Cambridge to Dennis Port, so I guess I got the news a day or so late. I charged over to where Jenny wa

CHAPTER 15
    We finished in that order. I mean, Erwin, Bella and myself were the top three in the Law School graduating class. The time for triumph was at hand.

CHAPTER 16
    CHANGE OF ADDRESS From July 1,1967 Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Barrett IV 263 E

CHAPTER 17
    It is not all that easy to make a baby. I mean, there is a certain irony involved when guys who spend the first years of their sex lives preoccupie

CHAPTER 18
    I began to think about God. I mean, the notion of a Supreme Being existing somewhere began to creep into my private thoughts. Not because I wanted

CHAPTER 19
    Now at least I wasn't afraid to go home, I wasn't seared about "acting normal." We were once again sharing everything, even if it was the awful

CHAPTER 20
    It is impossible to drive from East Sixty-third Street, Manhattan, to Boston, Massachusetts, in less than three hours and twenty minutes. Believe m

CHAPTER 21
    The task of informing Phil Cavilleri fell to me. Who else? He did not go to pieces as I feared he might, but calmly closed the house in Cranston an

CHAPTER 22
    Phil Cavilleri was in the solarium, smoking his nth cigarette, when I appeared. "Phil?" I said softly. "Yeah?"

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