It was spring, cool and windy. Light clouds shone in the sky, and flowers grew around Glen, and they seemed to be whispering to each other, "Walter, look at us, write about us." But almost for the first time in his life, spring didn't bring any kind of charm, it was just one season in the pearl chain of the year. Admittedly, Walter had heard in passing his father and mother talk in the evenings, in a low voice.
"I'm so worried, he doesn't seem to want to get better. The typhoid was serious, but he's still so very pale, and listless and he should be in much better shape, than he is. Physically he is, coming round as expected, but his state of mind is another matter, Anne-girl, let's look at the situation in August. Let him be at peace, and do not hover so, he is young man, after all. Gentel flowing summer will perk him up, I´m sure of that. "
With careful steps, Walter headed towards the Episcopal Church in Lowbridge. The sheltered pale building shone in the sunlight and was shaded by handsome verdant oaks. Walter curved to the right walking down a grassy dirt road toward the cemetery. The black wrought-iron gate opened soundlessly, and a few birds fluttered into the blue sky.
It was quiet.
Calmly under his breath he counted the rows until he turned from the right corner, and in front of him was a shady corner, and a pale tombstone with one word Tadzio on it. A large lilac bush grew near the stone, and in June the flowers would almost touch the stone, filling the air with its delicate otherwordly scent and buzz of bees. There were few flowers in front of the stone, wildflowers, beautifully arranged, so Alice had been here, then.
There was far away look Walter's eyes, as he sat gracefully in the young grass, breathing deeply. With a soft grip, he took a notebook and loaf of bread from his bag, and began to eat. The sparrow flew beside him, scattering a few crumbs that had fallen to the ground. Walter glanced at the bird, saying, "Somehow I don't think you'll come back, at least in the form of a sparrow, if you were a bird, you were either blackbird or nightingale, and neither is seen here now. I've often wondered in the last few months that if I had come back very next day, with Alice´s father with me. Would you still be here, or would you still had slipped away like smoke in the water? I got sick too, but you know that for sure, as I belive that you're watching me from there. You're definitely not in limbo, because you have been baptised. I hope it doesn't matter that you're on the episcopal side, Alice arranged it, somehow I still don't know how. She refuses to say, but I think that there were quite a few conversations at Parker's house. We had far too little time together, but I am grateful for the little we were given. I have written new poems and thought I could read them to you."
Walter opened the right page, and began to read. The verses were precise, clear, and extremely painful, but at the same time they shone with a feeling, and that feeling was love. With a smooth motion, Walter bent down, touched the name in the stone with his hand, and whispered, "I always have your scarf. I'll be back soon." A light gust of wind shook the grass, and the narrow leaves of the lilac bush trembled, as if to communicate something.
At Ingelside, Ms. Cornelia and Anne knitted, and exhanged news of all and sundry.
Susan brought tea, and remarked, "My cousin Matilda Crawford has recently seen Walter walk often near the Episcopal Church in Lowbridge." Ms. Cornelia dropped her knitting needles on the floor with a loud rumble that echoed in the peace of Ingelside's afternoon. She improved his posture angrily and said, "Anne, tell me that's not true. Surely none of your children would change their theology? After all, they're almost Roman, all those beads, and incense, and decorative robes, and windows."
Anne glanced at Ms. Cornelia and said, "I don't think anything like that is going to happen, Walter is probably just waiting for Alice Parker, she belongs to that church, and is an active member." Ms. Cornelia's eyes flashed, and she said, " I didn't know at all that Parkers aren't ours, well no wonder Dick Parker's practice isn't nearly as successful as that our dear Gilberts. I knew there was a reason for it. " Anne sighed, saying, "Cornelia, I don't think religion has anything to do with it. Gilbert is just more willing to try new things, Dick is older, it also shows how he's raised his daughter. Alice is sweet, but so distant, somehow. The Parkers have been extremely helpful when Walter got sick. "
"That dear child is already better, and I was thinking of preparing his favorite dishes for dinner, maybe he has a better appetite for the evening. Do you want Dear to accept the menu? " "Dear Susan, I trust your instincts when it comes to culinary matters." Satisfied, Susan went to the kitchen and soon the melodic clang of pots and pans echoed to the living room. Ms Cornelia remarked "Anne in your voice had little weird tone when you mentioned that Parker's girl. What's the matter? " Anne, knitted a few rows, and finally said, "I don't know, I just have a cold point in my soul, like I should know something, but how can I know, without knowing it?"
There were steps from the veranda and Walter came inside. Walking in the wind had raised a little red on his still narrow cheeks. The smoothness of his features stood out very clearly in the bright light. He glanced quickly at the women, and nodded to them. Ms Cornelia kindly remarked, "Walter you start to look really good, again, just remember to eat properly, and rest. You were walking, did you happen to go to Lowbridge?"
