The juicy, blue-grey giant leaves of the cactus were scarred by names,
initials, and hearts carved in the flesh. Helge was carving an H and a J,
and Jenny stood with her arms round his shoulder, looking on.
“When we come back here our initials will be a brown scar like all the
others,” said he. “Do you think we shall be able to find them?”
She nodded.
“Among all the others?” he inquired in doubt. “There are so many. We will
go and look for them, won’t we?”
“Of course we will.”
“You do think we shall come back here, don’t you? And stand as we are
now.” He put his arm round her.
“Yes; I don’t see why we should not, dear.”
With arms encircled they went to the table and sat down, looking in
silence out over the Campagna.
The sunlight seemed to move and the shadows wandered along the hillocks.
Sometimes the rays came in thick bunches between white clouds, sailing in
the sky. On the horizon, where the dark eucalyptus grove by the Fontane
peeped over the farthest hill, rose a pearl-yellow haze, which would grow
towards evening and cover the whole sky.
Far on the plain the Tiber hurried to the sea, golden when the sunshine
fell on it, but silvery grey like the side of a fish when it mirrored the
clouds. The daisies on the hill looked like new-fallen snow; on the field
behind the _osteria_ pale-grey, silky wheat was coming up, and two almond
trees were covered with light pink blossoms.
“Our last day in the Campagna,” said Helge. “It’s quite sad!”
“Till next time,” she said, kissing him and trying not to give in to her
own sad mood.
“Yes. Have you thought of it, Jenny, that when we sit here again it
cannot be exactly the same as now? One changes day by day; we shall not
be the same when we sit here again. Next year—next spring—is not this
spring?—we shall not be the same either. We may be just as fond of one
another, but not exactly in the same way as now.”
Jenny shivered: “A woman would never say that, Helge.”
“You think it strange that I should say it? I cannot help thinking it,
because these months have made such a change in me—and in you, too. Don’t
you remember, you told me on that first morning how different you are now
from the time you first came here? You could not have been fond of me as
I was when we first met—could you, now?”
She stroked his cheek: “But, Helge, dear boy, the great change is just
that we have got so fond of one another, and our love will ever increase.
If we change, it will be only because our love has grown, and that is
nothing to be afraid of, is it? Do you remember the day at Via Cassia—my
birthday—when the first fine threads between us were spun? They have
grown stronger now, and grow stronger every day. Is there anything in
that to make you afraid?”
He kissed her neck: “You are leaving tomorrow....”
“And you are coming to me in six weeks.”
“Yes; but we are not here. We cannot go about in the Campagna. We have to
leave in the midst of spring.”
“It is spring at home too—and larks are singing there as well. Look
at those driving clouds—just like those at home. Think of Nordmarken.
We shall go there together. Spring is lovely at home, with strips of
melting snow on all the hills round the deep blue fjords, the last runs
on ski when the snow is melting and the brooks are rushing down the
mountain-side; when the sky is green and clear at night with large,
bright golden stars, and the ski scrape and sing on the icy crust of the
snow. We may be able to go there together yet this spring.”
“Yes, yes—but I have been to all these places—Vester Aker, Nordmarken—so
often alone that I dread them. It seems to me almost as if fragments of
my old discarded souls were hanging on every shrub up there.”
“Hush, hush, dear. I should love to go there with my dearest friend,
after being there alone and sad so many a spring.”
* * * * *
They wandered hand in hand in the green Campagna—the haze had risen
towards evening, and a slight breeze blew in their direction. From the
road came the creaking of hay-carts, pulled by white oxen, and the
tinkling of bells on the red harness of mules in front of blue vinecarts.
Jenny looked tenderly at everything, bidding farewell in her mind to
all the things she knew so well, and that were so dear to her. She had
seen it all day after day with him, without knowing she had noticed it,
and now suddenly she understood that it was all imprinted in her mind
together with the memories of those happy days: here was the slope, where
the short grass had grown softer and greener from day to day, and the
faithful daisies in the meagre soil; the thorny hedges along the roads
and the rich green leaves of the calla under the bushes; the unceasing
warble of the larks in the sky, and the innumerable concertinas that
played to the dancers in the _osterias_ on the plain—concertinas with the
peculiar, glassy sound, for ever playing the same short Italian tunes.
Why must she leave it all now?
The wind chilled her like a bath, till her body felt like a cool rich
leaf, and she longed to give it to him.
* * * * *
They said good-bye for the last time at her door, and they could not
part.
“Oh, Jenny, if only you could be mine!”
She nestled closer in his arms and whispered: “Why not?”
His arms closed tight about her shoulders and her waist, but she trembled
the instant she had said it. She did not know why she was afraid; she did
not want to be, and she repented of having made a movement, as if she
wished to get out of his passionate embrace, and he let her go.
“No, no; I know it is impossible.”
“I would like you to,” she said humbly.
He kissed her: “I know. But I must not. Thank you for everything. Oh,
Jenny, my Jenny! Good-night! Thank you for loving me!”
* * * * *
The tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay in bed. She tried to tell
herself that there was no sense in crying like that, as if something were
gone for ever.