"If I were a poet, I would sing--a strange, wild song.
"And if I could string the quivering _kantele_, I would play on it a
melody to my song.
"I would sing of you, and of love. Of clematis with the snow-white
flowers. For you are as the clematis, my love, sweet and beautiful
as its blossoms, dear as its growth about the windows of a home--and
deep, endlessly deep, as life itself."
"But that is just what you are doing, Olof--for all you say is like
a poem and a song," answered the girl. "Sing for me again--and let me
just sit here at your feet and listen."
"Ah, if only you could sit there always, as now. Clematis--how strange
that I should meet you--when I never thought to meet with any flower
again--saw only the yellow faded leaves of autumn everywhere around."
"Autumn ... faded leaves...." The girl looked at him, timidly
questioning. "Olof, don't be angry with me. But.... Have you loved
others before? They say so many things about you."
The young man was silent a moment.
"Ay, there are many things to say, perhaps," he murmured sadly.
"But you, Clematis--could you care for me; could you not love me
altogether, if you knew I had loved another before?"
"No, no--'twas not meant so," said the girl hastily, touching his knee
with a slight caress. "I was not thinking of myself...."
"But of...?"
They looked at each other in silence.
"Yes--I know what you mean. I can read it in your eyes." He laid one
hand tenderly on the girl's head.
"Life is so strange. And human beings strangest of all. I have
loved--but now I feel as one that had only dreamed strange fancies."
"But have you loved them really--in earnest? I mean, did you give them
all you had to give--and can anyone give that more than once in life?"
The girl spoke softly, but with such deep feeling that the young man
found no words to answer, and sat silently staring before him.
"Who can tell," he said, after a while. "I thought I had given all I
had long since, and had all that could ever be given me. I felt myself
poor as the poorest beggar. Then you came, unlike all the others, a
wealth of hidden treasure in yourself--none had ever given me what you
gave. And now--I feel myself rich, young and unspoiled, as if I were
crossing the threshold of life for the first time."
"Rich--ay, you are rich--as a prince. And I am your poorest little
slave, sitting at your feet. But how can anyone ever be so rich--how
can it be? I can never understand."
"Do you know what I think? I think that human beings are endlessly
rich and deep, like Nature itself, that is always young, and only
changes from one season to another. All that has happened to me before
seems now only the rising of sap in spring. Now summer comes for the
first time--all calm and warmth and happiness. I have been like a
fairy palace, with a splendid hall to which none could find the key.
But you had it all the time--the others could enter this little room
or that, but only you had the key to the best of all."
"Is it really true, Olof? Oh, I shall remember those words for ever!"
"It is true--you were the first that taught me how deep and
mysterious, how wonderful, the love of a man and a woman can be.
That it is not just a chance meeting, and after that all kisses and
embraces and overflow of feeling. But a quiet, calm happiness in the
blood, like the sap in the trees, invisible, yet bearing all life in
itself; speechless, yet saying everything without a single touch of
our lips."
"Yes," said the girl earnestly. "But did you not know that before? I
have always felt it so."
"No--I did not realise that it was so intimate a part of our nature;
that it was the foundation of life and happiness for all on earth. Now
at last I understand that we are nothing without one another--we are
as earth without water, trees without roots or mould; or as the
sky without sun and moon. And I know now much that I did not know
before--the secret of all existence, the power that sustains us all."
"And you know that it is _love_--the greatest of all! But why does no
one ever speak of it--I mean, of love itself, not merely the name?"
"I think it must be because it is too deep and sacred a thing to talk
about; we do not understand it ever until we have experienced it each
for himself. And those that have--they must be silent--for it is
a thing to live on, not to talk about. Do you know, I have just
remembered something I once saw. Just a scene in a poor little
hut--but it explains it all...."
"Something you have seen yourself?"
"Yes. It was many years ago. It was a cold winter day, and I came to
this hut I was speaking of--'twas a miserable place to look at. The
windows were covered with frost, and an icy draught came through
cracks in the walls. Two children were sitting by the stove, warming
their feet that were all red with cold; the other two were quarrelling
over the last crust of bread."
"Were they so poor as that?" asked the girl, her voice quivering with
sympathy.
"Poor as could be. And in a heap of rags on the bed lay the mother,
with a newborn child--the fifth. The man was sitting at the table. He
looked at the children on the floor, and then at the mother and her
little one in bed--looked at them--and laughed! And the joy in his
pale, thin face--it was a wonderful sight...."
"And the mother?" asked the girl eagerly. "Was she happy too--more
than he?"
"Yes, she laughed too for joy at everything--the children, and the
rags, and the draughty hut, and all. And I was so astounded I didn't
know where to look. Happy--in all that misery and wretchedness! Were
they so utterly without feeling, then, that they could not cry? But
now I understand it all. I know what made those poor folk happy in it
all: they had found that thing we spoke of--the great secret. And it
made the hut a palace for them, and the ragged children as dear as
those of any king and queen--yes, they were happy."
The two sat in silence for a while. Olof felt a slight thrill pass
through the girl's body to his own.
