THE LOVERS OF SILENCIEUX
Silencieux often spoke to Antony now. Sometimes a sudden, startling word
when he was writing late at night; sometimes long tender talks; once a
terrible whisper. But all this time she never opened her eyes. The
lashes still lay wet upon her cheeks, and when she spoke her lips seemed
hardly to move, only to smile with a deeper meaning, an intenser life.
Indeed, at these times, her face shone with so great a brightness that
Antony's vision was dazzled, and to his gaze she seemed almost
featureless as a star.
Once he had begged to see her eyes.
"You know not what you ask," she had answered. "When you see my eyes you
will die. Some day, Antony, you shall see my eyes. But not yet. You
have much to do for me yet. There is yet much love for you and me before
the end."
"Have all died who saw your eyes, Silencieux?"
"Yes, all died."
"You have had many lovers, Silencieux. Many lovers, and far from here,
and long ago."
"Yes, many lovers, long ago," echoed Silencieux.
"You have been very cruel, Silencieux."
"Yes, very cruel, but very kind. It is true men have died for me. I have
been cruel, yes, but to die for me has seemed better than to live for
any other. And some of my lovers I have never forsaken. When they have
lost all in the world, they have had me. Lonely garrets have seemed
richly furnished because of my face, and men with foodless lips have
died blest because I was near them at the last. Sometimes I have kissed
their lips and died with them, and the world has missed my face for a
hundred unlovely years--for the world is only beautiful when I and my
lovers are in it. Antony, you are one of my lovers, one of my dearest
lovers; be great enough, be all mine, and perhaps I will die with you,
Antony--and leave the world in darkness for your sake, another hundred
years."
"Tell me of your lovers, Silencieux."
"Nearly three thousand years ago I loved a woman of Mitylene, very fair
and made of fire. But she loved another more than I, and for his sake
threw herself from a rock into the sea. As she fell, the rose we had
made together fell from her bosom, and was torn to pieces by the sea.
Fishermen gathered here and there a petal floating on the waters,--but
what were they?--and the world has never known how wonderful was that
rose of our love which she took with her into the depths of the sea."
"You are faithful, Silencieux; you love her still."
"Yes, I love her still."
"And with whom did love come next, Silencieux?"
"Oh, I loved many those years, for the loss of a great love sends us
vainly from hand to hand of many lesser loves, to ease a little the
great ache; and at that time the world seemed full of my lovers. I have
forgotten none of them. They pass before me, a fair frieze of
unforgotten faces; but most I loved a Roman poet, because, perhaps, he
loved so well the memory of her I had loved, and knew so skilfully to
make bloom again among his own red roses those petals of passionate
ivory which the fishermen of Lesbos had recovered from the sea."
"Tell me of your lovers, Silencieux," said Antony again.
"Hundreds of years after, I loved in Florence a young poet with a face
of silver. His soul was given to a little red-cheeked girl. She died,
and then I took him to my bosom, and loved him on through the years,
till his face had grown iron with many sorrows. Now at last, his
baby-girl by his side, he sits in heaven, with a face of gold. In
Paris," she went on, "have I been wonderfully beloved, and in northern
lands near the pole--"
"But--England?" said Antony. "Tell me of your English lovers."
"Best of them I love two: one a laughing giant who loved me three
hundred years ago, and the other a little London boy with large eyes of
velvet, who mid all the gloom of your great city saw and loved my face,
as none had seen and loved it since she of Mitylene. I found the giant
sitting by a country stream, holding a daffodil in his mighty hands and
whistling to the birds. He took and wore me like a flower. I was to him
as a nightingale that sang from his sleeve, for he loved so much
besides. Yet me he loved best, as those who can read his secret poems
understand. But my little London boy loved me only. For him the world
held nothing but my face, and it was of his great love for me that he
died."
"But these were all poets," said Antony.
"Yes, poets are the greatest of all lovers. Though all who since the
world began have been the makers of beautiful things have loved me, I
love my poets best. Sweeter than marble or many colours to my eyes is
the sound of a poet singing in my ears--"
"For whom, Silencieux, did you step down into the sad waters of the
Seine?"
"It was a young poet of Paris, beloved of many women, a drunkard of
strange dreams. He too died because he loved me, and when he died there
was none left whose voice seemed sweet after his. So I died with him. I
died with him," she repeated, "to come to life again with you. Many
lips have been pressed to mine, Antony, since the cold sleep of the
Seine fell over me, but none were warm and wild like yours. I loved my
sleep while the others kissed me, but with the touch of your lips the
dreams of life began to stir within me again. O Antony, be great enough,
be all mine, that we may fulfil our dream; and perhaps, Antony, I will
die with you--and leave the world in darkness for your sake, another
hundred years."
Exalted above the earth with the joy of Silencieux's words, Antony
pressed his lips to hers in an ecstasy, and vowed his life and all
within it inviolably to her.