The Song of the Blood-Red Flower

by Johannes Linnankoski

DAISY

The daisy bloomed on the window-sill … in the window of a little room.

In spring and summer the daisy blooms—this one bloomed in the winter too.

"And I know, and you know why you bloom in the winter," said the girl.
"'Tis to smile at him in greeting."

The daisy blooms only a few months together … this one was in flower already when Christmas came, and flowered the rest of the winter through, more beautiful every day.

"And I know, and you know how long you will bloom. 'Twas when I set you here at first it all began … and when he is gone, and there's none for you to smile at any more, then it will all be over.'"

The girl bent lower over the flower.

"She has but a single flower—so neat and sweet," she whispered, pressing her delicate lips to the pale posy petals just unfolded.

"She has but a single friend—so tender and dear," smiled the flower in answer, nodding slowly over toward the fields.

A tall youth on ski came gliding by, his cap at the back of his head, and a knapsack strapped at his shoulders.

"At last!" cried the girl, and jumping down, ran out through the passage to the steps in front of the house.

"Daisy!" said the newcomer. His voice was hardly audible, but his eyes spoke plainly enough, as he stepped up and set his ski and staves against the wall.

The girl answered with a nod and a radiant smile.

He hurried up the steps, and stood beside her.

"Daisy!" he said again, and pressed his cold hands playfully against her cheeks.

"No, thank you!" cried the girl merrily, grasping his wrists. "I've been waiting for you, though, ever so long. Mother's gone in to town, and the men haven't come back from the woods yet."

"And you've been left all alone, and horribly frightened, of course," laughed the young man, holding the girl's head between his hands, and pushing her before him in through the doorway.

They went inside, and he hung up his knapsack on the wall.

"Guess what I've been thinking of to-day all the way home?"

"Oh, you know I never can guess your riddles. What is it?"

"Only"—he drew her down on the seat beside him—"that you ought to have a pair of ski too. If only I can get hold of some proper wood, I'll make a pair in no time."

"No, no, 'tis not worth it. And I can't use them if you did."

"That's just why. You've got to learn. And then you'll be able to come out with me. Come out to the forest one day, and I'll show you something."

"What'll that be, I'd like to know? Only your ugly old stacks of wood."

"Why, as to that, they're none so ugly, after all. And I'll lift you up and set you on top of the highest of all…. No, that wasn't what I meant. But you ought to see…. Out there in the forest, it's a different world altogether. Roads and villages of its own—ay, and churches and priests…."

"What nonsense you do talk!" laughed the girl.

"'Tis true, though, for all that. Come out with me, and see if it's not as I say…. Come now, there's plenty of time."

"What are you thinking of? Of course we couldn't go now—nor any other time."

"Yes, we can. And now best of all."

He went across to the corner by the cupboard, took a woollen wrap that had been hung on the line to dry, and fastened it laughingly round her head.

"There—now we're ready."

The girl laughed doubtfully, took off the wrap again, and stood hesitating.

"Oh! Don't you understand yet?" He took the wrap and twisted it in his hands. "You've got to pretend. It's two weeks gone now, and your ski are all ready. We've tried them once or twice out in the meadow, and you manage first-rate, able to go anywhere. And so off we go…. Look there!"

The girl joined in the game. She moved across to the window, and looked out into the yard.

"There! I've set the ski all ready, and we put them on. Father and mother and brothers looking out to see us start. There—that's mother knocking at the window.

"'Be careful not to take her up the big hills,' says mother. 'She'll fall and hurt herself if you do!'

"And I tell her we're going up to the very top of the biggest hill we can find. And off we go.

"And you get along splendidly. Fall—not a bit of it! Off we go to the other end of the meadow, and then through the little copse out on to Hirvisuo—all as easy as play.

"Then we come to a fence—and that's rather more than you can manage. Nothing for it but I must pick you up and lift you over—and you put your arms round me so prettily…."

Here the girl broke in hastily: "No, no! I shall turn back if you go on like that!"

"No, you mustn't. It's a very high fence, this one. You can get over the others, perhaps, by yourself. We'll see.—And so we go on, and make our way up the slope of Kaltasenmaki—it's a heavy climb there. But you know the ground—you've fetched the cows home from there many a time. And it's just there the woodcutting begins.

