Pünkösd

On my way back from buying peonies from a woman* with dyed hair* & a face that looks as if someone squashed it into an already overstuffed trunk for at least a quarter of a century, (not totally unlike my own, in other words), I saw a wedding party.  They came out of the church nextdoor to us and arranged themselves on the steps to be photographed. I cried. 

Everyone looked so absolutely joyous - the fine, darkhaired bride, her striking face suggesting a strong, intelligent personality, was, to use the cliche, radiant; her cleancut, slim new husband appeared dazed but more or less thrilled; the groom's mother, short and rather drably dressed, was transformed by a grin that went very nearly literarily from ear to ear; the slightly crumpled bride's father was equally brimming with happiness. And behind them masses of friends and relations of all ages, all seemingly equally delighted.

It is the Whitsun weekend (pünkösd in Hungarian), & so I naturally thought of The Whitsun Weddings by Philip Larkin, as I stood across the street, admiring the scene on the church steps with tears in my eyes (even when rain began, the group's spirits were not dampened; if you could collect happiness for later use, there were vast quantities of it floating about in that moment):

The Whitsun Weddings

BY PHILIP LARKIN

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:

    Not till about

One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday

Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,

All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense   

Of being in a hurry gone. We ran

Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street

Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence   

The river’s level drifting breadth began,

Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept   

    For miles inland,

A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.   

Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and   

Canals with floatings of industrial froth;   

A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped   

And rose: and now and then a smell of grass   

Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth   

Until the next town, new and nondescript,   

Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn’t notice what a noise

    The weddings made

Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys   

The interest of what’s happening in the shade,

And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls   

I took for porters larking with the mails,   

And went on reading. Once we started, though,   

We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls   

In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,   

All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event

    Waving goodbye

To something that survived it. Struck, I leant   

More promptly out next time, more curiously,   

And saw it all again in different terms:   

The fathers with broad belts under their suits   

And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;   

An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,   

The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes,   

The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.   

    Yes, from cafés

And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed   

Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days   

Were coming to an end. All down the line

Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round;

The last confetti and advice were thrown,

And, as we moved, each face seemed to define   

Just what it saw departing: children frowned   

At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;

    The women shared

The secret like a happy funeral;

While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared   

At a religious wounding. Free at last,

And loaded with the sum of all they saw,

We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.   

Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast   

Long shadows over major roads, and for

Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say

    I nearly died, 

A dozen marriages got under way.

They watched the landscape, sitting side by side

—An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,   

And someone running up to bowl—and none   

Thought of the others they would never meet   

Or how their lives would all contain this hour.   

I thought of London spread out in the sun,   

Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across   

    Bright knots of rail

Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss   

Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail   

Travelling coincidence; and what it held   

Stood ready to be loosed with all the power   

That being changed can give. We slowed again,

And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled

A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower   

Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

________________________________________

*She appears only on a Saturday & only in peony season. It occurred to me today that, given she brings several hundred bunches each time, she must have a sea of peonies covering perhaps half an acre wherever it is that she lives.

*While this woman has shown great restraint & chosen only to restore what I assume was her original black hair with more black, many women above a certain age in Hungary decide that a sort of purply or beetroot shade of red is the way to go. When I have seen this hair colour on the head of someone bobbing through the crowds in Oxford Street, London or standing amongst the hordes taking selfies in front of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre or throwing coins into the Trevi Fountain, each has turned out to be a citizen of Magyarország. It is puzzling, as differences in taste usually are.