Then I see an ancient cathedral in a beautiful, far-off
land. In rows kneel the close packed people;
a breath of prayerful chill, of something grave and
melancholy is wafted from the high, bare roof, from
the huge, branching columns. Thou standest at
my side, mute, apart, as though knowing me not.
Each fold of thy dark cloak hangs motionless as carved
in stone. Motionless, too, lie the bright patches
cast by the stained windows at thy feet on the worn
flags. And lo, violently thrilling the incense-clouded
air, thrilling us within, rolled out the mighty flood
of the organ’s notes... and I saw thee paler,
rigid—thy glance caressed me, glided higher
and rose heavenwards—while to me it seemed
none but an immortal soul could look so, with such
eyes...
Another picture comes back to me.
No old-world temple subdues us with its stern magnificence;
the low walls of a little snug room shut us off from
the whole world. What am I saying? We are
alone, alone in the whole world; except us two there
is nothing living—outside these friendly
walls darkness and death and emptiness... It
is not the wind that howls without, not the rain streaming
in floods; without, Chaos wails and moans, his sightless
eyes are weeping. But with us all is peaceful
and light and warm and welcoming; something droll,
something of childish innocence, like a butterfly—isn’t
it so?—flutters about us. We nestle
close to one another, we lean our heads together and
both read a favourite book. I feel the delicate
vein beating in thy soft forehead; I hear that thou
livest, thou hearest that I am living, thy smile is
born on my face before it is on thine, thou makest
mute answer to my mute question, thy thoughts, my
thoughts are like the two wings of one bird, lost in
the infinite blue... the last barriers have fallen—and
so soothed, so deepened is our love, so utterly has
all apartness vanished that we have no need for word
or look to pass between us.... Only to breathe,
to breathe together is all we want, to be together
and scarcely to be conscious that we are together....
Or last of all, there comes before me that bright
September when we walked through the deserted, still
flowering garden of a forsaken palace on the bank
of a great river—not Russian—under
the soft brilliance of the cloudless sky. Oh,
how put into words what we felt! The endlessly
flowing river, the solitude and peace and bliss, and
a kind of voluptuous melancholy, and the thrill of
rapture, the unfamiliar monotonous town, the autumn
cries of the jackdaws in the high sun-lit treetops,
and the tender words and smiles and looks, long, soft,
piercing to the very in-most soul, and the beauty,
beauty in our lives, about us, on all sides—it
is above words. Oh, the bench on which we sat
in silence with heads bowed down under the weight of
