CLEMATIS
"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.