‘I should be happy with you in a woodman’s hut,’ said Greif earnestly.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Hilda a little doubtfully.
‘There is no “perhaps.” I am quite sure of it.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked the young girl turning suddenly and laying her hands upon his arm. ‘Did not your father say the same—no, forgive me! I will not speak of that. Oh Greif! What is love—really—the meaning of it, the true spirit of it? Why does it sometimes last and sometimes—not? Are all men so different one from another, and women too? Is it not like religion, that when you once believe you always believe? I have thought about it so much, and I cannot understand it. And yet I know I love you. Why can I not understand what I feel? Is it very foolish of me? Am I less clever than other girls?’
‘No, indeed!’ Greif drew her to him, and kissed her cheek. Her colour never changed. With innocent simplicity she turned her face and kissed him in return.
‘Then why is it?’ she asked. ‘And none of my books tell me what it means, though I have read them all. Can you not tell me, you who know so much? What is the use of all your studies and your universities, if you cannot tell me what it is I feel, what love is?’
‘Does love need explanation? What does the meaning matter, when one has it?’
‘Ah, you may say that of anything. Would the air be sweeter, if I knew what it was? Would the storm be louder, or grander, or more angry, if I knew what made it? And besides, I do know, for I have learned about storms in my books. But it is not the same thing. Love is not part of nature, I am sure. It is a part of the soul. But then, why should it sometimes change? The soul does not change, for it is eternal.’
‘But true love does not change either—’
‘And yet people seem to think it is true, until it changes,’ argued Hilda. ‘There must be something by which one can tell whether it is true or not.’