And thy first night of deathBelongs to our first sorrow....What knowledge now is thine?A deeper one than ours.Bard of the Dâmbovitza.
And thy first night of deathBelongs to our first sorrow....What knowledge now is thine?A deeper one than ours.
Bard of the Dâmbovitza.
All day the dark men of the tribe had been building a coffin into which the beautiful maiden was to be laid to rest.
One and all were bowed with sorrow; this death was to them a horrible unreality their simple minds could not grasp. Why was this creature of light cut down in her sweetest prime?
What would their lives now be without the glamour and mystery with which she had filled their wandering day?
The morning was bleak, and the rain fell in occasional showers that the wind swept, with moaning sighs, over the naked waste. The canvas of the tents flapped and creaked, straining against the poles and cords that held them in place.
A heavy gloom brooded over the wretched camp, so that even the squabbling children spoke with bated breath.
Within Stella's silent tent sat Eric of the golden locks, staring without tears upon the face of the dead. The eyes of his dream looked upon him no more; he had shut them for ever with the passion of his kiss. Beneath his living lips she had breathed her last, dying like a fading flower, scorched by the flame of his love!
He had not known when she had passed away—only the growing chill he had felt beneath his cheek had pierced his soul with a sudden fear, and when he had called on her beloved name no answer had come in response. But we shall draw a veil over that hour of morn when he realized what was to be his fate. There are times of darkness and bottomless grief wherein the eye of a stranger must never descend. This was the end—the end! Hope was dead, life was a waste, and all had been but a passionate dream that ended with a kiss!
The wind swept over the humble tent, but upon her lowly couch Stella still smiled the wise smile that removes the dead so far beyond the reach of those who weep.
Not far off sat Zorka, the witch, her head bent down upon her trembling knees, whilst the storm played amongst the frosted wisps of her hair. From all sides weird chants rose into the wintry air where the old women, sitting round their blazing fire, were singing dirges for the dead.
And now came the moment when the black-eyed, black-haired sons of the wild came to carry Stella to her last narrow bed.
They had fashioned her a coffin with sides of shining copper the colour of the autumn that had now passed away. Eric had to stand by and see how they lifted the body he loved, and laid it, all rigid and small, within the three sides of the metal box that received in unmoved silence this, his faded dream.
The gypsies had sullenly refused to let him carry her himself; they jealously desired to have at least her inert body within their arms, they who had never dared touch a single hair of her head.
They did not know that she had died beneath the kiss of his lips, but they somehow guessed that at the end he had awakened her sleeping soul; and although they had dearly loved his beautiful face, Eric had always been an alien in their midst, all shining and fair, a being of light amongst their sombre race.
Now she was dead—Stella was dead—the Luck of their tribe lay white and cold in her last resting-place. Now she was theirs, and this son of another clime must relinquish his right, and leave her pure perfection between their dusky hands.
So while they were carrying her from out her tent Eric wandered with dragging feet into the forest where he had so often sat, painting her lovely face.
Now all the gold had fallen to the ground, the trees stood gaunt and bare. Over his cruelly bowed head the branches stretched naked and grey; from every twig large dropping tears fell splashing on the carpet of faded leaves.
Nowhere could he find the smallest plant or flower out of which to wind her a final wreath the same as those she had always worn. In vain he searched each sheltered corner; wherever he peered, all was dark and dead, killed by the frost of the night.
When he came back to where she lay, pale and still, all that he had to bring to the woman he loved was a crown of thorns. These he pressed on her snowy brow where they rested, sharp and hard, amongst her silky tresses, so that verily she resembled a martyred queen upon the bier of a beggar.
In a circle around her coffin the gypsies had lighted blazing fires, and now that their work was done they left the stranger standing in lonely communion with that silent shape that never again would look upon the light of day.
As he knelt beside her lowly bed, his face hidden on the heart that beat no more, a sound of wings came wafted upon the wind, and there, fluttering above the lifeless maiden, was his trusted companion the milk-white hawk, holding in its sharpened beak the chain with the moon-coloured diamond.
As Eric looked up with hopeless eyes, he saw how the beautiful creature swooped down quite close, covering the lovely vision with its large soft wings; and when it rose again, like foam against the darkening sky, Gundian espied upon the heart of the maiden the magic diamond, shining as if all her love were a last time bursting from her breast in mystic rays of enchantment.
Night came down and still Eric knelt beside his shattered happiness. All about him the fires burned and crackled, and the dismal chants of the gypsies rose like curses to the heavens.
