even on the worst days, he was busy at his place in the piazza, where the
cathedral, which he had been building for three years, was nearing
completion. The greatest energy at that moment was being expended on the
dome, which rose proudly over the crossing of the nave and transepts.
Whenever Nonna looked over the duchess' shoulder to get a glimpse of
George, he was always seen there so long as the sun was in the heavens.
Many times the hearts of the two women stood still when they saw him
climb to the highest point of the scaffolding in order to direct the work
from there. Fate had only to make his foot slip one little inch or
decree that a wasp should sting him on the finger to put an end to his
existence. The poor mother was doubly anxious because he seemed so
unconscious of the risk he ran up there and looked about him even more
boldly and self-reliantly than usual.
The dome was already perfectly round. Why wasn't it finished, and why
must he go on climbing again and again that frightful scaffolding?
"Nonna, Nonna, you must look, I can stand it no longer," she cried one
day after she had been regarding the glass for a long time. "Hold me--he
is going to jump. Nonna, is he safe? I can no longer see." And the
glass shook in her hand.
"Oh!" the old woman answered, heaving a sigh of relief, "there he stands
as solidly and firmly as the statue of Wendelin I. in the market-place.
See. . . ."
"Yes, yes, there he is," the duchess cried and fell on her knees to
thank Heaven.
The nurse continued to look in the glass. Suddenly she shrieked aloud
and her mistress sank together and covered her face with her hands.
"Has he fallen? Is he dead?" she groaned.
But Nonna, despite her gout, sprang up and ran to her mistress with the
mirror in her hand and stammering, half laughing and half crying, like
one drunk yet possessed of his senses: "George, our George, look. Our
prince has the grey lock. Here, before my very eyes I saw it grow."
The duchess jumped up, cast one glance into the glass, saw the grey lock
distinctly, and then forgetting that she was a princess and Nonna but a
humble servant, threw her arms about her and kissed her on the mouth,
above which grew so luxuriant a moustache that many a page would gladly
have exchanged his young upper lip for her older one. Then the duchess
reached once more for the mirror to assure herself that her eyes had not
been deceived, but her fingers trembled so with excitement that the glass
slipped from her hand and fell to the floor where it broke in a thousand
pieces.
What a fright it gave them! Fortunately Nonna, after a lifetime spent in
the care of babies, had laid aside what we call nerves, else she had
certainly fallen in a swoon like her mistress; she was consequently able
to support the duchess and soothe her with gentle words.
In the meanwhile the young architect from the staging inspected the stone
which crowned the dome and found that it had been well set. But he had
no suspicion that the grey lock had grown on his head. Older architects
came and absorbed his attention. They pressed his hand, praised him and
said that he had just finished a marvellous work of art. They examined,
with him, the interior of the cathedral, and then appeared the prince for
whom George had built the church, and to him the architects explained how
solid and well proportioned was the dome which had been finished a few
hours before. The noble prince listened with comprehension; after he was
satisfied he drew George to his breast and said: "I thank, you my friend.
Despite your youth I entrusted you with a great undertaking and you have
more than fulfilled my most sanguine expectations. At my age we count it
gain not to be disappointed, and the day when our expectations are not
only fulfilled, but surpassed we number among our festivals. Your work
will be an ornament to the city and state, and will insure you undying
fame. Take this from a man who wishes you well."
The prince took the golden chain from his own neck, hung it about
George's, and continued:
"Art is easy, some say; others, that it is difficult. Both are right.
It must be delightful and ennobling to design such a work but the
carrying out must be laborious and attended with many perplexities.
I can see that you have found it so, for only yesterday I remarked with
pleasure the youthful glint of your brown hair and today,--no doubt while
you were superintending the laying of the dome's crown,--a lock of hair
above your left temple has turned grey, Master Peregrinus."
George reeled at this sudden and unexpected fulfilment of the dearest
wish of his soul. He had gone out into the world under this name of
Peregrinus and had never betrayed the fact that he was a prince's son.
