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THE DREAMER of DREAMS
by
THE QUEEN of ROUMANIA
Illustrated by Edmund Dulac
Hodder & Stoughton
London, New York, Toronto
[Illustration: _Everything about her was white, glistening and
shining._]
Dedicated
TO MY DAUGHTER
ILEANA
"I LOOKED INTO HER EYES AND THEREIN
I SAW HOPES AND DREAMS AND ALL THE
PROMISES LIFE CONTAINS."
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
EVERYTHING ABOUT HER WAS WHITE, GLISTENING AND SHINING 17
ERIC LAY NOW, STRETCHED AT THE FEET OF THE WOMAN HE
COULD NOT LEAVE 39
A CIRCLE OF MIST SEEMED TO BE SETTLING AROUND THEM 72
IT WAS THE MIRACULOUS BUBBLES 100
AND THERE, LEANING AGAINST A MOSS-GROWN CRUMBLING
TREE, WAS A SPIRIT-LIKE BEING OUT OF ANOTHER WORLD! 125
KING WANDA SAT UPON HIS MARBLE TERRACE BASKING IN
THE FIRST WARMTH OF THE SEASON 173
I
And I dream in my waking dreams, and deep in the dreams of sleep.
FIONA MACLEOD.
Consternation reigned in King Wanda's castle,--the great Northern King
before whose will so many trembled, before whose smile so many crouched
in expectation. His favourite painter had suddenly lost his wits and
refused to finish the picture he had begun on the walls of the ancient
hall where all the great banquets were held--a beautiful hall, where a
frieze was being conjured into life by the incomparable art of Eric
Gundian, a quite young man of wonderful talent, who had been discovered
by the King one sunshiny morning.
Each day that Eric Gundian had spent within the King's walls his
reputation had grown, and he had, all unconsciously, become the Court
favourite. His every whim had been an order; and his gay handsome face
had been loved by old and young.
The creeping jealousies around him had died down of themselves before
the sweetness of his smile and the wonder of his art.
The sound of his voice was like spring birds singing of love in
green-clad forests, and when the sun shone on his head it was like the
haze of a summer's evening over a ripe cornfield. In his eyes slumbered
the beautiful peace of mountain lakes, and in his heart there lived the
simple trust of a pure soul ... and now Eric Gundian, Eric of the
golden locks--Eric the fairy-fingered, Eric the sweet-voiced had lost
his wits!
One morning he awoke, and no one could understand the meaning of his
talk; he declared he had had a dream, and in his dream he had seen two
eyes, the eyes he needed for the completing of his picture; and without
those eyes he never again could touch either colour or brush. King Wanda
had called for him to be brought before his presence, but Eric had
sullenly refused to answer his command.
At first King Wanda had been furiously angry, but then he remembered
Eric's wonderful art, and had deigned to go out to where his favourite
sat on the cool marble steps, that led down to the lake, before the
King's white palace of beauty.
Eric had risen before the crowned figure that bent towards him a stern
face of inquiry, but to all the King's questions, to all his
persuasions, flatteries, threats, and entreaties Eric had replied with a
sad gesture of resignation, that never again could he take up his brush
till he had found those eyes which had haunted his dream. His pain and
his despair were so evident, that King Wanda felt that no words had
force to move the distracted young man. Sadly he departed, and mounted
one by one the shallow marble steps which reflected in glowing colours
the costly clothes that he wore. Once more he turned and looked down
upon his favourite, who sat, his head in his hands, gazing across the
sparkling lake; he heaved a deep sigh and felt like quarrelling with
Fate who had despoiled him of one of his great joys.
As he reached the palace door, he was met by the sweet little figure of
his daughter, who came out into the sunshine, gathering up her long
trailing dress, a golden ball clasped in her hands. The King smiled upon
her, and bade her go down to the water's edge to try and console the
young painter with her radiant youth. With a gay laugh Oona rolled her
golden ball down the snow-white steps, and it fell with a splash into
the water at the young man's feet, making great circles that spread,
always widening, over the blue expanse; but Eric never moved, he kept
staring into the distance as if he were following a vision no other eye
could see. Oona came noiselessly down the steps, rather awed by the
silence and stillness of the young man who had always been her gayest
playfellow.
Gently she drew near to where he sat, and dropped down at his side--then
like a playful kitten she nestled quite close to him and peered up into
his face. The smile faded from her soft lips and gave way to a look of
wonder and distress. She put both arms round her young friend's neck,
and pressing her blossom-like cheek against his shoulder, she asked him
gently if he would not come and play with her beneath the flowering
apple-trees.
Eric looked at her as if she were a stranger; his eyes seemed to wander
over her fair face without any recognition. Suddenly little Oona was
afraid, and drew back; what had come to her friend? Why was he so
changed? Why did she begin to shiver in the warm sunshine so that all
around her lost light and colour?
Once more she drew near, her warm little heart longing to help, longing
to bring the smile back to the eyes of her companion. She wore a
dark-red rose in her belt, and drawing it out she pulled the red petals
off, one by one, letting them drop over his bent head down upon the
white marble at his feet. But Eric never looked up; the velvety petals
lay, a fading little heap, unnoticed upon the marble step, till a small
gust of wind swept them into the water which carried them away far out
of sight.