The wondrous face of the sleeper lived again in the glowing shine, but Eric did not see this illusive light of life; when he looked up the fires had burnt out; the gypsies had gone to rest.
The night had laid its darkness over the frowning solitude; no star shone in the sky; the only spot of brightness was the twinkling diamond that glowed there on Stella's bosom, where Eric had awakened her soul with his first burning kiss of love!
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps.Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes,The grey wind weeps.Fiona Macleod.
The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps.Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes,The grey wind weeps.
Fiona Macleod.
Next day her grave was dug, there, upon that endless plain of silence. Eric had strewn the gaping hole with a lining of withered leaves, gathered from the weeping forest.
Before they hid her marvellous face out of sight he had passionately covered its mask of beauty with desperate burning kisses. Zorka had stood close by, guarding him from hostile glances, so that this heartbroken lover might be for a last time alone with what had been the dream of his life.
Then from his shoulders he took the torn black cloak he had worn during all his wanderings and draped it round those rigid limbs that froze his blood with their icy coldness.
"Mother, dear old mother," he cried, "I want to keep her warm; the night before last she glowed in the arms of my passion, and now I must leave her to the chill mercy of the frozen ground. How can I bear such torture?"
Zorka laid her withered hand upon his shoulder.
"Son, my son, I feel that no ice can harm her more—she looked upon the flames of Love, and died whilst they were folded round her; she closed her eyes upon the vision of thy burning worship, and that wonderful sweetness was the last thing she saw; now she is for ever happy."
So Eric wound her from head to foot in the dark folds of his mantle; he hid away her white hands and her tiny feet. Then he pressed the wreath of thorns over the dusky drapery, placing the gleaming gem in the centre of her forehead. He fetched her dear violin and laid it so that her toes just touched its polished wood.
Over the shabby black tissue of the weather-beaten vestment he spread the faded wreaths that once had rested upon her rippling hair. And after one long look of farewell he allowed the heavy lid to be shut down on his hard-won happiness.
The damp earth was thrown with a hollow thud over the lid of the coffin, the ground was beaten down smooth and flat on every side, so that no wandering stranger should ever disturb her deep dark grave beneath its covering of sombre soil.
The gypsies folded their tents with hasty rapidity, longing to steal away from a place where silence brooded amongst the whispering winds.
Old Zorka came and stood upon the spot where her darling had been hidden for ever away, and there she murmured all the prayers she could call back to her flagging memory, whilst her streaming tears mixed with the mould that lay over that past dream of beauty.
But no persuasion nor entreaty could make Eric move from that dark mound in the barren lonely wild; he meant to remain there that first night when she had been confided to the indifferent shadows that closed in around her.
He promised Zorka he would follow next day, but this night he must lie on Stella's cold grave, to protect it from the biting frost.
When all had gone and he was alone on that dreary vastness, he drew from its sheath his treasured sword and planted it like a cross, there where her eyes must be hidden away, never more to look upon the rising sun.
Dreary blasts of wind blew over the gloomy desert; darkness came down and Eric stretched himself upon the frozen ground, his lips pressed upon the spot where, far beneath the heavy covering of soil, her beautiful mouth must have been.
There he lay, forsaken, the only breathing being in that cruel night of sorrow. But not far off, amongst the dim shadows of the forest, the snowy falcon was faithfully watching, though the glinting light no longer shone on his breast, watching till day should mercifully break.
Through the heavy hours Eric never moved; he was fighting alone a dreary battle against life and his God. Nor did he know, as his face lay hidden in his clenched hands, that the magic hilt of the sword was glowing like a shining promise far over the sleeping world. There it stood, a cross of flame, burning with sacred light, watching over this desperate mortal who longed to cast his life away.
The wind howled with voices of terror and storm; the dust was whirled in clouds from the frozen waste, sweeping over the cross-shaped light and over the weeping man, trying to blot them out of sight.
But deep down in eternal night, under the protecting arms of her lover, rested Stella in stony quiet, bedded in the lap of old Mother Earth.
Beneath her closed lids her starry eyes were for ever guarding the last dear vision her waking brain had looked upon.
And in her two white hands like swans on a frozen lake,Hath she not my heart, that I have hidden there for dear love's sake.Fiona Macleod.
And in her two white hands like swans on a frozen lake,Hath she not my heart, that I have hidden there for dear love's sake.
Fiona Macleod.
Morning dawned, and Eric rose from the ground, half-frozen from his long night's vigil, his eyes hollow, staring with a desperate look.