"Now we're up at the top. It's early morning, of course, I forgot that. The sun's just up, and the snow all glittering underfoot and the frost like stars hung in the branches overhead. There! look at the trees over there on the other side. All white and clean and lovely—just like you. And stars of frost there too, sparkling like your eyes. And you think it's lovely too—never dreamed the forest was like that. And of course you haven't—for nobody can till they've seen it for themselves. There! look at that great road there lower down—that's the main track, where all the heavy timber goes—hauled up from a dozen little paths either side—a score of loads sometimes, one after another. And some of the men come singing, or whistling, some talking and calling out to the rest; 'tis a merry business carting down the timber loads to the river. And see there on the slope—a couple of empty sledges on the way back—isn't it fine?

"And of course you say it is, and it was true all I told you about the forest before. And it gets finer as we go on—you can hear the axe at work all round about, echoing over across the valley. Now we must go and say a word to the men.

"But you don't want to, but I say we must, and you can stay behind a little if you like. And so off we go down the hillside—hey, what a pace! And up the next, and there we are on the top. We can see them at work down in the valley below. It looks like a lot of ants at work, you think. And so it does. And we go across, and you've got to be careful and show how nicely you can go. The snow's all frozen, and creaks underfoot; the men look up, and the stupid ones stand staring open-mouthed. And I bid them good-day, and go up to them a little ahead, and they answer again, and some of them touch their caps, not knowing quite what to do. All of them look astonished—what's this come to see them now? And I tell them it's just a young lady from the town, come out to see a bit of the country, and I'm showing her round. They understand that all right. And then I tell them you're a foreigner, and can't speak a word of their tongue, and that's why you stay behind and won't come up. Then they're all surprised again at that, and some of them won't believe there can be folk that don't speak their language at all; but I tell them it's true all the same, and they stare again, the stupid ones gaping wider than before.

"'She's put on country clothes so as not to be noticed,' I tell them; 'and if you saw her in her fine dresses, with a real hat on her head and all—why, your eyes'd fall out of your heads, if you stare like that now.' And they laugh at that, a roar of laugh that echoes all round.

"Then I come back to you, and we go on again.

"But now you begin scolding me for playing silly tricks and telling them all those wild tales—there's neither sense nor meaning in it, you say. But then I simply ask you if you didn't see yourself what a treat it was for the men. Simple woodcutter folk—it'll be something to remember all their lives, how one day a beautiful foreign lady came out to visit them in the forest. And then you must remember to be a foreigner all day. If I have to speak to you when there's anyone else about, I say it in Swedish; you can't speak Swedish, of course, but all you have to do is just nod and smile and speak with your eyes—that's all that's needed.

"'But I won't,' you say. 'I'm not going to pretend like that.'"

Here the girl herself broke in: "No, that I certainly wouldn't either, so that's true enough."

"Oh, but you'd have to, you know, once we've started. And so we go on. There's nobody from our parts among the gangs at work there, so there's no risk of anyone knowing you really.

"And so we go on, from one gang to another. And it all goes off splendidly. But then we come to a clearing, where the men are just lighting a fire of pine knots. It's their dinner-time, and we're going to sit down and have dinner with them, say I.

"But of course you make a fuss, and say you won't, but you give in after a bit—it's easy enough. You've only to sit down, and say 'Tack, Tack' in Swedish whenever I pass you anything.

"The men are at work about the fire as we come up. And you're all excitement, and red and white by turns, just like any grand lady from foreign parts. And I tell them the same thing again, about you putting on country clothes and all that, and ask if we may sit down—and perhaps the foreign young lady might like to eat a morsel too.

"'We've naught that's fit to offer the likes of her,' say the men.

"'She can eat what other folks can, I suppose,' say I.

"Then they all tumble over one another to make a nice seat for you with twigs of pine. Then we sit down, and I'm on the outside, in case you want anything.