Poor little Oona rose to her feet; a great fear had come over her; and
gathering up her long white skirts she fled back into the palace as if
she were being pursued.
Still Eric sat, gazing into space, till night came down and blotted out
all things from his sight.
II
I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands ...
because I am hunting for a golden dream.
TAGORE.
The road was long and dusty, and stretched out before the wanderer's
feet. He carried a small wallet on his back, and in his hand was a
strong stick. The little birds on the trees sang glad songs because it
was spring-time, and the branches were weighed down by the wealth of
their blossoms. The wanderer was young, and his face was good to look
upon; his clothes were new, and round his neck he wore a golden chain
which was the royal gift of a King. His step was light and eager, and
there was a look of hope in his eyes; he had a flute in his pocket upon
which he played from time to time a sweet little tune--a little tune the
end notes of which always sounded like an unanswered question.
None had been able to keep him back; Eric of the golden locks, ... Eric
the fairy-fingered, ... Eric the sweet-voiced, ... Eric the mad painter,
had left the white castle of beauty, to wander the wide world over
seeking for two eyes that had come to him in a dream.
In the great hall King Wanda stood, looking on the unfinished frieze; it
was a marvellous painting in glowing colours that ran all round the
room. A master hand alone could have been capable of such perfect
composition, such rich colouring, such charm and poetry. The great
procession represented the triumph of Love.
It was like a wondrous wedding-feast, and all the figures were moving,
an army of joyous youths and maidens, towards a golden throne. On the
throne sat a woman whose golden robe flowed, like a river seen at
sunset, down towards the youths and maidens who were singing songs of
praise, whilst they swung bloom-laden branches over their heads and cast
white roses before the throne of Love. Behind this vision of youth came
stern-faced warriors on snorting chargers, and pearl-crowned queens who
led golden-haired children by the hand. Then came musicians who were
followed by troops of beggars and the tattered forms of the poor, all
hurrying, pressing, streaming towards that golden throne.... But the
woman on the throne had no face.
The fairy fingers of the artist had stopped here, suddenly; before the
final accomplishment, which was to have crowned his whole masterpiece,
Eric's brush had failed him. In his dreams he had seen the face he
wanted, the eyes that haunted him; but the moment he woke his vision
paled, and no effort of will could call back the look of those eyes
which he needed for the woman on the throne.
So Eric--the Eric whom every one loved, who had been the stern King's
joy--had gone mad because of the desire for those eyes of his dream.
The light began to fail in the great hall; still King Wanda stood gazing
at the figure on the throne which had no face. Great rage seized him
because of his helplessness, and a great longing for the fair-haired
youth who had been his joy and pride. Little Oona came up to where he
stood, and slipped her cool hand into his, laying her curly head against
his arm. He turned to her with a deep sigh, and together they passed out
into the flowering garden.
The wanderer sped along the endless road always farther and farther from
the palace of the King. His shoes were covered with dust, and when his
steps began to lag he would take from his pocket the flute upon which he
played that sad little tune with the questioning notes at the end.
It was mid-day--Eric had already walked many miles, and now the sun beat
down with great force on his head. He wondered where he was, but only
vaguely, because since his dream he seemed to have another head on his
shoulders, and none of the tidy thoughts of other days would come to
him. He had no notion where he was going; he only knew that he could not
rest until he found that face he needed for his picture, and above all
those great eyes that haunted his dreams.
He sat very still at the edge of the road where he had thrown himself.
He closed his eyes, and the moment he did so those he was seeking were
before him, great and luminous, with an expression he had never seen in
any other look. How clear they were, and how steadfastly they rested
upon him with never a droop of the eyelids. It did not strike him that
he might be on a fool's errand, he had no doubts and no fears; the great
genius had become like to a little child, confident and with no thoughts
of failure. He had no plan, he simply meant to travel all the world over
till he found what he was seeking; God would care for him as He did for
the birds of the air, and time did not count. He wiped his damp brow,
and then looked about him; all was very still, the air was laden with
the sweet perfumes of summer flowers; the sky was blue, and not a leaf
stirred on the trees. Eric smiled to himself, and played on his flute;
he liked to listen to his own little tunes; they were very sweet to him,
and he quite forgot everything whilst he piped away like a bird. He
began many different melodies, but they always ended on the same
questioning notes. He never remarked that each of his little tunes had
the same ending; to him they were infinitely varied. And intensely sweet
they were, with a haunting sound like human sighs mixed with the
laughter of little children. And now the clearest bird notes rang out,
and then again the sob of a nightingale or the trickling sound of
running water, clear and crystalline, as if a little source were
bubbling forth close by. He was completely absorbed by the music, and
more than one passer-by had stopped a moment to listen; but Eric had
only nodded and smiled as if each one had been a personal acquaintance.
Then he rose and wandered onwards, always keeping straight along the
road that stretched before him, never inquiring his way, serenely
confident that all would go well with him if he only held his one great
aim in view.