The wan daylight was gradually spreading over the wilderness, on which he stood like a wounded soldier whom his comrades had forsaken, imagining he was dead. No, he was not dead, poor youth, he was alive, crying, with broken heart and thirsting soul, for what could be no more. He had lived his dream and shattered it all in one. Zorka had been right, some flowers must not be plucked; and now his hands were empty—empty. He himself had made the sweet petals fall, and no earthly power could give them back their bloom.
Down there under the dark cold sod she lay, his dream of dreams, crushed by his passion and love. He had held his soul's desire pressed against his wildly beating heart, and she had left him in their hour of rapture; had died beneath the fire of his kiss.
Once more he threw himself down upon the merciless earth that covered her sacred beauty. He pressed his mouth upon the dust of the ground, tracing the sign of the Cross with his lips, there where he guessed that her snowy brow, her silent heart, and closed eyes lay hidden for ever out of sight.
Then kneeling before the cross-shaped sword, Eric prayed in words of glowing entreaty to the great Father above, that her sleep should be sweet and the earth soft to that body he loved, that the weight of the dark mould that wrapped her round should not be heavy to her delicate limbs.
He cried to that silent brooding sky to be merciful towards that creature of light and soon to call her from the damp dark grave to a sunrise of glory and joy.
"God! my God! it cannot be that Thou lettest her slumber for ever in that cold solitude and I not knowing if her sleep be sweet. She who was like a ray from the sun—she who carried within her orbs the whole glory of the summer skies, the entire mystery of the starry nights. She whose music was the most exquisite rendering of the beauty of life; she whose perfection was the gladness of each awakening day, whose soul and body were like the spotless snow of mountain heights where no human foot has ever passed. O God! O God! how can I leave her grave?" And again he lay there, stretched upon the relentless soil, groaning and shedding tears of blood, whilst the brooding silence of the naked wild lay over all, hostile and unheeding, with Nature's stony indifference to the sorrow and anguish of the human race.
Then at last he tore himself away, feeling how useless were his grief and misery before those eternal laws of creation which for ever are, and for ever shall be.
Now he was fleeing that silent wilderness, bending his head against the driving wind and rain, against the storm of dust and sand that the wild gusts were throwing in his face.
Several times he turned in hopeless yearning towards that lonesome spot where his precious sword stood a lonely guardian of his lost happiness; then, covering his face in an agony too deep for tears, on he rushed as one who tries to escape from a sight he cannot bear.
His faithful friend the hawk flew beside him, occasionally caressing his tear-stained face with the velvet touch of its wings.
For several hours he had thus fought his desperate way, when, on raising his head, he saw a small cloud coming towards him out of the distance, growing in size the nearer it came.
He stood still, vaguely wondering what it might be, when out of the midst of the moving dust a young boy emerged, driven along by the storm that strove to carry him off his feet.
The first thing Eric discerned was a high fur cap, a shaggy coat of skins, into the wide sleeves of which the youth's hands had been deeply thrust, whilst a thick staff was pressed in the hollow of his arm. Behind this advancing figure came the pattering feet of innumerable sheep, raising beneath their steps the thick cloud Eric had first of all descried.
Suddenly, with a glad cry, both youths ran towards each other with joyful recognition, for this was none other than Radu, the shepherd, who was leading his flocks home from the mountains, driven thence by the coming winter.
For a moment both remained speechless, hands clasped, staring into each other's face that were wet and shining from the drizzling rain which had not yet been able to turn into mud the thick coating of dust that lay like powder on the roads. The one who spoke first was Radu, and it was anxiously to ask:
"Where hast thou left thy cloak? Thou art quite wet; and thy sword, thy beautiful sword, where hast thou left thy sword?"
Eric did not answer; he simply lifted both his hands, showing that they were empty; then he let them fall again at his sides with the hopeless gesture of one who has given everything up for ever more. Then only did Radu come quite near and peer with frightened eyes more closely into his face.
"What is it?" he cried. "What is it? What hast thou seen?"
"Heaven and Hell," answered Eric. "I have been in both!"
"And thy dream—didst thou find thy dream?" whispered the peasant.
"I found it and I lost it," was the answer he got. "It was mine for a short hour of bliss—mine; but again God beat me down with my face to the earth.
"I have been a dreamer of dreams, and it is not to be given to me to keep what I clasp. God allowed me visions to lead me ever on; they brought me to this land of promise.
"It was summer then; now thou seest what colour is over the earth. But I touched my dream; I held it within my human arms; but as sayeth the poet: 'How can the body touch the flower which only the spirit may touch,' so I killed my flower, killed it with my kiss."