"I see it now," said the girl at last. "A little while ago I could not
see what it was that made life so deep and wonderful. And do you know,
Olof--I should like to be just such a poor woman as that--frost on the
windows and rags for a bed, but ... but...." Bright tears shone in her
eyes.
"But--what?" he asked tenderly, taking her head in his hands.
"But with the one I loved--to be mine--all mine, for ever!" she
answered, looking straight into his eyes.
Olof started. It was as if something had come between them, something
restless and ill-boding that broke the soft swell of the waves on
which they drifted happily--something, he knew not what, that made its
presence felt.
"Or--not that perhaps--but to have something of his--something he had
given me--to lie beside me in a bed of rags and smile," said the girl.
And laying her head in his lap she clung to him as if her body had
been one with his.
* * * * *
The lamp was lit, and a little fire was burning on the hearth. The
girl sat on the floor, as was her way, holding her lover's feet in her
lap--wrapped in her apron, as if they were her own.
"Go on working--I won't disturb you," she said, "only sit here and
warm your feet and look at you."
Olof gave her a quick, warm glance, and turned to his work again.
"Olof," said the girl, after a pause, "what shall I have to hold in my
lap when you are gone?"
She looked up at him helplessly, as if he alone could aid her.
Olof made a movement of impatience, as if he had made an error in his
reckoning that was hard to put right.
"Nothing, I suppose," he said at last, trying to speak lightly. "You
had nothing before, you know."
"Ah, but that was different. Now, I must have something."
There was a strange ring in her voice--the young man laid down his pen
and sat staring into the fire. It was like talking to a child--a queer
child, full of feeling, knowing and imagining more than its elders
often did. But still and for ever a child, asking simple questions now
that were hard to answer without hurt.
The girl watched him anxiously.
"Don't be angry, Olof," she said entreatingly. "It's very silly of
me, I know. Go on with your work, and don't bother about me. Do--or I
shall be so sorry."
"You are so quick to feel things," said he, pressing her hand. "I'll
talk to you about it all another time--do you understand?"
"Yes--another time. Don't think any more about it now."
But the words echoed insistently in his ears, with a hollow ring--as
if he had spoken carelessly, to be rid of a child's questioning for
the time. He took up his pen again, but could not work, only sat
drawing squares and interrogations on the margin of the paper.
The girl moved closer, laid her cheek against his knee, and closed
her eyes. But her mind was working still, and the light of a sudden
impulse shone in her eyes when she looked up at him.
"Olof," she asked eagerly, "are you very busy?"
"No--no. What then?" From the tone of her voice he knew she had
something important to say.
"There was just an old story that came into my mind--may I tell it to
you, now?"
"Yes, yes, do," said Olof, with a sense of relief. "You are the only
girl I have ever met who could tell fairy tales--and make them up
yourself too."
"This is not one I made up myself. I heard it long ago," she answered.
"Well, and how does it begin?" said Olof briskly, taking her hands.
"'Once upon a time...'?"
"Yes, those are the very words. Once upon a time there was a boy--and
a girl. And they loved each other--especially the girl. No words could
ever tell how she loved him." She looked at Olof as if to see the
effect of what she had said.
"That begins well. Go on," said Olof. But a thought was slowly taking
form in his mind.
"And they sat in the woods, under the tall birches, and talked of how
happy they were. But the girl could not have the boy for her own--they
had to say good-bye. He had to go away, and she knew she would never
see him again."
Olof looked thoughtful--the fancy was taking root. "Go on--what
happened then?"
"Then, just as he was going away, the girl said to him, 'Set a mark
on me somehow, so that I shall always feel I belong to you, and no one
can tear you from my heart.'
"The boy thought for a moment. 'Where shall I set the mark?' he asked.
"'Here, above my heart,' said the girl.
"And she bared her breast, and the boy took out his knife and with its
sharp point scratched a little heart on her breast."
The girl shivered a little.
"And then he coloured it where he had cut, like sailors do with
anchors on their arms. And when he had finished, he kissed it. And
they said good-bye, and he went away."
Olof was touched--now he understood....
"And what then?" he asked softly. "What happened after, to the girl
with a mark above her heart, and to him that made it?"
"The boy...." She stopped, at a loss, and then went on: "There's no
more about him in the story. He went away. Only about the girl...."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Olof. "He went away. And the girl?"
"The girl--she looked at the mark every night when she undressed, and
every morning when she dressed herself, for she felt as if he were
there all the time, because of the mark. But then the time came when
her parents said she must marry. And she didn't want to, but she had
to all the same. But she did not love her husband, and was always
looking secretly at the mark her lover had made, as if she were
talking with him that way, and it made her happy."
"And the husband," asked Olof eagerly, "did he find out?"
"No. Men don't notice things like that as a rule. But then the girl
bore a child--she was still a girl, for she had remained true to her
lover. And the child had the very same mark in the same place.
"The husband saw the mark. 'What's this?' he asked in a stern voice.
"'Tis a birth-mark,' said the girl. "'Do not lie to me!' cried the
man. 'It is more than that. Let me see your breast.'