In a quiet voice, Walter replied, "I went to see Alice, as she had a book for me that she would probably bring to the Rainbow Valley in the evening, when she has done her duties first. " "What are those duties or responsibilities, dear child?" Cornelia inquired. Walter shrugged and said, "something related to music and church evening service, she tried to explain, but it's too different from what I'm used to, so I just nodded, a lot. Sorry, I have to go finish my new poem now, as inspiration hardly waits." After Walter had disappeared from view Ms. Cornelia looked triumphantly at Anne, and said, "Sometimes you're too tactful. If you want information, ask. It seems that Walter isn't changing his theology, which is a total relief. For a moment I was quite startled. But to whom does he write poems? " "Walter writes them mainly for himself, to my understanding, as I did in my time, but a few also for Una Meredith, maybe this new one is for her too?" Anne pondered.
Alone in his room, Walter sighed deeply, wiping his black hair from his forehead. His legs were shaking, and he had almost fallen flat, the living room, moments ago. The walk had been hard, he was clearly not yet strong enough to walk often to Lowbridge. Blood pounded in his veins, and feeling exhausted, Walter lingered on his bed like a cat, and took from the pillow-case, under him, Tadzio's scarf. Its red color gleamed in the light, intense, and as the silk slid through his fingers, Walter felt as if a renewed energy, was flowing into him from the scarf. Smiling lightly and sadly, he closed his eyes and slept.
Rainbow Valley was a green oasis of peace as Walter stared at the shimmering stars. Suddenly,there was a familiar, soft scent, of incense, it signaled that Alice had arrived, and she had a book wrapped in a faded red cloth in her armpit.
Alice looked at Walter, he was pale, but he was always pale, even in June. Alice smiled sadly when she noticed the familiar warm red flash on his neck. Walter stood up, and remarked, "I always use it, here, somehow it feels like he likes it, don't you think?" Alice said softly, "Dear friend, remember that I loved him, too, not like you, but still." Walter nodded, and restless way walked through the dewy grass, the mint smelled strongly. Alice sat on a nearby rock, softly humming something, far away look in her violet eyes.
Walter opened the worn little volume with eager fingers, caressing the clear autograph on the front, Tadzio. It was poems by Emily Brontë, and there were questions and clarifications written in pencil, in the same handwriting, between dense margins. "Where exactly did you find this? For he always read this to himself in the evenings, or so he said to me, as it helped him to calm down after hectic days, of performing in different places." "It had just appeared on the church bench one night a couple of weeks ago, maybe someone had taken it for themselves and now regretted it, noticing the name," Alice said.
In a soft voice, Walter uttered a few verses that were often underlined. Although the Rainbow Valley and its lush spring beauty, and abundance were as far away as possible from the Yorkshire moors, the verses and the feeling they conveyed glowed, powerful, primitive, and alive, even though the woman who had written them had long since passed away. As Walter's voice faded, into silence, the two friends sat quietly, grief uniting them in a fragile gauze. Alice rose to her toes, as she pressed light sister's kiss to Walter's cheek, and hummed as she walked toward her home.
A glowing, warm summer arrived, fragrant, intoxicating, lilacs glow everywhere, and the flowers bend, sweetly and caressingly over now little weathered tombstone. The heat brought with it, the wasps that landed on Susan's cookies, those with strawberry jam in the middle.
There was a feast going on in Rainbow Valley. There was the Manse crowd, with Mary Vance, and the Ingelside young fry. Faith and Jem leaned against each other, and Nan and Jerry argued out loud about something, Carl was eagerly exploring the beetles walking in the grass, Shirley, sunbathed by the sun and fishing, was bringing a new load of Susan's delicacies to his sisters. Rilla was not there for she was with Olive and Irene, looking for the perfect shoes for Irene, the proud, cold, calculating Irene. Di wondered that their Spider, at some point, would realize Irene's true nature, as she, herself had once realized the cunning of Jenny Penny and Delilah Green, years and years ago, in the Ingelsidean annals before Meredith´s arrived in Glen.
Una sat in the shade, embroidery in her hands, as she glanced in the direction of Walter, as he leaned on the birch. Di soaked her feet in the cool water of the creek, weaving a wreath that she lowered into Walter's hair, it made him look like a very serious fairy, Di declared, as she tickled her brother in the grass, Walter laughed, but there was some tone in his laughter, as if it did not come from the soul, at all.
The shadows of the evening lengthened, one by one, the siblings disappeared from the Rainbow Valley, and in the foggy fragrant twilight, only Una and Walter were left together. Una gathered the plates, in a large basket, and washed them in the creek. The flowers and wild herbs smelled, and with a soft finger Una moved, out of the way of the pennyroyal and the intense yellow, the herb of grace, that was rue, it grew everywhere. Walter's voice broke the calm silence, as he said, "Those plants remind me of something, a cup of tea, isn't that weird?"
The color of Una's face varied, and a cold sting struck her heart, for Mary Vance had whispered to her, once "If ever the time comes that you need them, you know now."
A secret, trust between women that did not belong to men at all, not even to one like Walter. A small wrinkle on her forehead Una rose and said, "You must be mistaken, as many herbs are used in tea." She took a few steps towards the road that took her home, the dishes in the basket fluttered, and Walter's voice stopped her "Una, I'm sorry, that I've been so distant lately, and I'd like to ask if we can play together soon, because I find, that I miss the music infinitely, and you're the best pianist I know. I've written new poems, and I thought maybe we could try them together if something came out of them? "
Una was only able to nod, as her heart fluttered, queerly. But Walter just smiled, that same old, fond little teasing smile at her and took one sheet of paper from his pocket, handing it to Una, saying,"here's one tell me honestly what you think, I wrote it weeks ago."Una folded the paper, the poem, carefully, and with light steps she disappeared into the ever growing twilight.