"Can one kill with a kiss?" cried Radu, awe in his voice.
"One can kill with more things than with a sword. I found the face of my vision, I followed it step by step. I hunted it down with sighs and tears till at last it was mine. I held it one short moment in my arms, a moment within which I lived the ultimate triumph of my desire. Then it was gone. I myself destroyed it, consumed it, with the thirst of my soul!"
"But was she happy?" queried Radu, with tears in his eyes.
"Was she happy! Good God! was she happy!" cried Eric, clenching his fists towards the skies. "Yes, I believe she was happy! If I did not believe that I could not live. She said to me to kiss her eyes so that for ever she could keep the picture of what she had loved best in this world! At that moment she died! My warm touch of love was death! Canst grasp that frightful truth?... was death! My lips, my lover's lips closed her eyes for ever!... for ever ... over the vision of my face!
"Before they laid her in the ground I wrapped her in my cloak; that is why it is gone. I would not leave her thus thinly clad within the cold shadow of her grave; and upon the spot where she lies I planted my sword. There, where the eyes I followed so far are for ever closed, I left my sword."
"Oh," sobbed Radu, "and now I shall never see that face!"
"Yes, thou shalt," answered his friend. "Come with me and thou shalt see the fairest being God ever made!"
"Where?" asked the astonished peasant, "where?"
"Follow me and thou shalt know!"
"But my sheep,—they are tired; and see how tame are my dogs, exhausted by the length of the way."
"It is not far from here—there thou canst rest; thou art not in a hurry, and I would thou shouldst know the eyes of my dream."
Again Eric hid his face in his clasped hands, whilst a harsh dry sob rose to his throat.
"Come, come! I, too, thirst for the sight of her face."
Towards the evening the two lads arrived at the gypsies' camp.
Along the dreary roadside several tall wooden crosses had been erected, tall and gaunt, with curious shapes, decorated with archaic saints in crudest colours.
These weird crosses stood in a line like silent spectres, some bending sideways, as if tired of their vigil.
It was here that old Zorka had told Eric he would find their halting-place. The fires had already been lit, the dark men and women sat about in groups. The tents stood out, dismal shadows, against the Western Bar.
Eric holding Radu by the hand led him to where Zorka was cooking her evening meal in a blackened pot.
Radu's flock had followed pitter-patter in their wake, hardly discernible in the dusk, their way-stained wool the colour of the ground they trod.
When she saw her favourite the old seer ran forward and clasped him to her breast, anxiously scanning his haggard face, but saying never a word for fear of awakening his surging grief.
"Mother Zorka," he said, "here is a friend who has come to look upon her face!"
Zorka went to her tent, brought out the wonderful picture, and put it into the peasant's hands. He stared at it in enraptured silence. Then very slowly he laid it on the ground and knelt before it, making the sign of the cross over his brow, the tears flowing down his cheeks.
Zorka brought the boys food in a dish, urging her dear one to eat, but Eric shook his head.
"Mother Zorka, willst thou tend him and give him a bed? for he was good to me when I was in sore distress."
Then taking the picture he went off alone in the darkness of the night. The wind howled, and the rain came down in heavier showers, beating upon the miserable tents.
Zorka sat with the young shepherd in the shelter of her dwelling, looking out upon the darkness into which the lonely mourner had disappeared.
"Was she an angel?" asked Radu, who had finished his meal, and whose face was still wet with tears.
"I think she was," said Zorka, nodding her head.
"Tell me," he continued, "why did she die?"
"Why did she die?" repeated the tired old woman. "Because it is given to some never to wake from their dream of bliss, and those it is said are loved of the gods."
"Why was he left alone? Do the gods not love him?"
Zorka sighed: "Because some must learn to the bitter end to overcome all they reach; must learn to leave behind them both joy and pain; to rise above all their desires, and hopes, and fears, till their souls are as pure and bright as an archangel's sword; and those are the chosen of God."
"But was she happy?" queried Radu, for the second time.
"Yes," answered Zorka, with a solemn voice. "Yes, she was happy. She died of joy."
A star has ceased to shine in my lonely skies,Sometimes I dream I see it shining in my heart.Fiona Macleod.
A star has ceased to shine in my lonely skies,Sometimes I dream I see it shining in my heart.
Fiona Macleod.
Zorka could not bear to part from Eric of the golden locks, and begged him to remain at her side.