Before the King's palace Oona, flitting hither and thither, like a gay
butterfly, played with her golden balls in the sunshine, occasionally
tripping over her too royal apparel, her clear laugh sounding through
the summer-laden air.
But within the still, white palace sat King Wanda, and all the time his
eyes beheld a small cloud of dust, raised by the feet of a golden-haired
youth, who had been the joy of his days, leaving him and all his kingly
splendour to follow a vision which the grey-haired man could never
understand,--and it seemed to him that the little cloud of dust became
always smaller and smaller till he could see it no more.
III
From my heart comes out and dances before me the image of my desire.
TAGORE.
The town was tiny and the streets so narrow that conversation could be
held by neighbours across the road beneath the gables. The high pointed
roofs had all the shades of red and brick, and before nearly each small
window bunches of scarlet geraniums bloomed in profusion,--a sleepy
little place, where the grey cats lazily slept in the middle of the
pavement quite undisturbed by any passer-by, quite safe from being run
over. They blinked their eyes in the bright sunshine, and stretched
their supple limbs to the kindly warmth.
Over the sea of red roofs the different-shaped chimneys sent up their
bluish smoke that hung like a transparent cloud waving slowly backwards
and forwards in the still air. Now steps came along one of the quiet
streets, and the silence was such that they were heard long before the
walker came into sight. He was a quite young man, tired but light of
step, and his uncovered head shone like gold in the sunshine. Round his
neck he wore a heavy golden chain, and his clothes were new; within his
eyes there was a searching look, but a smile was on his face, and the
world seemed to him just one long road upon which he could follow his
dream. He chose the shady side of the street because the day was warm
and the sun had poured down for many hours upon his way.
All the time he glanced right and left as if expecting to find what he
was looking for; but he was in no hurry, and often a glad little song
broke from his lips, whilst the sound of his strong stick on the cobble
stones had a cheery note that echoed along the houses. Eric felt like a
bird of the air, that could fly whither it would, and for which each
tree was a resting-place.
He cared little for how long he had wandered, nor for what he had left
behind, nor where he was going; all he needed was a long road that would
lead him on and on until he reached his goal. And his goal might be
reached any day, any hour, any minute. Hope was always within his heart;
but it mattered not if its fulfilment were to-day or to-morrow.
His smile was so sweet and his face so fair that all were ready to open
their doors to him; so he feared neither hunger nor thirst, neither heat
nor cold, neither night nor storm.
Now he was feeling rather weary, so he sat down on a doorstep, drew his
flute from his pocket, and began to play soft little runs up and down;
his fingers, as if they were dancing, moving lightly over the small
holes.
The flies buzzed around him trying to tease him, but he was indifferent
to all except the sweet notes of his flute. So absorbed was he that he
did not hear the door open behind him, and only looked up when a hand
was laid upon his shoulder.
'Twas the trembling hand of a quite old woman, very bent, her face lined
with many wrinkles, her eyes dim and tired. Eric sprang to his feet and
craved pardon for being in her way.
She looked hard at him, at first with annoyance; but his wonderful smile
disarmed her, so she hobbled away shaking her head, turning round more
than once to look again at the youthful stranger. She had left the door
into the crooked little house wide open.
Eric sat down once more upon the steps and continued his music. It was
wonderful the peace it gave him; he needed nothing else--did not even
try to think, leaving Fate to shape events around him.
From the upper window trails of scarlet geraniums hung down over his
head; a faint breeze fanned them, making some loose petals fall upon his
knees.
With a smile he gathered them in his hand, enjoying the beauty of their
colour, letting them drop through his fingers, playing with them like a
child.
And now from inside the house he caught sounds of a sweet voice singing
softly some old, old song. The notes rose and rose until they entirely
filled the small house behind him.
He looked up to the window, but could see only the red flowers against
the rusty old wall.
He rose and stood in the doorway, and listened to the voice that sounded
like a bird singing in a wood, singing, singing to its mate a song of
Love.
It did not make his heart beat as it would have done the hearts of other
youths, but it dawned upon him that the voice was human, and that it
could only belong to a girl or a woman.
Thoughts came but slowly to him as through a mist, because we know that
since that fatal morning Eric Gundian had lost his wits.
But Eric Gundian was still, to all outward appearance, the same
beautiful young man, with the same face, the same golden hair, the same
luminous smile that bespoke the simple trust of a pure soul.... Now,
moved by some irresistible impulse, Eric walked into the house, and, led
by the glorious voice, climbed the narrow dark stairs, up, up, as if he
were mounting into the skies. Then before the open door of a small
sunlit room, he suddenly paused, seized with wonder....
Sitting near the window, her fair head bent over her work, was a lovely
maiden: she drew stitch after stitch through the snow-white linen, and
the hand which held the shining thread moved backwards and forwards like
a dove hovering over a gateway.
As she worked the song burst from her lips; she sang and sang, with the
glorious gladness of youth which has not yet known either sorrow or
disappointment. There was nothing sad in her tune, it was all hope and
joy and sweetness. Behind her head the geraniums made a fiery haze where
the sun smote upon them with the blinding rays of summer. Then it was
that Gundian felt all his soul awake with the longing that she would
look up, so that he might see her eyes....