For several years his heart had been overflowing with love for the
daughter of the prince and he had known that she reciprocated his
affection sincerely, yet for the sake of his own family he had battled
bravely with his passion and had borne his heartache and longing in
silence.
Proofs had not been wanting to show hint how devoted the prince was to
him, and if he had been able to say to his patron, "I am a Greylock," no
doubt his lord would gladly have accorded his daughter's hand to him.
George had repeated this to himself a thousand times, but he had remained
firm, had kept his counsel and had not ceased to hope that by righteous
energy and industry he might accomplish the "great and good task" which
had been required of him in Misdral's cave. When his grey lock grew, the
fairy Clementine's fish had said to him, then would he know that he had
achieved something great and good, and that he might bear once more the
name of his proud race and return home without exposing his family to any
danger. He had reached the goal, the task was completed, he might call
himself a Greylock once more, for the curl which was the pride of his
race now adorned his head too.
"The prince watched him turn very red then very pale and finally said
inquiringly "Well, my Peregrinus?" The architect fell upon his knee,
kissed the prince's hand and cried:
"I am not Peregrinus. Henceforth I am a Greylock, I am George, the
second son of the Duke Wendelin, of whom you have heard, and I must
confess to you, my noble lord, that I love your daughter Speranza,
and I would not exchange places with any god if you would but give
us your blessing."
"A Greylock!" the prince exclaimed. "Truly, truly this day should not
be reckoned among the feast-days but should be regarded as the best day
in all the year. Come to my arms, my dear, my worthy son!"
An hour later the architect held the princess in his arms. What a
wedding they had! George did not return immediately to his own home.
He wrote to his mother that he was alive and well and intended to visit
her in company with his young bride as soon as he had finished a great
work with which he was occupied. He sent with the letter a portrait of
his wife and when the duchess saw it and read the letter she grew ten
years younger from pure delight, and old Nonna at least five. When
Wendelin XVI. was informed that his brother still lived, he smiled and
the queen followed his example, but as soon as they were alone she cried:
"The land of the Greylocks will be smaller than ever now and even before
it was not so great as my father's."
When Speranza presented her husband with a son the duchess and her
faithful attendant Nonna went to Italy, and the meeting between mother
and son was beyond all measure joyful. Two months she spent with her
dear children and then she returned home, George and his wife having
promised to visit her the following year in the capital of the Greylocks.
The cathedral was finished. There was no finer building under the sun
and artists and connoisseurs flocked from all parts of the world to see
it. George received the commendations of the most critical and his name
was ranked among those of the greatest architects.
Proud of his work, yet ever modest, he together with his wife and child
returned to his home.
He found great rejoicings in progress when he crossed the frontiers, for
Moustache, the field-marshal, had just conquered another enemy, and by
the conditions of the treaty of peace another province came into the
possession of the Greylocks, making their kingdom then as large as that
of the queen's father.
When George entered the capital he found flags flying, heard bells
pealing, the explosions of mortars and firing of cannon, sometimes one
shot after another, sometimes a deafening salvo of many guns together,
and a thousand voices shouting "Hurrah, hurrah! Long live Wendelin the
Lucky!"
The Assembly of States had decided the day before that the king by whom
the land had been so wonderfully extended, and whose government had been
so prosperous that not even a shadow of misfortune had fallen across it,
should be called: "Wendelin the Lucky."
This title of honour was to be seen on all the flags, triumphal arches,
transparencies, and even on the ginger-bread cakes in the cook-shops.
George and his lovely wife rejoiced with the other jubilant people, but
they were happiest when they were alone with his mother.
Wendelin XVI. received his brother and his brother's wife in the great
reception room, and even went further forward to meet him than the point
prescribed by the master of ceremonies; the queen made good this
violation of etiquette by remaining herself well within the boundaries
laid down. After the feast Wendelin went with his brother onto the
balcony, and as he stood opposite to George and looked at him more
closely he let his languid eyelids droop, for it seemed to him that his
brother was a man of iron, and he suddenly felt as if his own backbone
were made of dough.