He, too, for a while felt that he dared not leave the old woman who had led him to his love; so all that winter he wandered about with the travelling clan, from clime to clime, leaving far behind him the country of his dream. Wherever he went the falcon followed, flying as near his head as it could.
Radu had parted from Eric with tears in his eyes; both boys felt as they joined hands for the last time that nothing could wipe out the deep affection they had conceived for each other.
Radu had gone off on an endless road, playing a melancholy tune on his wooden flute, his flock following him, his cowed dogs at his heels, his feet splashing about in the mud, the patient sheep leaving thousands of small footprints wherever they passed.
But Eric played no more, neither did he sing; and over the gold of his locks the silver began to spread more and more, like foam on the sea.
Wherever he stopped he bought canvas and paint, but each of his pictures showed always but the one and only face.
He painted the features of his dream in every form his heart could remember.
He represented her as first he had seen her, crowned with a wreath of bells, her old violin pressed under her cheek, her eyes full of the visions she alone could see. He painted her seated in the dust of the road with a circle of corn-ears round her delicate brow. He conjured up her beauty against the setting sun, whilst the coronet she wore was of autumn leaves all glowing as the blazing sky.
One of his sketches showed her shimmering and pale, lit by the rays of the moon, and this time it was a halo he had painted round the pureness of her heavenly face.
And once his restless fingers had created the picture of her marble features as she lay motionless on her bier, her face still and white under the brooding clouds, with the crown of thorns on her head, her wonderful eyes closed beneath the heavy lids, a smile of peace and happiness hovering like a blessing over her lips.
But one picture alone no human eye but his was ever allowed to see; on that one he had awakened, for a second and last time, the look her eyes had borne when he had closed them with his lips.
This sketch he kept jealously hidden beneath all the others, and it was never shown—not even Zorka had the right to cast a glance upon that expression which was too holy for mortal to look upon.
One of his pictures he had given to Zorka in sign of gratitude. It represented the lost Luck of the wandering tribe. She stood on a lonely plain, her hands joined behind her back, her eyes looking straight before her, her head slightly raised as if listening for the coming of a being she could not see.
A marvellous picture of unearthly beauty before which the old fortune-teller daily said her curious prayers, prayers to a God who had no form, but who lived in every breath of the wind, and who filled her weary old soul with the hope of coming peace.
They wandered slowly from land to land, amidst scenes of beauty, and often also through countries bleak and joyless; but the heart of the painter was always yearning for a far-off desolate plain where he had planted his shining sword over the face of his love.
When at night he closed his lids over his eyes heavy with unshed tears, that wilderness always rose before him, cold and lonely, filling him with a haunting dread that the sword might be slowly descending to pierce her innocent heart. That vision would suddenly awake him out of his sleep, and horror would stand at the foot of his wretched bed, till he could bear it no more and would rush wildly out into the night.
Zorka knew all his suffering, and bowed her head always lower to the ground.
When spring was covering the earth with a new smile of youth, Zorka felt that the moment she dreaded had come, and that the loved wanderer would soon leave her to go his way.
She had heard him speak of a wonderful picture he was one day to finish in the palace of a mighty king. With her seer's certainty she knew that the time was close at hand—had he not found the face of love,—and slowly the desire must strengthen within him to terminate the work he had begun.
She accepted the coming of this final suffering as one who knows that her days are surely numbered.
One morning Eric Gundian, the last joy of her eyes, stood tall and slim before her dimmed sight.
"Mother Zorka, I feel I must go. I thank thee for all thy bounteous kindness, and I want thy blessing as once the dear master gave me his!"
He knelt down as a little child might have done, and laid the frosted gold of his locks amongst the folds of her earth-coloured rags. She placed her trembling hands upon his head and raised her quavering voice:
"Go in peace, my loved one, take up thy burden and finish thy great work; it is thy duty to return to the kingly master who loved thee so well, and when thy pain seems too heavy to bear, remember these words of old Zorka the witch.
"Those who die of happiness are blessed, but thrice blessed is the man who carries without complaint the burden of his broken heart. Thou hast known the sublimest fulfilment of joy. Be for ever grateful for that hour of bliss, and remember that she died at the moment of attainment, which is given to so few; therefore do not mourn as if her lot had been cruel. There are others who fall before winning the race; thou hast known what it is to reach thy goal; so, thou must not weep. Go, and carry joy with thee wherever thou treadest, because thou art a Chosen of God. It is I, the old seer, who thus does speak."
She bent low over him and pressed her quivering lips to the silver threads in his hair; then he rose, and stood with his head thrown back, his arms reaching up towards the vault of blue, as one who longs to be received within the far-off clouds.