Perhaps they would be the eyes he was searching for. To-day, to-morrow,
this hour, or the next he was sure to meet them.
The maiden, all unconscious of his presence, sang on and on, from one
song to another, the sweetness of her voice ringing through the
stillness like glad Easter bells.
The wanderer held his breath; and, both hands pressed against his
breast, waited in a sort of agony for her to raise her head.
At last she did so, but it was towards the window she looked.
She even left her chair and reached far out over the red geraniums to
glance into the street below.
As she sat down her eyes turned to the door where the stranger stood
watching. With a little cry of fear she crumpled the white linen against
her and stared at him without finding a word.
Impulsively Eric sprang forward, and taking her with a quick movement by
both shoulders, he whirled her round to the light, peering with a hungry
longing into her eyes.... All was done in a flash; the astonished girl
was so taken by surprise that she had no time to defend herself against
so sudden an onslaught.
But hardly had he seen her eyes than he let her go again, and putting
his two hands over his face, with a cry of disappointment, he turned and
fled.
Down the dark narrow stairs he sped, out into the bright sunlight; there
he paused a moment to pick up his stick and flute, then ran as if
possessed; and before long he had left the sleepy red-roofed little town
far behind.... Still he ran, ran, eager to get away from the eyes which
were not the eyes he wanted.
IV
I have come far, led by my dreams and visions.
TAGORE.
The moon was shining down upon an endless expanse of snow--as far as the
eye could reach, snow, snow, white and dazzling, strewn with a million
glittering diamonds.
It had ceased snowing; the storm was over; but the wind still blew in
biting blasts, forcing the wanderer to draw his cloak more closely
around him, and to bend his head, as he slowly advanced over that
everlasting desert of white.
He walked and walked; there was no end to this frozen snow-field over
which his feet had made a narrow little path that alone disturbed the
shroud-like surface. And always longer and longer it grew, zigzagging
beneath the quiet face of the moon.
From time to time the wind blew snowflakes against him, and they beat in
his face like a thousand pins, obliging him to shut his eyes not to be
blinded.
Each flake had another shape; there were stars and crosses, moss-like
flowers and strangely shaped butterflies, all dancing in mad circles
around the lonely wayfarer.
Some kept their beautiful shape even when fallen to the ground, and the
moon would light them up like precious jewels out of a queenly casket.
The young man was the only living thing in this wilderness of ice and
snow.
He could not have told how he had got there; what will was driving him
always onwards upon his mad search; but nothing had power to stop him,
nor had fear any place in his soul.
Now, even the wind died down and a hush fell over all things.
The light of the moon became intenser in the growing stillness.
Looking up, Eric saw myriads of stars twinkling down upon him from
unknown heights, like friendly eyes encouraging him on his way. For a
moment he stood still; the silence was now as overpowering as the storm
had been; everything around him was bathed in a cold hard light, the
whiteness of which ceaselessly burnt into his brain. Suddenly a little
bluey flame came dancing out of the distance, then another, and another,
always more numerous, till the whole expanse was covered with them; a
wavering army of little lights, like thousands of lost souls coming
together for a last parade in this land of the forgotten. Eric tried to
seize one with his frozen fingers, but no sooner had he thought to grasp
it than it slid away like a shape in a dream.
Then with childlike eagerness he began a mad chase after the elusive
little flames, running to and fro in the moonlight in an effort to catch
them, yet never succeeding; there were always more and more lights
tempting him onwards over that desert of snow.
At last he laughed aloud, standing still to watch the little blue flames
float away into the unknown out of which they had come, one after
another like a long procession of pilgrims in the night....
They became always smaller and smaller, seeming to beckon to him as they
disappeared, inviting him to follow once more in a mad chase over the
hard frozen snow.
A glow had spread over Eric's cheeks, his eyes sparkled, and the moon
reflected herself within them. He uncovered his head, throwing back his
golden locks with a boyish gesture, whilst he stood still to watch the
wonder of this northern night so clear and dazzling.
As he waited with arms outstretched trying to grasp all the beauty to
his heart, the artist in him keenly alive to his surroundings, he
discerned a shadow approaching, followed by a second and then a third.
And as they came nearer he realized that they were great white bears
hardly to be distinguished from their background.
Our wanderer felt no thrill of fear, the great beasts were so completely
in keeping with their surroundings; their white skins harmonized
perfectly with the immaculate snow. They came slowly towards him, quiet
and majestic, slightly swinging their heavy bodies as they glided
onwards. He could count about twenty.
Their huge soft feet marked also a little road on the even surface which
would soon join the one Eric had made from the opposite direction. Now
they were quite near; their warm breath made little clouds before them
that surrounded their pointed heads like a mist.
Eric watched, fascinated, and made no movement to get out of their way.
The first reached him, and without taking the slightest notice passed
on, making a small circle, but did not pause in his quiet march; and the
others followed in the traces his feet had left behind him, ten, twenty,
thirty. Eric counted them and always more and more came noiselessly over
the snow.