"Now the girl did not want to do this, for she felt that the mark was
nothing to do with him. But her husband's face grew dark with anger,
and he tore away her clothes, and bared her breast. And now she would
not try to hide the mark at all, but stood up straight and let him
see. And before he could even ask, she told him what it was, 'That is
the mark my lover made when I was a girl,' she said. 'For a sign
that I should belong to him for ever--and I have.' And at that the
husband's eyes flashed, and without a word he drew his knife and
struck it through the mark deep into her breast...."
She would have said more, but her voice failed--she could feel Olof's
knees trembling against her breast.
"You are good at telling stories," said he in a stifled voice. "But
the end was too horrible."
"It was not horrible at all," she replied. "It was just as lovely as
could be. The girl herself could have wished for nothing better. She
died with a smile on her lips, as only those who are happy ever die.
"But it is not all ended yet--there is more to come."
"More?" cried Olof in surprise, at a loss to understand how she would
go on.
"Yes," she continued. "For when she was dead, the girl came to the
gate of heaven. And there stood St. Peter at the gate, as he always
does.
"'You cannot enter in,' said St. Peter, 'for you bear on your breast
the mark of sinful lust. 'But God heard it from His throne, and cried,
'Open and let her in!' And God looked at the girl's breast, and
she did not flinch. 'You should know better,' He said to St. Peter
reproachfully. 'Here is one that was faithful to her first love....
Enter in, My child.'"
Both were silent. A little blue flame rose from the embers on the
hearth.
"Thanks, Clematis," whispered Olof, and kissed her hands that lay hot
in his own. "I know what you meant. And how prettily you said it!"
"Are you sure you knew what I meant?" she asked. "I hadn't finished,
you know...."
"What--not finished yet?"
"No!"
She drew her hands away, and as if summing up all she had said before,
she clasped his knees and looked imploringly into his eyes.
"Give me that mark!"
Olof shivered--waves of heat and cold seemed passing through his body.
"No, no--my love! You must not ask that of me--it is more than I can
do," he went on bitterly.
"You can, if you only will. Love can do all things."
"But now--after what you have said...."
"But you said yourself it was so pretty."
"Yes--there is a lovely thought in it--but the end was too
horrible--you know what I mean."
"That was the loveliest of all. Oh, won't you do what I ask?" Her lips
trembled, and she looked at him entreatingly.
Olof sighed deeply; drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. "How
can I refuse you anything? But--but I could never forget it if I did,
and...."
"Oh ... I almost thought that was how it would be. You cannot
understand--for you are not me. But something I must have!" she went
on passionately. "I cannot live without. Look!" She drew from her
breast a little case of blue silk, hung by a red cord round her neck,
"See--it just reaches to there!"
"It's very pretty," said Olof in relief, taking the case in his hand."
And you want something to put in it?"
"Yes."
"A lock of hair or something? Are you as childish as all that?"
"No--not as childish as all that."
"A flower, then--or what?"
"No, nothing like that."
"You want me to write something, then?"
"No, no. I want yourself--your very self!"
Olof looked at her blankly--he could not guess what was in her mind.
He felt himself more and more in the power of something he had been
striving to escape.
"Oh, don't you understand? Your portrait."
"But--but I have only one. And--I have never given anyone my
portrait."
"No," said the girl confidently. "You have kept it for me."
Olof felt himself shamed. What a poor creature he was grown! Why could
he not rise up and take this strange rare child in his arms, and swear
by all he revered that she had touched his inmost heart, that he was
hers alone, for ever?
He sprang to his feet, and cried earnestly, "Yes! It was taken for
you, and for no other!"
But the words ended in a sob--it was as if his blood were turned to
sand. With trembling fingers he took out the portrait, and sank down
as if paralysed into his seat.
The girl watched him with a starry gleam of ecstasy in her eyes.
But he could not meet her glance--he bent his head, thinking bitterly
to himself, "What have I come to? Why do I cheat her and myself, why
do I give these beggar's crumbs to one that should have all?"
The girl sat still with the same light of wonder in her eyes, looking
now at the portrait, now at Olof himself.
"Yes, it is really you," she said at last, and touching the picture
with her lips, she laid it in the case, and slipped it into her bosom.
"Now I have nothing more to ask," she said. "I shall thank you all
my life for this. When you are gone, you will be with me still. I can
talk to you at night before I sleep, and in the morning you will be
the first thing I see. I can whisper to you just as I used to do. And
when I am dead, you shall be buried with me."
Olof was overwhelmed with emotion--it was as if something within him
had been rent asunder. He looked at the girl's face--how pure and holy
it was! Why could not he himself be as she was? What was it that had
happened to him?
He felt an impulse to throw himself on the floor at her feet and tell
her all--and then rise up young and pure and whole again, able to feel
as others did. But he could not; an icy voice within him told that the
days of his spring-time were gone for ever. And as he felt her arms
about him once more, he could only bend down humbly and touch her hair
with his lips in silence, as if begging her to understand.
Warm drops were falling on his knees, warm drops fell on her hair.
Welling from deep sources--but unlike, and flowing different ways.