BUT it was a pity that Rivanone had not also found those other plants
for which she had been seeking, the root which brings light to the
blind, and the root which gives life to the dying. Because Rivanone had
foreseen only too well the need of them which would come to her. For
when, after a year or two, their little son was born, his blue eyes were
sightless and all the colored wonders of the world were secrets which he
could never know. So they named him Herve, which means Bitterness,--the
first bitterness which had come into their lives of joy. But it was not
the last. Not long after the little Herve came, golden-haired Hyvarnion
lay ill and dying. And because on that spring morning, Rivanone had not
found the herb of life, she could not keep him from going away to find
it for himself in that fair country where it is the only plant that
grows, with wonderful blossoms which no living man has ever seen.
So Hyvarnion passed away from his kingdom of music and song, which he
left to be shared by dear Rivanone and Herve his little son. Thus Herve
became a Prince, heir to all the gifts of that royal pair. And of these
there were in particular four of the best: a beautiful face, the
sweetest voice that ever thrilled in Brittany, the golden harp of
Hyvarnion his father, and many a lovely song made by those two, which
Rivanone taught him. What a wonderful Kingdom that was to be his! What
beautiful gifts for a little boy to own!
But even in a kingdom of this sort one has to bear sorrows and
discomforts, just as folk do in other kingdoms which are less fair.
Herve's name meant bitterness, and there was much bitterness in his
little life before he learned what a Prince he really was. For he was
blind and could not play with the other children. Rivanone was a poor
widow and there was no one to earn bread for the two. Sometimes the
carols which they sang together were the only breakfast to begin the
day. Sometimes the songs Rivanone made beside his bed at night were the
only food Herve had tasted since sunrise. Sometimes they were both so
hungry that they could not sing at all; and those were sad times indeed.
But when Herve was seven years old a great idea came to him. Rivanone
lay ill and miserable, and there was nothing to eat in the house. Herve
sat by her side holding her hand, and wishing there was something he
could do about it. Blind as he was he had never been out of the house
alone. But suddenly courage came to him and hope, through his great
idea.
"I will save you, dear mother!" he cried, throwing his arms about her
neck. "I will take father's golden harp and go out upon the highway and
sing your beautiful songs. People will give me pennies, and I shall buy
you food."
So, carrying the golden harp on his back, in his ragged clothes and bare
feet the little fellow went out stumbling and feeling his way along the
hard road. Now almost at the first corner he met a white dog, who seemed
to have no master. This creature came sniffing and whining up to Herve
and licked his hand. And when the boy went on the dog followed close at
his side as if to guide and protect him. Herve asked every one he met
whose dog it was; but they all said it was a strange dog come from
No-where, and belonged to No-one. It seemed almost as if the beast had
been sent especially for Herve. So at last he said, "You shall be my
dog," and at that the great white beast jumped up and barked for joy.
Herve fastened a rope about the dog's neck and kept one end in his hand.
So now he had some one to guide and guard him, for the dog was very
careful and kind and took care that Herve never stumbled nor went astray
into the ditch by the side of the road.
It must have been a hard-hearted man indeed who had no pennies to spare
for the blind boy led by the big white dog. With his bare feet blue with
cold, his teeth chattering, and his eyes turned wistfully up to the sky
which he could not see, he was a sad little figure to meet on the lonely
Brittany roads. And he sang so sweetly, too! No one had ever heard such
a voice as that, nor such beautiful songs. Every one who heard gave him
money. So he was helping his mother, getting her food and medicine and
clothes to keep her warm. And this thought comforted him when he was
shivering with cold, his rags blown about by the wind and soaked in the
rain.
Day after day, week after week, Herve trudged along the flinty roads.
Often he limped with cold, bleeding feet which the faithful dog would
try to lick warm again. Often he was very tired, and sometimes he was
sad, when people were not kind. But this seldom happened. Once Herve was
passing through a strange village where all the folk were heathen. And a
band of naughty children began to dance about him and tease him, pulling
his hair and twitching his cloak. And they mocked his music, singing,
"Blind boy, blind boy! Where are you going, blind boy!" Then it is said
that a wonderful thing happened. Herve was sorry because they were so
cruel and unkind, and he struck a strange chord of music on his harp and
sang in a low, clear voice,--
"Dance on, bright eyes who can see. Dance on, children who mock a poor
blind boy. Dance on,--and never stop so long as the world wags." And it
is said that the wicked children are still dancing, over the world and
back, around and around, tired though they must be. And they will be
still more tired before all is done. For they must whirl and pirouette
until the end of the world; and that is a long time even for children
who love to dance.
At a different time another unkind thing happened to Saint Herve. But
this time it was a beast who hurt his feelings. And this was strange;
for usually the beasts loved him and tried to help him as the white dog
had done. But after all this was only a mistake; yet it was a sad
mistake, for it cost Herve the life of his faithful guide. This is how
it happened.
As Herve and his dog were passing along a lonely road, a black wolf
sprang out upon them. He mistook the dog for an ancient enemy of his,
another wolf. For indeed Blanco looked like a white wolf,--a wolf such
as Saint Bridget gave the King of Ireland. And without stopping to find
out who he really was, which would have saved all the trouble, they had
a terrible fight, and poor Blanco was killed by the huge black wolf.
Then Herve was sad indeed. He cried and sobbed and was so wretched that
the wolf was sorry. Besides, as soon as the fight was over the wolf had
found out his mistake, and saw that it was a strange dog whom he had
killed, no wolf-enemy at all. He was very much ashamed. He came up to
Herve and fawned at his feet, trying to tell that he was sorry, and
asking what he should do about it. So Herve told him that if he would be
his dog now instead of Blanco he would try to forgive the wolf; though
he was, oh, so sorry to lose his faithful dog.
After that Herve went on his wanderings led by a big black wolf whom he
held in a strong leather leash. And the wolf became as dear to him as
Blanco had been. He slept in the barn with the oxen when he was at home,
and never snapped nor bit at them as most wolves would do. But he kept
sharp watch over his little master, and saw that no one hurt or cheated
him. I should be sorry to think what would have happened to any one who
had dared to touch Herve while the wolf was near. And he was always
near, with his sharp teeth and watchful eyes.
So they wandered and wandered together, Herve and the wolf, carrying
music from town to town, the songs of Hyvarnion and Rivanone. But Herve
had not yet learned to make songs of his own.