But now there was another shape rising out of the distance, apparently
as white as the watchful animals that led the way, the form of a tall
woman whose garments fell around her in glittering folds.
Eric could not yet discern her features, she was too far off; but he
saw how more than once she paused, bending down to gather from the snow
something which she held within her hands, gazing upon it with curious
intensity.
Nearer and nearer she glided, her bare feet hardly touching the ground.
She seemed shaped out of floating mists.
All the splendour of the night, the dazzling brilliancy, the vast
snow-field, the glory of the moon, the myriad stars, all paled before
the beauty of the woman that now approached.
Everything about her was white, glistening and shining; so shining that
the human eye could hardly bear the radiance. Her long white hair hung
about her; a circle of glow-worms surrounded her forehead. Her head was
bent, still gazing on that which she held in her hand. On either side
marched one of the great bears like two guardians. Just as she neared
the spot where Eric stood she once more bent to the snow, and with
almost loving precaution raised something in her hand.
As she did so her eyes met Eric's--they were beautiful eyes--large,
dark, blazing like two burning coals. The young man felt a great emotion
when they rested upon him, yet he knew directly that they were not the
eyes he was seeking; but greatly did he long to know who the beautiful
woman was, and what she was gathering in the snow.
As if guessing his thoughts she spoke in a clear, soft voice, always
keeping her eyes fixed on his, "Thou wouldst know who I am, O lonely
wanderer? I am the queen of these vast regions of snow--my home is
yonder, where none dare dwell--and on nights when the moon shines bright
I come out of my castle of ice and wander over this desert of white,
searching for the broken hearts that have been banished here. It is only
when the moon shines bright that I can find them, for they are hidden so
far and wide that in the dark nights I could not see them,--and in the
day never can I wander about,--the night alone is made for me. See, I
will show thee those I have found."
And opening her hand, Eric perceived three little pulsing hearts,
beating, beating like frightened birds--and each little heart was
broken, and drops of blood stained the white fingers of the snow-maiden.
She leant towards them and very gently touched them with her lips.
"I carry them home with me," continued the strange woman, "and I put
them there where they are safe, and where they can await God's last
call. I send my little dancing lights before me, and my ice bears walk
with me everywhere. They come from great distances; the moment the moon
shines bright they all assemble before my palace to let me know it is
time for me to begin my search. They make my way, so that I should not
go where the snow is too deep, or where the ice would wound my feet.
"Come! if thou art not afraid, and I shall show thee where I keep my
precious treasure of broken hearts."
Stretching her hand out to the young man, she clasped his, and he found
himself being drawn along across the great white plain, quicker, always
quicker--till all was but a mist before his eyes; yet he felt that even
if it were to death he was being hurried he could not but follow this
wonderful vision of the night.
Faster and faster became their pace.
Eric hardly knew how he was moving; on both sides of them ran the white
bears keeping step with their racing.
All of a sudden his beautiful guide stopped.
And pointing before her Eric looked ... and there, rising out of the
mist, hanging in the air, was a gigantic castle, built out of ice, that
glittered and sparkled above the clouds--a marvellous sight, the
dream-like vision of another world.
The snow-maiden again seized her companion's hand, and now she was
leading him up a thousand slippery steps, hewn out of ice, that seemed
to wind through the clouds. Eric's breath came in gasps; but still on
rushed the fair woman, as with winged feet, till they reached a large
space before the palace portals.
They stood wide open, and from within streamed forth a blue light that
gleamed far out over the smooth snow. "Come," said the snow-maiden, and
she put her finger to her lips.
Still holding Eric by the hand, she led him through the wide-open doors
into a vast hall, made of ice and snow. Great columns supported the
domed roof, and the windows that were of transparent ice gave a strange
blue light that filled the whole place.
The hall was quite empty; the floor was put together out of small pieces
of ice forming wonderful patterns that shimmered in different shades of
white. In the middle a small descending staircase interrupted the smooth
surface--a sort of dark well, the first steps of which shone bluish and
ghost-like. A great light came up from somewhere far down in the heart
of the earth.
The snow-maiden, still tightly clasping Eric's hand, now began to
descend the narrow stairs, and the deeper they went the stronger became
the light, till they reached a low vaulted chamber of great size and
quite round, in the middle of which burnt a blinding circle of light. At
first Eric was too bewildered to grasp the meaning of that ring of
flame; then he recognized the little tongues of fire that had mocked him
out yonder in the wilderness. The snow-maiden had sunk on her knees, and
beckoning Eric to come nearer, she raised one of the little fluttering
blazes that remained balanced on her hand like a luminous butterfly.
Eric stared, his head close to his beautiful companion's, and saw a
small hole made in the snow, where lay a tiny red heart which was split
right across.
"This," whispered the snow-maiden, "is the heart of a poor little child,
whose mother abandoned it, and who died of grief. I found it several
years ago.
"Every day I come here to all my hearts, so that they shall not feel
lonely; and these little flames are their guardians. Each little
will-o'-the-wisp protects one of the hearts and keeps it warm, so that
it shall not perish.