"But, Mother Zorka, I can sing no more; God has drowned my voice in a sea of tears!"
"My son, thou hast thy wonderful art. Go and live amongst those who believe in thee. Thou hast a great work to complete, and the face of thy love shall shine for ever upon the generations to come. This thou canst still do for her memory's sake, and that power is given to few.
"There was a time when I believed I ought to guard our beautiful Stella from all touch of mortal love; but now I know that thus it is best. Each human being must fulfil his destiny, and Stella's destiny was to be the realization of thy dream.
"The days of each man's life are counted, and not any of our poor knowledge can add an hour to the length of time Fate has decreed we should live.
"Thou didst not kill her with thy kiss; she lived as a flower from some unknown land, yielding her sweet perfume to but one single being; then God took her for His own, and thus her life was to end. Cry not out against what had to be. Go thy way, and one day perhaps thou wilt know the meaning which now our mortal mind cannot fathom. My blessing is with thee. Go in peace."
And that day Eric Gundian left the dark wandering people and old Zorka the witch.
When he had reached the crest of a hill he turned round and waved to the trembling old woman who had been so faithful a friend.
Over his head his inseparable companion fluttered like a snow-white sail caught by the wind.
Zorka stood leaning on her crooked staff, her hand raised to protect her eyes, that were blinded with tears, against the glare of the rising sun.
She stood watching the departing youth she had so dearly loved, and it seemed to her that he walked away from her straight into the glittering sky.
Spring in all its beauty was covering the world with blossoms pink and white. Within the tender sprouting grass pale anemones were raising their delicate faces to peep at the radiant sun. Humble sweet-smelling violets covered the lawns with a carpet of richest hue. Everywhere the birds were singing hymns of praise to the sweet resurrection of life and joy. The larks were for ever mounting into the sky in eternal adoration of the shining sun.
A haze of green was beginning to spread over the awakening woods, and innumerable flowers were pushing out their tiny heads from beneath the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Over all lay a sweet hush of promise, timid yet spreading far and wide.
King Wanda sat upon his marble terrace basking in the first warmth of the season. Close beside him was Oona in a new dress of gold, a marvellous book upon her knees containing pictures in glowing colours, relating of fairies, both good and bad. She piped away with sweet clear voice, explaining all the wonders she saw; but King Wanda sat with a frown on his brow; nothing seemed to bring a smile to his lips; he had become morose and silent, and vainly his courtiers had tried to replace the favourite who had so suddenly left him long ago.
King Wanda could find no joy since that day when Eric Gundian, the mad painter, had gone from his palace in search of his dream. He had given up all hope of seeing him again, although many a night he lay tossing upon his kingly couch, harking if he could not discern some sound of the step that once he had loved.
Other painters had proposed to finish the frieze in the beautiful hall, but sternly the King had repressed their zeal. He himself kept the keys of that now silent chamber, and none save himself had entry through those massive doors. He raised his head as some one came towards him over the sunlit terrace. It was a page, and this was the news he brought. Outside the palace doors a stranger was standing in the garb of a beggar, demanding admittance, saying he had come to do King Wanda's bidding, and entreating to be allowed to speak to the master himself.
"He is all travel-stained," said the page, "and upon his back he carries a load wrapped in a cloth. His feet are bare, his head uncovered, his clothes all torn and soiled; within his hands he bears a staff wrought with unknown designs. The hair on his head is long and covered with dust, and his eyes are horribly sad; most strange of all, upon the beggar's shoulder a curious bird is quietly seated. In truth the man seems to have come from the end of the earth."
"I will have word with him," said the King, "as it is his desire to talk with me. Am I not here for all those who call at my door? None, it shall be said, go unconsoled or are sent away without receiving their heart's desire."
Now the tattered traveller was standing upon the terrace before the presence of the King. His load had been laid upon the marble floor. The white bird sat motionless upon his shoulder, like a ghost in a dream. The rays of the sun shone upon his bent head, and as they lit on the long locks of the stranger's hair, making them sparkle and flash in the light, King Wanda gave a sudden cry, clutching at his heart. Then he sprang forward, and all the courtiers were witness of an astounding sight: a beggar lying against the heart of their King, who was sobbing as if his heart would break!
And then Eric was on his knees, his head hidden in the hands of the good old King he had left to wander so far away. He was telling the crowned man that he had come back to finish the picture he had once begun, because now he knew what was the face of the woman who sat on the golden throne.
