Green Mansions [43]
rough bark of the tree.
"Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay with me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language, but in mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I speak to you, and answer me?"
Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely disquieted, and shook back her loose hair, and with her small toes moved the sparkling sand at her feet, and once or twice her eyes glanced shyly at my face.
"Rime, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say yes?"
"Yes."
"Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with his dogs?"
She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.
"Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"
"My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with a sudden, wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she continued: "Oh, she is dead! Her body is in the earth and turned to dust. Like that," and she moved the loose sand with her foot. "Her soul is up there, where the stars and the angels are, grandfather says. But what is that to me? I am here--am I not? I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point out, and tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast--so, and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you never answer me when I speak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlike and feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought no response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.
"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do you know that you will see her again some day?"
"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."
"The priest?"
"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was small--it is so far away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river--just here; and on this side--trees, trees."
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very knowledge I wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about the settlement she had named, and of which I had never heard.
"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did not know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen words she had spoken.
Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what do you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her picture? Your grandfather told me that you had a picture in your little room."
"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like resentment.
"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut. "Out here in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping quickly, she raised a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it run away through her fingers.
Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught slipped from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of the picture. After an interval she added: "Only mother is here--always with me."
"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your old grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and flies away to the starry country where your mother is?"
She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice: "You are here."
"But when I go away?"
She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed to pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not stay with me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I remain with you? Why are you always so silent in the house, so cold with your old grandfather? So different--so full of life, like a
"Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay with me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language, but in mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I speak to you, and answer me?"
Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely disquieted, and shook back her loose hair, and with her small toes moved the sparkling sand at her feet, and once or twice her eyes glanced shyly at my face.
"Rime, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say yes?"
"Yes."
"Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with his dogs?"
She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.
"Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"
"My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with a sudden, wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she continued: "Oh, she is dead! Her body is in the earth and turned to dust. Like that," and she moved the loose sand with her foot. "Her soul is up there, where the stars and the angels are, grandfather says. But what is that to me? I am here--am I not? I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point out, and tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my breast--so, and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you never answer me when I speak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk, and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart, letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its fancies so childlike and feelings so intense--had fallen again; and my words brought no response, except a return of that troubled look to her face.
"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother, Rima. Do you know that you will see her again some day?"
"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."
"The priest?"
"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was small--it is so far away! And there are thirteen houses by the side of the river--just here; and on this side--trees, trees."
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very knowledge I wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about the settlement she had named, and of which I had never heard.
"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did not know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen words she had spoken.
Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what do you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her picture? Your grandfather told me that you had a picture in your little room."
"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like resentment.
"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut. "Out here in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping quickly, she raised a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it run away through her fingers.
Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught slipped from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of the picture. After an interval she added: "Only mother is here--always with me."
"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your old grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and flies away to the starry country where your mother is?"
She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice: "You are here."
"But when I go away?"
She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed to pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not stay with me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I remain with you? Why are you always so silent in the house, so cold with your old grandfather? So different--so full of life, like a