"Oh, it's grand. The fire flames up, and the snow melting like butter all round and under, and the men's faces all aglow. One of them's roasting a piece of meat, another fish, on a skewer, and the others bring out their frozen bread and thaw it soft and fresh as if it had just come out of the oven. And I do the same, toasting a piece of meat and thawing some bread, and put one on the other and cut up your part with my knife, to neat little bits all ready.

"And the men are all so interested they forget to eat.

"'I hope it's to your taste, my lady?' That's me talking in Swedish as I pass it. And you nod and smile, and eat just a little to try, and the moment you've tasted it you open your mouth and I know as sure as anything you're just on the point of saying right out in Finnish that it's first-rate, and you've never tasted anything so good…. So I have to put in a word myself or you'll spoil it all. 'A little more, if you please, my lady?' Like that."

But here the girl could contain herself no longer, and laughed outright.

"What are you laughing at? That's not right a bit. No, you just blush, and go on nibbling at a crust of bread, just like a tiny mouse….

"And the men nudge each other to look. Here's a fine lady sitting down to eat as natural as can be, for all there's neither plate nor fork. And it's all I can do to keep from laughing myself, and you have to bite your lips and bend down behind me.

"Then I take out our milk bottle, that's been warming by the fire.

"'How'll they manage now?' says one, and all the rest look on to see.

"'Why, we'll just have to share and share about, unless the lady's to go without,' say I. And then I make believe to whisper something in your ear.

"And you nod, and take the bottle and drink, and hand it to me after.

"''Tis as good as newly milked,' say I. And you laugh, and the men laugh too.

"Then I take a drink, and you again. I wipe the mouth of the bottle on my sleeve each time before giving it you. And the men, of course, they think that's a mighty fine way of doing things.

"'Never would have thought it,' says one of them. And they go on with their meal.

"'Do as the folks you fall in with, it seems,' says one bolder than the rest.

"'Just so,' say I, 'and that's as it should be'; and there's no saying anything against that, and so we get on finely.

"Then when the meal's over, we lie down by the fire a bit. One man takes out some leaf tobacco from his pack, and cuts it up on a tree stump—hadn't had time before. Then he passes it round, and I fill my pipe too, for all that I'm in company with a fine lady.

"And then we go on our way. But when we've got a few paces off, I turn round suddenly and say, 'Here, you, Heikki, give us a bit of a sermon for the young lady. 'Tis just the place for church.'

"'H'm,' says Heikki. 'I doubt it wouldn't do.'

"''Twill please her, for sure—I'll answer for that,' say I. 'And you do it better than anything else. Antti can help with the service.'

"'Yes, yes!' cry the others. 'If she's wanting to see things out here.
Sermon, Heikki!'

"Heikki climbs up on a big rock, and Antti on a tree stump, and Heikki starts off, grumbling out just like the priest at Kakela.

"'Is—any soul—from Keituri—here in—church to-day?'

"'Ay, lord and noble master, here be I,' says Antti in a deep base that goes rumbling through the woods.

"And so they go through the service, and after, Heikki begins to preach. It's the wildest nonsense, Swedish and Finnish and gipsy-talk and all sorts of odd lingo muddled up together, and he pours out the words like a river in flood. The men are in fits of laughter all the time, and you—you're near to bursting.

"'The young lady bids me thank you very much,' say I, when it's over.
'Both of you. Says she's never heard so fine a sermon all her life.'

"''Tis well said,' say the men. 'Heikki, he's a wonder to preach, that he is.'

"And so they wave their caps to us as we go off."

"Oh!" said the girl delightedly. "And is it really like that, I wonder?"

"Yes, of course. Only you mustn't say anything. We must go home now—then we can talk all about it after.

"And we go up the hill and start off down the other side.

"When we get down on the flat, you begin putting on the pace, to see if you can go as fast as I can—and it's all I can do to keep up with you. And your cheeks are red as roses, and you're so hot you take off your kerchief and fasten it round your waist like a sash. And there you are running beside me, bareheaded, and your bright hair lifting as you go. I've never seen you look so beautiful before, and I tell you so. You ought to be like that always.

"And so we come home, as happy as can be…. And here we are!"

"You can make stories!" cried the girl. "It was wonderful! Just as if we'd really been there and seen it all."

"Ah, we'll do it really one day, we must. And it'll be ever so much easier then, after you've seen it once to-day."