"Give me leave, O most royal master, to complete the work of my hands; but let me tell thee that Eric Gundian, thy singing-bird, died one early morn under an alien sky at the break of day—it is only his spirit that has come to thee, because the Dreamer of Dreams has a last great wish to paint the face of love upon thy gilded walls!"
So the King himself led the weary wanderer into his gorgeous hall, unlocking the heavy door with the key that hung from his waist.
Like a soft white cloud the falcon glided into the room before them, settling upon the tall stone fire-place, whence it watched the strangely assorted couple.
When alone together, for the first time Eric of the golden locks raised his haggard face and looked straight into the eyes of the King.
The old man felt as though a dagger were piercing his heart when he met that hopeless gaze. Certainly those were the features of the boy he had loved, but oh, what was it he had gone through to be so cruelly changed? His cheeks were hollow, the sunken orbs stared with a far-away look too sad for the language of men, and his golden hair was covered with a fine web of silver that lay like an early frost over a ripe field of corn.
Long did King Wanda stand mute, not finding a word; he felt that he stood in presence of a grief so deep that he dared not come too near. It was Eric who spoke:
"May I remain within thy palace, O King, to complete the work that once I began? I feel that now I can verily put the finishing touches to a picture that in ages past was the pride of my painter's art.
"And above all, I crave thy pardon for having left thee on that summer's morn so long ago. It must have seemed as if I were void of both gratitude and love, but it was not thus.
"I have wandered far, and have returned from the regions of dreams to fulfil the task that thou didst once demand of me, so that thy belief in Eric Gundian should not have been in vain! I see by thy look, O most royal master, that still thou dost trust in me."
"May the completing of thy work bring peace to thy heart!" was the King's reply; and once more he drew the dusty wayfarer within his fatherly arms. Within a few days Eric was again established in his old place, working with all his soul.
King Wanda had given orders that he should be left entirely undisturbed; and there he painted from early morn as long as the daylight lasted. Even King Wanda dared not trouble his peace—he had a feeling that this work was being done with a love that no stranger's eye should watch.
Indeed, it was with his very life's blood that the painter was now completing his masterpiece; he felt that each day he was giving some of his strength—that little by little his force was going with each fresh stroke of his brush.
At times his face was corpse-like, as one no more of this earth.
Once little Oona had peeped through an opening in the window-curtain, and had then run quickly back, with a feeling that she had seen a ghost.
But the face that Eric was creating upon King Wanda's wall was of a beauty no words can describe.
The woman on the throne, with the golden dress that flowed down like a river seen at sunset, was leaning slightly forward, her eyes looking away over the heads of the crowd that was calling upon her name in praise.
She seemed to see no one; but other visions more beautiful than earthly eyes could conceive filled her gaze. The two palms of her hands were pressed down at her side in a strained attitude, as one who is half afraid, or perhaps awakening to some astounding knowledge.
But her eyes was the spot within which Eric Gundian had concentrated all his inimitable art: they were the most marvellous wells of light and shade that had ever been painted by mortal hand.
They were a mighty realization of his eternal dream—that dream that had led him through distant countries and deadly dangers to the very fount of love. Eric now lived only sustained by his feverish desire to leave those eyes, he had so loved, for ever upon that frieze that would be a living incorporation of his one great aim.
But behind those shut doors he was wasting away; he was but a spirit whose body was an overcome burden, living by the soul alone, only a breath of that human life he had spent in the eternal effort to reach his glorious dream. Near by sat the snow-white hawk, who would never leave his side except for short moments when Eric opened the window, upon the beauties of spring, letting the bird out to search for its daily food.
Eric himself seemed to dread the light of the sun; neither would he eat of the royal dishes that were brought him; he sipped from time to time a little water, otherwise he lived sustained by the love of his work.
Eric Gundian—Eric of the golden locks—was now but a wavering breath, kept alive by the desire to finish his wonderful picture.
One morning, when all had been stiller than usual behind those silent walls, King Wanda, with anxious face, opened the heavy door—and there, upon the ground, stretched all his length before his finished masterpiece, lay Eric Gundian, the dreamer of dreams, his wet brush still clasped in his hand.
Near him, as always, sat the strange white bird watchfully motionless, but this time there were actually tears in its piercing eyes.
The lids of the dreamer were closed for ever, as one, dead-tired, who mercifully has found rest at last....
But on the golden throne of the picture sat a woman more beautiful than any brain can conceive,—within the expression of her eyes lay a world of joy and sorrow, that had blended into a look of unearthly glory impossible to describe.