Walter sighed, sprinkling cool water on his face and thinking of the poem he had given Una to read. The verses were born, as if by themselves in the weeks following Tadzio's death. Alice had alredy read it. Alice´s tears had soaked the paper so that Walter had to write a new copy for Una. Those two girls were the best critics, apart from dear Di, naturally. In slow restless steps Walter walked back towards Ingelside, it´s lights were shimmering, warmly.
At the Manse, Una poured herself warm tea, and read the lines written in Walter's precise, clear handwriting. Walter's verse structure was free, and the emotional journey during the poem was downright ferocious and hauntingly tragic, and Una noticed tears rising in her eyes as she read the poem to the end, some of the verses echoing in her mind even days later, especially one line:
"There was my love for you, like a trip to a destination."
One afternoon in late June, Walter arrived to Manse. And soon the pearly piano music echoed in the house, and Rosemary looked at the young people who were practicing hard, two dark heads, and ink stains, on their fingers. Suddenly Una looked up, and her almond-shaped eyes had the same look that she had when Martin Craword came to meet her in the evenings.
Rosemary smiled sadly and hoped things would go better for Una. The Blythe's son seemed completely ignorant of Una's strong feelings for him. As Rosemary looked closely there was also a shadow in Walter's eyes, in their bright translucent gray depths, as if Walter were only here temporarily, but then it faded and Walter said lightly, with his soft tenor, "Rosemary, you're a soprano, so can you recite these verses as we refine the chord structure of this song. Una refuses to sing, which is foolish, because her voice is wonderful, as I happen to know. "
At Walter´s words, Una´s fingers fluttered on the pianokeys, light like moths, as she played one shimmering scale, and delicate flush suffused her features.
Rosemary picked up a slightly crumpled piece of paper and glanced at the words. Her voice was calm and steady as she recited the extremely beautiful, melancholy ballad, about a girl and a dancing bear.
Finally Una said, "Now tea, what do you think Walter?" For a moment it seemed to Rosemary as if he was not present at all, but then Walter shook his head and slowly said, "Yes tea, please, no milk or cream, thank you, dear. Do you happen to have Elgar´s notes, because I'd like to play them now." Rosemary handed the gray folder to Walter and soon the soft hazy and clear Elgar echoed in the room, the romantic melodies seemed to shine in the bright evening, and Una quietly hummed in the kitchen, dancing to the light waltz, waiting for the water to boil.
Walter´s mind was a little lighter, because of the music and Una's gentle company, as he headed for Ingelside, and he was content for the work that had been done, at the Manse. A letter had arrived in the afternoon mail. It was from Ken, and his peacefull room, Walter opened the envelope, glancing at Ken's quick handwriting.
22.6.1914, Toronto.
Lord Poet!
I am extremely relieved that you have replied to my letters even though you are still a convalescent. I almost tore my hair out of my head when I found out about your illness, but you already know that because I already wrote about it, then. Unfortunately, we couldn't get to Paris this summer because of your illness, and my broken ankle. I might come to the Island around the end of July or early August, because I'm very interested in the dance that will be held at the Lighthouse. I think my feet will last at least a few rounds of dancing by then. Are you in love, maybe, with the blonde girl you danced with at my request? If that is the case, then brilliantly, done old chum, as she was quite the looker, and you two will look stunning together, all light and dark.
If Una happens to develope some new literature-inspired pastry recipes, then foward them all here. Sometimes I still dream about the Madeleine´s.
Your new poems are dazzling. I showed one of them to Dad and he almost cried. So just continue in the same style, and gold and myrrh will flow at your lap at some point! As for my sister, she sends her love, and this book of italian sayings, as she is tired to be the resident linguist whenever the bookshelves of Ingelside or Manse let you down, and this is direct qoute. "If Walter is able to write such beautiful verses that make Dad cry, and put the simmer of moonlight into Mums, eyes and flush to her cheeks, then he is strong enough to do his own background work, of whatever verse or epic he is planning."
Best regards, as always
KF
Walter sighed, glancing at the small new book and with careful hand he, palced it to his bookself. There were two scarves hanging in near his mirror, gray, and deep red, they fluttered slightly in evening breeze.
They were now intertwined like the feelings in Walter's heart as he remembered the confidence and ease that shone from both of Ken and Tadzio, which was the complete opposite of his own way of being.
Love, should never be a crime, he thought, but his love, his feelings, seemed to be a crime, at least as far as the law of the land was concerned, unlike in ancient Greece. Would hemloc also be his fate? Anxiety seemed to sparkle under his skin, like an electric current as red, blood-red ink flowed onto the paper ...
A/N.
The Girl and Dancing Bear, is a poem by a Finnish poet and translator Marja-Leena Mikkola. It is utterly wonderful, and tragic full of otherness and love between a girl and a circus bear.