3
“Read me some poetry, Felix,” said Rose-Ann, after dinner, as they lay drowsily, in a great warm nest of cushions, in front of the fire in the room upstairs.
He stirred himself, and then relaxed. Rose-Ann’s head was nestled in the hollow under his shoulder, and her red-gold hair, unbound, flowed across her bosom and touched his caressing hand. He was altogether too happily situated at this moment to want to go downstairs and look for a book of poems. Besides, why need he?
“And frosts are slain and flowers begotten.”
he began. She closed her eyes, and from her quiet breathing one might have thought her asleep. But once when he faltered, forgetting the words, Rose-Ann murmured them softly:
“And frosts are slain and flowers begotten.”
He took it up, in his voice of subdued chanting:
“And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins....”
and so to the end.
“Say me some more,” she breathed. “Like that. Anything with woods or flowers in it.”
He began quoting, mischievously filling in words to make up the rhythm where he forgot the original:
“Iris all hues, roses and jessamine....
In shadier bower.... (I forget! But here it was)
With flowers, garlands and sweet-smelling herbs
Espoused Eve decked first her nuptial bed....
Yes Eve! In naked beauty more adorned,
More lovely than Pandora. (So Milton says!)
“I can’t remember just how it goes, but there are some lovely things in that old Puritan’s blood-and-thunder epic....
“These, lulled by nightingales, embracing slept,
And on their naked limbs the flowery roof
Showered roses. (She’s asleep!)”
Outside, unseen, the moon emerged from behind racing clouds, and lighted with its pale radiance the great stretch of winter-bound lake and desolate shore along which they had wandered that day seeking some response in its vast indifference; and its rays touched and silvered the roof-tree of the little house on the edge of a ravine, within whose doors, by the grace of the English poets, it was April. Blossom by blossom, about their couch, the spring began, and upon their naked limbs showered roses.
“No.” said Rose-Ann, “I’m not asleep!”
He laughed tenderly. “No, not now. But you have been for half an hour. I’ve been watching you sleep. You do it beautifully!”
“Have I really?” She stretched herself, like a kitten upon awaking from a nap. “Well, I’m awake now, and I want some more poetry. Something sad this time.”
“More poetry? What a glutton you are!”
“But I like poetry, Felix. It’s real to me—as real as our love.”
“But why sad poetry?” he teased.
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I’m so happy.”
“I know,” said Felix, and out of the storehouse of his memory he brought one after another the stories of old unhappy love, impossible love, love that goes toward death. It was as if the contrast of these tragic fantasies was needed to make poignant the sweet and easy fulfilment of their own love—as if some chill breath from the grave must intervene between their caresses lest they seem too tame.
“The mountain ways one summer
Saw life and joy go past,
When we who were so lonely
Went hand in hand at last.
“And overhead the pine-woods
Their purple shadows cast,
When the tall twilight laid us
Hot mouth to mouth at last.
“O hills, beneath your slumber,
Or pines, beneath your blast,
Make room for your two children—
Cold cheek to cheek at last!”
“No,” murmured Rose-Ann, lifting her head and putting her warm cheek against his own, a cheek wet with sudden tears. “Not cold cheek to cheek, Felix!”
Tears sprung from that sweet sadness which only happy youth dares indulge—the wilful and daring melancholy of young love, turning aside from its joys to think of death....
Rose-Ann dried her eyes cheerfully. “I wanted to cry,” she said. “and now that I have, I feel better. Give me a cigarette!”