King Wanda stood staring, unable to move, overcome with a sorrow too deep for words; yet he had the feeling that whoso had been able to accomplish such a miracle could only die at the moment of attainment, because such a marvel must verily be paid for by the life of the one who thus was allowed to create it.
All the courtiers now came trooping together and stood in awe behind their King, staring and whispering, hushed by the dark mystery they could not understand.
Then a murmur went from lip to lip.
"Oh, why has the marvellous woman a crown of thorns upon her head? Why, oh why did he paint the face of Love crowned with a wreath of thorns?"
King Wanda bowed his weary head: then he knelt on the floor and kissed the brow of the favourite he had loved so well—and, looking into that pale and silent face, he thought he understood what the Dreamer had meant when, with the last touch of his brush, he had crowned Love's immaculate visage with a wreath of thorns.
And Beauty, Peace, and Sorrow are dreams within dreams.
Fiona Macleod.
In a distant land Spring was also spreading over hill and dale.
But on a bare plain, where nothing grew, a miracle had come to pass: a peasant, returning home one starry night, had espied, from the road upon which he was slowly sauntering, a strange light in the form of a cross, gleaming far over the barren waste.
Full of astonishment he had run to the spot, and there he had discerned a magic crystal, all charged with radiance, in the shape before which every Christian bends the knee. And the most curious of all, this burning cross was the hilt of a glistening sword which must have dropped from heaven, to remain thus firmly planted in the ground.
Awed and filled with wonder the youth had spread the astounding news from village to village, and all the simple folk had run together, falling down in worship before this miraculous sign, which God had put in so desert a place, as a blessing on the land.
From far and wide, rich and poor, old and young, men, women, and children came in pilgrimage to that holy site.
None ever knew, except one humble little peasant, from whence the cross had come.
But Radu, the shepherd, held his peace, thanking the Kind Mother of Christ for having thus ordained that so many pious believers should go and pray on the grave where the dreamer of dreams had buried his love.
One morning when the warm rays of the sun were lying like a blessing over the deserted waste, a white bird might have been seen descending out of the blue.
It hovered for a time over the gleaming sword, circling very slowly, so that its outspread wings resembled a snowy cloud floating in the air.
Then down it swooped out of the heavens, there, where Stella lay beneath the dark heavy mould. Within its beak this unknown bird was holding a simple seed, which it dropped on the very spot where the dead girl's heart rested under the sod—a seed it had carried from a distant land of the north from the tenderly tended grave in a great king's garden. Hardly had the seed touched the barren earth than it sprang up and spread all over the tomb a thick network of rambling thorns covered with countless roses—as crimson as the broken heart of a lover.
And these roses bloomed, even in the winter months, upon the icy covering of snow, red as the reddest blood, till all the simple folk declared that indeed the place was Holy Ground.
And thus it was that God blessed the Love of him who once had been called Eric Gundian, the Dreamer of Dreams.
Printed in Great Britain byR. & R. Clark, Limited,Edinburgh.
"A graceful and charming work of fancy.... To every imaginative child it will prove a rich delight."—Daily Telegraph.
"It is distinctly a book to possess and delight in. The few words of preface contributed by 'Carmen Sylva' are an appreciation, expressed with true felicity, of the charm of this prose poem, and the illustrator has caught its spirit admirably."—World.
"A noble picture-book. A graceful and poetic tale marked by real talent, and not a few touches of genuine feeling. Miss Stratton's pictures are very clever and effective."—Guardian.
"Great beauty pervades it all, and every situation is so entirely picturesque. All readers of fairy lore will find it true and beautiful.... The illustrations are delightful."—Daily Express.
"Graceful fancy, elevated sentiment, and simple but dignified expression ensure a high place among the fairy tales of the publishing year for the Queen of Roumania's charming work,The Lily of Life.... The merit of the telling is unusual, and it has the further advantage of being presented in an exceedingly handsome and artistic form. The coloured illustrations of Miss Helen Stratton show graceful drawing and fine gradations of tone. They are not merely a pictorial summary of the story, but genuine works of art, and a distinctive feature of the volume."—Scotsman.
"A tale of great beauty.... The author shows considerable powers of imagination and direct expression."—Spectator.
"The story is beautiful in its conception, and floats from incident to incident in the wondrous glamour of that atmosphere of fairyland so dear to the hearts of little readers.... The illustrations in conception, drawing, and reproduction are in perfect harmony with the beauty of the story and the volume."—Northern Whig.