"No, no! I never can, I know."

"Wait and see," said he. "Now you know what a grand life it is in the forest in winter. A glorious life—though there's trouble, too, at times—danger and hurt; but who cares for that? Do you wonder that I'm always in high spirits when I come home? And when I am here, why, 'tis just like another little world, as clean and fresh as there…. Daisy—sit here, and let me look at you."

The girl sat down on his knee and rested one hand on his shoulder.

"Don't laugh at me," she said softly. "I'm not a bit clever, I know.
Just nothing—to you."

"You don't know a bit what you are—but I do. And shall I tell you, just for once, what you are to me?"

The girl laughed happily. "If you'll be sure and only tell the truth!"

"The truth—of course! How could I help it? Now, listen. Once I was in a big town, where there was a picture gallery, and lots of marble statues—like the old Greeks used to make. You've read about them, haven't you?"

"Yes, I think so. But I've never seen them."

"Well, there were lots of these statues, white as snow, and looking just like life. And they were all naked, with never a rag to cover them, but for all that one could look at them, as calm and pure as on the face of God. For they were so beautiful that one could think of nothing but the sacred beauty God has given to the human form. And—can you guess what I'm going to say now?"

"How should I guess?" said the girl, looking down shyly, as if with some inkling she would not confess of what was in his mind.

"Just this—you are like that to me: a marble statue, white and cool, with a beauty that is holy in itself. And I thank God that made you so beautiful and pure."

"Now you're laughing at me again," said the girl sadly.

"'Tis solemn earnest. Listen. Ask yourself, in the time we've been together here, have we ever exchanged a single kiss, a single touch, with any thought of passion?"

"Passion?" The girl's eyes looked frankly into his.

"Yes…. It might have been, you know. I am passionate by nature, but
when I look at you, it cools and dies. I am telling you the truth when
I say you have been like a healing, cooling draught to one in a fever.
And I believe you have changed me altogether, now and for ever after."

"I don't think I understand—not all of it. But have you really been so happy?"

"So unspeakably happy. Yes. And glad to feel myself strong and self-restrained. I have often thought that no one could ever dream what happiness and beauty can live in one little grey village. Do you know what I think? I believe that in every little grey village there is a quiet, secret happiness, that no one knows."

"Not everywhere, Olof. It is not everywhere there is anyone like you."

"But you! I don't mean to say, of course, it should be just like ours.
But a happiness…."

He drew the girl to him, and their lips met in a long, gentle kiss.

"Can everyone kiss like you?" she whispered shyly, with a tender gleam in her eyes.

"Maybe. I don't know."

"No, no—there's no one in the world like you. None that can talk like you, or kiss like you. Do you know what I always think—always look at, when you kiss me?"

"No—tell me, tell me!" he cried eagerly.

"No—I don't think I can."

"Something you can't tell me, Daisy-flower? Come, don't you think it's your turn to tell me something now?"

"Well, then—only, you mustn't laugh. I know it's silly. I always—I always look at your neck. There's a big vein just there, and it beats so prettily all the time. And then I feel as if your soul were flowing through it—right into me. And it does, for I can feel it!"

"That's the loveliest thing you've ever said in all your life," said he solemnly. "We won't talk any more now, only be together…."

* * * * *

Spring was near; it was open war between the sun and the cold. The snowdrifts had begun to disappear.

Strange dreams were at work in Olof's mind.

"She loves me—warmly and truly," he told himself. "But is her love deep and strong enough for her to forget all else, and give herself up fully and freely to her lover?"

"And could you let her? Could you accept that sacrifice—from one like her?"

"No, no. I didn't mean that, of course. But if only I could be sure—could feel beyond all doubt that she would; that she was ready to give up everything for my sake…."

"And you count that the final test of love? Shame on you!"

The colour faded from the evening sky; the stars were lit … the errant fancies died away.

* * * * *

In the brilliant sunlight they returned—the same strange dreams welling up on every side, like the waters of spring. Behind and before him, everywhere, insistently, an irresistible song.

"I must know—I must sound the uttermost depths of her love!"

"Can you not see how cruel it would be—cruel to her beyond all others?"