"And see! This one is my favourite, but it is very difficult to keep
alive because it spent its life too rapidly, too passionately. It is the
heart of a poet and a lover; a lover whose passion was so violent that
he died quite suddenly, one flower-scented night, when his hope had been
torn from him, and his heart broke right in two. Behold I had to bind it
together with the silver threads of my hair--and often, very often, must
I lay my warm lips against it because it cannot bear its longing."
The white woman held the bound pieces in both hands, and gazed upon them
with yearning tenderness, whilst two of the little blue lights hovered
near, throwing a beautiful radiance over her face.
"Beside this one I always keep two little flames, because it needs more
care than all the others; a poet's heart is so frail a thing; and how
much more so a poet that was a lover!"
With the utmost gentleness she laid the heart down and bent towards
another.
"This is the heart of a mother who lost all her blessed treasures; see
how cruelly wounded it is; but it is the strongest of all, because the
strength of a mother's heart is unequalled by any other--and God has a
special place awaiting it when the great Day comes."
From heart to heart the snow-maiden moved, with bent head and gentle
hands.
The circle of glow-worms round her brow flickered and sparkled like a
magic flower.
"This heart," said the snow-maiden, raising a very dark object in her
hand, "is black, because it is that of a great sinner; and sometimes the
glow that guards it becomes quite small and dim, almost goes out;
because the heart suffers greatly of its own wickedness; it was saved
because it broke.
"I found it very far off, in a place amongst rocks; and when I tried to
raise it, it began to roll away from me, always farther, so that I had
to run, to run after it with an anxious feeling that I would not be able
to save it. It left traces of blood wherever it passed, so at last I
discovered it in a dark hole beside a skull that grimaced at me with a
hollow grin: when finally I held it in my warm hand I knew that it was
at rest, and I carried it home very slowly.
"Whilst I retraced my steps along the weary way I had come, I sang to
it, soft simple songs that children love. As I sang I felt the warm
blood trickle through my fingers, and upon the snow I saw that all the
drops of blood had run together into the form of a small red cross,
which marked upon the whiteness a sign of forgiveness.
"I looked at my hand and noticed that the drops of blood had turned into
tears which left no more stain where they fell, but had washed from my
fingers all traces of soil. This heart also needs me, but in another
way; I always sing to it those simple songs, for it must forget all else
except the days when it was at its mother's knee." Stretching her hands
across the circle of light the tall vision in the dazzling robe seemed
to bless the many waiting throbbing hearts.
"I call this place my garden of expectation! And one day a great joy
will arise from it; ... songs of praise sung by myriads of heavenly
voices; ... and this light is but feeble compared to the light which
will shine that day."
Eric was still on his knees; he looked up at that glorious form beside
him, and as entranced he watched, her long white hair turned into a soft
misty veil that flowed down upon the ice like the mantle of a saint, and
the circle of glow-worms had become a halo round the face, that was the
face of one of God's own angels.
V
And though blind and deaf for a hundred years I would see her more
fair than any poet has sung.
FIONA MACLEOD.
Eric had now left the snow-maiden far behind, had left her there amongst
the broken hearts she tended with such gentle hand and deep
understanding.
He had gazed his last upon her as she stood in the circle of light all
shining and bright; and then, knowing that he must go, he had torn
himself away, feeling that otherwise he would not have the strength to
continue his road, and part from a being so full of radiance and
wonderful beauty.
And now he was wandering in a great forest of fir-trees, his feet
skimming quickly over the crackling snow. It was still night around him,
but all the trees were lit with millions of candles. Each tree was an
enormous Christmas tree. The whole wood was one blaze of light ... this
he knew was the snow-maiden's garden!
It was an astonishing sight; but he fled along; he dared not stay.
As he ran he heard the sound of many wings following him. He lifted his
head; in and out through the great branches of the candle-lit pines he
saw huge white birds appear and disappear, but so rapidly that he could
never distinguish what kind they were.
Now he came out of the forest, and saw a vast frozen sea before him. As
he stepped from the shelter of the trees the whole air was filled with
white wings. He looked up and saw endless flocks of wild swans; and
circling far above them were eagles as white as they, which flew always
higher, higher, farther, farther, settling at last upon the blocks of
ice that formed forbidding barriers between sea and land.
All these feathered creatures were the companions of the beautiful woman
he had left.
He turned, and there, rising above the illuminated forest, far above the
clouds, seemingly suspended in the air, was the castle of ice, revealed
a last time to his enraptured sight.
He threw out his arms full of longing, as if he too had left his heart
within those translucent walls ... then the heavy snow-laden clouds
descended and wiped out the dream like a vision of the night.
VI
Joy rises in me like a summer's morn.
COLERIDGE.
It was evening; the sea was calm--so calm that it looked like an
enormous mirror into which the sky was reflecting its manifold hues,
resembling a crowned woman trying on before her glass various gorgeous
robes of glowing colours. Eric Gundian sat at the helm of the boat, his
hands folded, gazing before him at the burning horizon; above him the
huge rusty sail spread like the giant wing of a bird. The boat moved
slowly, and yet it cut steadily through the water, whilst the deep green
waves ran along each side like racers--Gundian was waiting ... he knew
not for what, but a great peace was over his soul, and his eyes had a
steadfast look of happiness.
