‘I wish I were a poet,’ observed Greif instead of answering her. ‘I would write such things about you as have never been written about any woman. However, I suppose you would never read my verses.’
‘Oh yes!’ laughed Hilda. ‘Especially if mamma told me that they belonged to the “best German epoch.” But I should not like them—’
‘You do not like poetry in general, I believe.’
‘It always seems to me a very unnatural way of expressing oneself,’ answered Hilda thoughtfully. ‘Why should a man go out of his way to put what he wants to say into a certain shape? What necessity is there for putting in a word more than is needed, or for pinching oneself so as to cut one out that would be useful for the sense, just because by doing that you can make everything fit a certain mould and sound mechanical—ta ra tatatata ta tum tum! “Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten” and all the rest of it. There is something wrong. That poem is very sad and romantic in idea, and yet you always sing it when you are particularly happy.’
‘Most people do,’ said Greif, smiling at the truth of the observation.
‘Then what is there in poetry? Does “I love you” sound sweeter if it is followed by a mechanical “ta ra ta ra ta tum” of words quite unnecessary to the thought, and which you only hear because they jingle after you, as your spurs do, when you have been riding and are on foot, at every step you take?’
‘Schlagend!’ laughed Greif. ‘An annihilating argument! I will never think of writing verses any more, I promise you.’
‘No. Don’t,’ answered Hilda emphatically. ‘Unless you feel that you cannot love me in plain language—in prose,’ she added, with a glance of her sparkling eyes.
‘Verse would be better than nothing, then?’
‘Than nothing—anything would be better than that.’