Page:The Czechoslovak Review, vol4, 1920.pdf/493

Ida, who was four whole summers older than nine-year-old Bertha, had already read two novels; she had received a real kiss in a game of forfeits; and was not only Bertha’s warm friend, but also her advisor. When the burning Sun beat too mercilessly on the yellow sand in the garden, and on the green trees, and on the blue, white, red, and violet-colored flowers, Bertha and Ida sat on the plush divan in the corner of the salon, behind the portieres. All the while out of doors it was very warm and close—but the little girls found it just right for talking in the semi-twilight of the little chamber. Bertha would ask questions, and Ida would answer. When would she be a young lady? Is Ida a young lady already? Does a person feel different? Did Bertha still look like a child, or did she seem just a little grown-up; a little older than she really was? The older child would put her arms about her waist and tell her that she should first grow a little, then she would grow a little more, and let down her skirts—and then she would go to dances, and then get married. Of course, love would come in, too. Then Ida divided love into two classes, the fortunate and the unfortunate; fortunate if the lovers married, and unfortunate if they did not. And the mystical and golden dusk of the drawn portieres enhanced the veiled charm of love for the little girls.

One day Ida came running in, flushed, embarrassed, and serious. At first she did not wish to say anything—because she could not say it—but then, when Bertha, eager and impatient, promised her she would not tell to any one, not even to mamma, nor Emma, her best friend at school, if she confided in her, Ida whispered her confession. She loved, right now, at first sight. Like a lightning stroke, love had come to her. Bertha, just the least bit jealous, and very inquisitive, begged, “But who, who?” It did not matter that he was below Ida socially, she wished to share poverty and suffering with him—everything till death. “But who, please, who is it?” Bertha entreated. Ida took her hand in a manner full of mystery, and, drawing her closer, whispered into her inquisitive little ear. “Hugo.” Hugo? But Bertha had never heard that name. Ida, tying and retying the black ribbon on her light braid, rather excitedly stammered out her story. What, did she not know that he was their gardner’s new hand, who came only yesterday in those high, close-fitting boots, and with eyes just like sapphires—and she, Bertha, did not know that? Then, after Bertha promised: she would do nothing to make them conspicuous, and would make no silly witticism about him, Ida took her hand and went to show him to Bertha.

They passed thru the fragrant, shaded avenue of lindens, whispering and laughing; they passed beside the bed of great red strawberries, sweet as kisses, but only passed there. They passed around the rosebushes, full of buds, and suddenly, there by the fish-pond, in which were ruffs and four reddish goldfishes, they saw a hand clipping the bushes, and a cap with a huntsman’s feather, bending over the roses. They hushed their laughing prattle—it was he, Hugo. Ida drew a roll from the pocket, and slowly, slowly began to crumble it in small pieces, smaller yet, still smaller—so the little fishes would not choke—and patiently one little piece at a time, she cast the crumbs into the water. Suddenly the gay, huntsman’s cap behind the bushes was raised, two sapphire eyes gleamed out, and the pleasantest, most courteous voice in the world said: “I kiss your hand, little ladies.”^[1].—‘I kiss your hand,’ he had said,— —and ‘little ladies,’— —Bertha was thinking, and he really did have indescribably beautiful sapphire eyes. And Ida? When she heard the sound of his voice, she did not know whether to laugh or cry for joy, but the simplest thing to do never entered her mind—to return the greeting. And how long she had stood by the pond waiting for him to look up—suddenly she seized Bertha by the hand, jerked her around and disappeared down the avenue of lindens, nor did she stop till she had reached the house, out of breath and angry at herself. What will he think? Want and poverty she wished to share with him, and then she did not even return his greeting—and great, childish tears of distress and mortification fell from Ida’s dark eyes. Bertha pulled at her apron, and said in a very decided tone, “Ida he has eyes just like sapphires!” “Like sapphires,” echoed Ida dreamily,—both happy and sad at once. Then after dinner, when the two little girls had huddled together in the corner, Bertha proudly confided to Ida that she, too, was in love—with the sapphire eyes.

And both little girls, the older and the younger, would go a-wooing, without any unpleasantness between them. They would sing little snatches of song, toss their ball, and roll their great hoops,—in front of Hugo’s window, around the shrubs of quince apple he was trimming, around the rosebushes he was grafting.

1. ↑ In Czechoslovakia the common form of greeting from a person of lower to one of higher rank.