The sky was unfurling before him its most precious colours, all the
tones of red and gold and orange, reminding him of the palette he had
put away.
Now his hands were idle, no doubt, but the artist was still keenly
alive, and this beauty and peace seemed part of the very depth of his
nature.
Far down within him he knew that his great talent slept, awaiting the
day when his hands would be untied to finish his great work.
His hope and trust were simple, and his smile was sweeter than ever.
The red of the sky began now to stain the quiet endless sea--it sank
beneath the surface till the whole moving mass was an ocean of flame
and light; the little waves that ran along on both sides were like
sea-maidens trailing their shining tresses over the water.
Gundian rose and stood at the very extremity of the boat, his slim
figure outlined by a circle of light. Then he raised his clear young
voice, and sang an old song of his country, a song so strange and sweet,
that the sailors behind him took up the chorus and the deep manly voices
joined in, forming a long echo to the triumphant notes of their young
companion.
He turned round to them, his golden locks thrown back, his beautiful
eyes full of dreams and the strength of all his hopes; they had the
feeling that with his youth and beauty he was the very incarnation of
life and love. Now his voice was softer; the song became a great sigh of
longing, like a long-drawn effort towards the boundless, unreachable
promises of life.
The old men sank on their knees and the young ones covered their eyes
with their hands; each saw before his mind the dreams of his manhood,
the loves he had left, the hopes he had buried, the future he longed for
or feared.
The glorious colours had paled, only a faint reflection remained; the
wind began to fill the sail, the boat seemed to bound forward on its
course.
Eric's upright figure had lost its circle of light; his dark form at the
helm of the boat was seen now above, now beneath the horizon.
The waves grew in size, and were no longer like slim racers keeping pace
with the friendly vessel, but more like great angry beasts longing to
consume the frail craft that so confidently rode upon their restless
heaving backs.
The sail suddenly filled and expanded ready to burst; and the seamen
tightened the cords, being tossed from side to side as they moved
about.
Gundian's face was wet with the spray; his bright young eyes peered
before him into the growing darkness.
A lantern had been lit and shone far above him like the Star of
Bethlehem, flashing on his uncovered head, casting in turn lights and
shadows over the fairness of his face. The boat bounded and creaked and
groaned; the wind began to howl, frightened gulls flew around the sail
with cries of distress, their white wings passing in and out of the
gleam of the lantern.
The waves grew greater and greater, beating the sides of the vessel,
throwing huge masses of water over the low rail. Eric had to keep a firm
grip on the ropes so as not to be hurled into the restless, surging,
wailing deep--to him this growing storm was a mighty joy; he revelled in
the wind with its many tormented voices; he loved the salt water that
dashed in his face, drenched his clothes, and tore at the chain he wore
round his neck.
He loved the heaving and sinking of the vessel under him; he loved the
weird shrieks of the birds, the flashing of their white wings when they
came within the halo,--loved the shimmer of the lantern on the enormous,
rolling, always advancing waves.
He trusted the seaman that sailed the ship--trusted the strong boards on
which he stood,--above all he trusted with a child's simplicity the
great God above.
All through the night the storm howled, and raged, and sobbed; and the
brave little craft fought her way through the foaming masses, till the
morning slowly overcame the darkness, bringing with the new day a hush
that held a promise of peace and rest. Thus did day follow on day, night
on night.
Gundian either basked in the sun, or hardened his hands working with the
sailors, or sang them sweet songs that melted their hearts, fired their
blood, awoke their longings, brought tears to their eyes, or a laugh to
their lips. But at times he would also play his little flute; then, all
else vanished from his mind, and always, always did the flute hold the
same questioning notes that were like the cry of his soul for the
unknown vision he was pursuing, that dreams alone allowed him to grasp.
The rough men in the boat looked upon him as a bright being of another
sphere. They imagined he brought luck to their voyage, that his presence
calmed the storm and had power over the elements, that his wonderful
voice and magic flute enchanted the striving, ever-changing winds and
waves. They loved him, and were in fear of the day when he would bid
them good-bye and withdraw his sunny presence from their lives.
They felt that he was but a bird of passage, that it lay not within
their power to keep him for ever amongst them, and each day that they
looked on his guileless face and on the light that kindled in his eye,
was a gift from on high, a day of blessing and plenty.
Eric could not explain why he remained, neither did he know why all of a
sudden, one day of calm and gladness, he felt he must take up again the
call of the road that lay before him.
It was on a distant and lonely shore; the boat lay drawn up on the
shell-covered beach.
The golden-haired youth looked up into the sky and saw a small bird
flying into the limitless distance.
Then Eric knew that he must follow the direction in which the bird had
disappeared.
They could not stop him, he had to go. He took his thick stick in his
hand, put his flute in his pocket, hung his cloak over his shoulder;
then, turning round many a time to wave his cap to the rough companions
of yesterday, he walked away into the growing heat of the day.
VII
Yet there was round thee such a dawn of light ne'er seen before.
WOLFE.
