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.
[Illustration: King Wanda sat upon his marble terrace basking in the
first warmth of the season.]
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.
XXX
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.
THE END
_Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
* * * * *
THE LILY OF LIFE
A FAIRY STORY
BY THE
QUEEN OF ROUMANIA
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY HELEN STRATTON
"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._