I
In the soft light of an afternoon sun, Clarinda sat in an old chair and
read a thesis upon love, and she found set forth in this thesis that
without love the world would not go around. Further, without love life
would be but dross and hideous calamity. She also found therein that men
have died from love, and women have languished in torments when it was
unrequited.
Even though she was filled with apprehension as she read, she did not
wish to eschew love, but was glad she was suffering from its effects.
She imagined that her own particular love was different from the love
anybody had ever been consumed with, and she was glad in her heart she
was suffering from its effects. She perceived it affected the glint of
her hair, and she even thought it affected the beauty of her smile. She
knew it affected her eyes, and gave an added color to her cheeks.
At times when she sat by herself, she was filled with fear that the
object of her love might fail her—that what she felt might be a dream
and not a real condition.
At times this trepidation was so overwhelming she became frightened. It
might occur that she would awake from her blissful state and find it was
all a mistake. She even thought that it might not have happened—that the
man she loved upon a certain night, at a certain place had whispered in
her ear that without her love life would be a void.
Clarinda was young and believed in love, and she had not found out that
love dies even as the body, and often becomes stale, that more than
often it passed from the soul as the miasma from the fetid lake.
Nevertheless, from the time love awoke in her heart, and the man had
whispered in her ear and held her close to his breast, day followed day.
Day followed day and the hour of her wedding came, and never once did
time stand still. And when it was at hand she awoke with the sun and
sprang from her bed as light as the lark, with her hair hanging in
golden strands over her shoulders.
Lightly she ran to the window and pushing it open the air rushed in. A
luxurious breeze swayed the tree-tops, and the flowers in the fields
still covered with dew gave forth untold perfume.
She threw aside the curtains that kept from within the glory of the day,
and a flood of light burst into the room. A great gladness came to her
heart for there was no cloud in the sky. As if to add a better omen,
across the garden in a sycamore tree a bird trilled its morning song.
A smile soft and sweet crossed her lips and gradually expanded into a
laugh that vied with the song of the bird in the tree.
Clarinda was thrilled, and her heart went out to meet the lover who
would come.
When she turned from the sun and the day without and the perfume of the
flowers, a tear fell down her cheeks cutting its way through the pink
and white to the floor.
A fear gripped her. She felt she might be giving up more than she was
gaining. It came to her that she was leaving all that had made her. In
these surroundings she had grown, and now she was arriving at one end of
her life. Further, she knew she was about to take a step into new
fields; she would be thrown into a new perspective; a new condition of
which she knew nothing and all these things she loved would fade from
her and be lost.
It convulsed her as she felt her youth was dead.
She turned from the things about her and looked again across the fields,
and thought she could see her youth being carried to its last resting
place upon this beautiful day. To her the grave seemed dug, the mourners
assembled. She could even hear the toll of the bells for its interment.
Terribly oppressed by the idea she withdrew her hand from the curtain
and fell upon her knees by the side of her bed and prayed.
Clarinda prayed for a long time, then she arose from her knees, shook
the tears from her eyes and throwing a raiment of filmy stuff about her
made her toilet.
Her golden hair she piled in many waves about her head. A smile broke
across her lips as she looked at herself in a glass. The fear had passed
from her heart and left it in a tumult of joy.
Clarinda fitted one pink foot after another pink foot into two pink
slippers, then she went from the room out upon the landing to the head
of the stairs.
Below her were banked flowers. Men, bearing other masses ran hither and
thither, placing them as they were brought in by other men.
Her mother was already there, a tall woman with a huge chest. She went
from point to point giving orders, which were carried out carefully. Her
step was slow and labored. The silence seemed to Clarinda to presage
disaster.
A lean, lank, old man stepped uncertainly from one of the inner rooms,
and he gazed helplessly about. His face was drawn, and his appearance
betokened sorrow.
The men who worked moved from place to place with noiseless feet. The
woman, torn by her emotions, continued her labors. The hall grew into a
bower, while the odor from the flowers crept like a blanket over
everything.
Clarinda saw the silver things collected upon the tables. Gifts of gold
were interspersed. She thought them votive offerings. They sparkled and
glistened in the sun which came through the many windows.
Slowly she came down the stairs and stopped in the middle of the hall,
and her young, lithe body swayed with emotion.
After she had regained herself she went over to her mother and put her
arms around her neck, pressing a kiss upon her cheek. They said nothing.
Then she walked over to her father and helped him to a chair, and knelt
down beside him.
Her father smoothed her hair with his hand as if to give her courage.
She whispered to him in a shaking voice: “This is joy!”
“It is joy,” he answered simply.
“I am dying!” she exclaimed still whispering. “I am already dead! Look!
Look! Father!” She raised her hand and pointed toward the men who moved
about. “The men,” she continued, “are decorating the rooms for the
corpse. I—I—am the corpse!” and close she shrank to the side of the
chair. “My youth is dead!” Clarinda’s eyes filled with tears and her
body shook from her emotion.
Her father raised her head and tilting her face looked into her eyes.
“No, Clarinda, you are not dead. You are not a corpse. The rooms are not
decorated for your death. It is done for your rebirth. Only your youth
is dead, and from it has sprung a new and wonderful thing.”
Clarinda rose from her knees and put her arms frantically around his
neck.
“Save me! Save me! Father!” she pleaded. “Save me! You are wonderful!”
“Listen, Clarinda, you mustn’t weep. Rather you must be filled with joy,
for this is a festival. You have come into something new. A great
responsibility grasps you in its hand. You are re-born. Nature calls you
and you go—it is inexorable—you cannot help. You must not weep; rather
you must sing and dance. You must array yourself in gold and in silk and
go forth to meet the bridegroom.”
“Is there no way?” she asked with pleading in her voice.
With terrible finality, he answered “No!”
Slightly she raised her body, a look of determination spread over her
face, then a trace of a smile crept back. The tears were gone.
“Ah! how I fear,” she said. “And yet, Father, I love. I wouldn’t have it
changed.” Clarinda paused for an instant. “It is true, Father, I weep,
but my heart is filled with joy. I am ready to go forth into the
darkness. I await the coming of the bridegroom.” Clarinda stretched her
hands out in front of her. “I think, Father,” she said with conviction,
“that he will protect me. I am not sure.”
She sank back close to the chair and held her father’s hand close to her
face.
Gently he smoothed her hair, while the love of his age went out to her
in her extremity. He was torn as she was torn.