"But only to know! To ask as if only in jest…."

"In jest? And you would jest with such a thing as this!"

And the dreams sank down into the hurrying waters; yet still the warm clouds sailed across the sky.

* * * * *

Like a rushing flood—the old desire again.

"Can anything be cruel that is meant in love? A question only—showing in itself how deeply I love her? It is torture not to know; I must break through it—I must learn the truth!"

"…" But the other voice was lost in a rush of foaming waters.

* * * * *

He took the girl's hand in his, and spoke warmly, with beautiful words.

Her fair brow darkened under a cloud—so dark seemed any cloud there that for a moment he wished he had not spoken.

"I never thought you could doubt me," she murmured, almost in tears.
"Or ask—or ask for that!"

"Oh, my love," he thought. "If you only knew! Just one word, and then
I can tell you all—and we shall be doubly happy after."

So he thought, but he did not speak. And now he could think of nothing but the moment when he could tell her that it was but a question in all innocence—a trial of her love.

"It is because I love you as I do," she said, "that I could not do it. We have been so happy—but that would be something strange between us. And now that you are going away…." She stopped, and the two looked at each other sorrowfully. It was as if already something strange had crept between them, as if they had hurt each other unwittingly, and suffered at the thought.

* * * * *

Day by day their parting drew nearer, the sun was veiled in a dreary mist.

Then one day she came to him, strangely moved, and clung to him, slight and yielding as the drooping curtains of the birch, swayed by the wind. Clung to him, threw her arms warmly round his neck, and looked into his eyes with a new light in her own.

"What—what is it?" he asked, with emotion, hovering between fear and a strange delight.

"Olof—I am … I can say it now…."

A tumult of joy rose up in him at her words. He clasped her to him in a fervent embrace, and opened his lips to tell her the secret at last. But his heart beat all too violently, a hand seemed clutching his throat, and he could not utter a word, but crushed her closer to him, and pressed his lips to hers.

Drawn two ways, he seemed, and now but one; all thought of the other vanished utterly. His breast was almost bursting with a desperate regret; he could not speak, and would not even if he could.

And then, as he felt the pressure of her embrace return his own, regret was drowned in an ecstasy of surrender.

"I love you," she whispered, "as only your mother ever could!"

Olof turned cold. It was as if a stranger had surprised them in an intimate caress.

"Olof," she murmured, with an unspeakable tenderness in her eyes. And as if some great thing had suddenly come into her mind she went on: "You have never told me about your mother…. No, don't tell me now; I know it all myself. She is tall like you, and stately, and upright still as ever. And she has just the same bright eyes, and little hollows at the temples, like you have. And she wears a dark striped apron, with a little pocket at the side, where she keeps her knitting, and takes it out now and then to work at as she goes."

"How could you know!" he cried, in pleased surprise. His fear was gone now, and he felt only a wonderful depth of happiness at hearing the girl speak so tenderly of his mother.

"'Tis only guessing. But do you know—I should so like to see her, your mother, that…."

"That…?"

"Only … only, I should like to see her so. Then I'd put my arms round her neck and … Olof, did your mother often kiss you?"

"No. Not often."

"But she stroked your hair, and often talked with you all alone, I know."

"Yes … yes."

His arms loosed their hold of the girl, and almost unconsciously he thrust her a little away, staring out into the distance with a faint smile on his lips and deepest earnest in his eyes.

The girl looked at him wonderingly.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously, as if fearing to have hurt him. But he did not seem to hear, only stood looking out at nothing as before.

"Olof—what is it?" she asked again, in evident distress.

"Only—it was only my mother speaking to me all alone," he answered in a low voice.

"Oh!" The girl sighed deeply. "Now—was it just now she spoke?"

He nodded.

The girl glanced at him and hesitated. "Won't you—won't you tell me what she said?" she asked timidly.

"She told me it was wrong—a sinful wrong even to ask you…."

The girl gazed at him for a long time without speaking; the tenderness in her eyes grew to unutterable depths.

"Oh," she whispered at last, very softly, "if she only knew how I love her now—your mother! I never loved her so before." And she clasped her arms round his neck.