The shore was endless and straight, Eric felt no fatigue; his face was
browned by the wind, the waves, and the sun. His eyes had taken some of
the blue of sea and sky. His clothes were soiled, and looked less new
than the day he had left King Wanda's palace.
But the chain around his neck glistened in the heat of the noon.
Eric walked and walked, advancing but slowly, because his feet sank into
the deep sand as he went.
As usual his heart was full of joy, and it mattered little to him where
he went, although no changing beauty of the coast, no small cloud in the
sky, no light in the sea passed by unnoticed.
To him each separate beauty was like a picture his soul had conceived.
Now high rocks began to change the aspect of the flat lonely coast, and
soon all the young man's activity was needed to climb the obstacles that
blocked his way.
From that moment his advance became slower and more painful, he had to
draw breath; more than once he had thrown himself down upon the soft
sand, his golden locks hidden amongst the wet pebbles, his heart
thumping against his side. But he loved it all, rocks and sea and
burning sun; and each difficulty that arose on the road made him feel
but all the happier. A joyful heart is one of God's most precious
gifts.
It was late afternoon; and, having climbed over some slippery rocks,
Eric reached a quiet little bay, narrow, and rounded by precipitous
cliffs on all sides.
There the sea was very silent, very green and transparent, and the flat
little waves hardly made a sound as each in turn left a white line of
foam along the powdery sand.
Eric lay on his back, his cap drawn over his eyes, his cloak rolled up
under his head, a pleasant drowsiness filling his being after the
efforts he had made.
Suddenly he sat up with a start, wide awake now, all his senses alert.
He had heard something which sounded like the deep tones of a bell,
coming from afar off, but distinctly, like a dismal and yet persistent
voice, calling ... calling.
He looked around him full of excitement, keenly interested, and ready
for any new adventure.
He rose to his feet and stood, his hand to his ear, listening.
For a moment there was silence, and then again distinctly the sound of a
deep-toned bell--and this time he distinguished that the sound came from
the rocks that bounded the farther side of the little bay.
Eric felt he must follow that sound; it drew him towards it; he could
not resist those deep tones calling, calling.... A voice full of warning
or invitation?...
He could not make out which, neither did he worry his mind about
it,--was he not a bird of the air free and joyful, always a song on his
lips, loving the sun that shone down upon him, the air that caressed his
cheeks, and the good firm earth on which he stood?
The notes of the bell were now louder, now softer; but their tone could
not be resisted, and the beautiful youth felt he must follow; so he
began moving towards the spot whence the sound seemed to be coming.
Soon he stood before a high cliff over which long creeping plants were
growing, hanging flexible branches covered over and over with some
coral-coloured berry, more like long chains of bright beads than a
living plant.
This was the only rock on which anything grew, and the shoots took root
apparently out of the dark hard stone high above his head. He lifted
some of the long trailing branches in both his hands, and as he did so
the sound of the bell was distinctly heard, as if quite near.
Eric knelt down and noticed with surprise that there was a large opening
in the rock, beneath the coral-coloured plant, like the entry to a cave;
he stooped, carefully avoiding the hanging growth, and advanced
gropingly to find himself in a dark tunnel.
The sound of the bell was more and more distinct, the calling more
insistent. With crouching gait Eric moved along, feeling his way with
his hands; it was quite dark, and the passage was narrow, with damp
rough sides, against which he often bruised his fingers.
Now a curious greenish light began to relieve the complete obscurity in
which he had been for some minutes, and little by little Eric
distinguished in the far distance what was probably the end of the
mysterious entry.
The green light became always stronger; and now our wanderer found
himself inside the most marvellous place he had ever seen.
It was a grotto, the walls and domed roof of which had the hue of
transparent emeralds; and all around was green--the rocks, the sand, the
deep pool of water at his feet, all radiated rays of liquid green light.
The strip of beach he stood upon was quite shallow, so that his feet
almost touched the deep dark water. In the middle of the tiny lake that
filled this wonderful grotto hung a bell, also green and wondrously
shining; and although the rest of the water was absolutely calm, strong
short waves rose from the centre and hit against the bell, bringing
forth the deep boom that had first lured Eric into this magic hall.
Straight across the dark water a narrow bridge was stretched, both sides
resting on the tinted sand, passing in the middle quite near to the
calling bell.
The bridge was but a yielding plank, a hand's-breadth wide, overgrown
with slippery, dripping moss as green as grass on a spring day when the
sun shines over it.
The bell gave out weird sounds, sometimes like a cautioning voice
warning him against some danger--then again it was full of love and
entreaty, containing an endless promise of joy and sweetness.
But Eric was too young and happy to hear within its notes anything but
entrancing melodies existing solely to delight his ears.
Unhesitatingly he stepped on to the swaying board, upon which he could
only advance by carefully putting one foot before the other, almost like
balancing himself on a tight-rope. This gave him great joy, and his
merry laugh echoed round the green walls as if he were joking with gay
comrades. An immense curiosity was upon him to look at the bell from
near, and to see what lay on the other side of the dark lake.
He had the intuition that something still more surprising was hidden not
far off.