In the evening the lake was beautifully illuminated, and the day was to
end with a boating party on the water enlivened with music and fireworks.
In the first boat, on cushions of velvet and ermine, sat Wendelin XVI.
and his queen, in the second George and his beloved wife. His mother
could not bear to be separated from these two, or to miss for even an
hour the happiness of having them with her.
The weather for the festivals was as perfect as they could have wished.
The full moon shone more brilliantly than usual, as if to congratulate
the king on his new title, the bells pealed forth their chimes again, a
chorus of maidens and boys in skiffs followed the state gondola of the
royal pair, singing the new song which had just been composed in their
honour, and which consisted of twenty-four stanzas, each one ending with
the lines:
"The luck and glory let us sing Of lucky Wendelin, our king!"
By his side sat his wife, who continued her complaints against the newly-
found brother, and urged her husband to make investigations as to whether
or not this architect were a true Greylock, "To be sure, both he and his
son have the grey lock," she said, "but then they both have light hair,
and the barber's craft has made great strides lately; and certainly that
fat-cheeked baby looks as if it belonged in the cradle of a peasant
rather than in that of a prince." Wendelin XVI did not listen to what she
said; his heart was very heavy, and every time one of the bells rang out
above the others, or the chorus sang, "lucky Wendelin, our king,"
particularly distinctly and enthusiastically, he felt as if he were being
jeered at and ridiculed. He longed to cry aloud in his shame and pain,
and to fly for comfort to his sympathetic mother and strong brother in
the other boat. When he stared into the water it seemed as if the fish
made fun of him, and if he looked at the sky he imagined the moon made a
mocking grimace at him, and looked down scornfully at the wretched man
whom they called "fortunate." He knew not where to gaze, he withdrew
within himself, and tried to shut his ears, while he wished to Heaven
that he could change places with the active sailor opposite who was
setting the purple sail with his brawny arms.
A light breeze wafted the royal gondola towards the island where the
fireworks were to be displayed. The second boat followed at a short
distance. George held his mother's hand and his wife's in his own, few
words were spoken, but their very silence betrayed the great treasure of
their love and happiness, and spoke more plainly than long discourses how
dear these three persons were to one another.
The royal gondola floated quietly past the cliff that separated the
southern from the northern part of the lake; no sooner had the second
boat approached it, however, than an unexpected and fearful gust of wind
blew suddenly from the clefts of the rocks and struck the boat, and
before the sailors had time to lower the sail threw it onto its beam
ends. George sprang forward instantly to help the sailors right her, but
a second gust tore away the flapping sail, and capsized the gondola,
which was caught and carried to the bottom by a rushing eddy. Both of
the women rose from the waves at George's side. He grasped his mother,
and struggled bravely against the wind and current until he laid her on
the beach at the foot of the cliff. Then he swam back as rapidly as he
could to the place of the accident. His mother was safe, but his wife,
his beloved, his all? To rescue her, or to drown with her was his sole
idea.
At that moment he perceived a long golden streak rising and falling with
the waves. It was a lock of her hair, her wonderful silken hair. With
mighty strokes he sped towards it, reached it, grasped it, then his
trembling hands felt her body and lifted her up. She breathed, she
lived, and it depended on him to save her from the evil spirit, from
death. With one arm he held her to him, with the other he parted the
waters; but the lake seemed to turn to a mighty torrent that bore down
upon him with its heavy waves. He struggled, he fought with panting
breast, yet in vain, always in vain. He felt that his strength was being
exhausted. If no one came to his aid, he was lost; he raised his head to
look for help.
He saw his brother's gondola sailing as peacefully and undisturbed from
storm or accident as a swan in the moonlight, and the bitter thought
passed through his mind, that Wendelin was the lucky one, and that he had
been born to misfortune.
His arm was struggling with the tide once more, and this time more
successfully. Then Speranza opened her eyes, recognized him, and,
kissing him on the forehead, murmured: "My own love, how good you are!"
From the cliff the duchess called to him: "George, my best, my only
son!" His heart warmed within him, all his bitterness disappeared, and
the waves seemed to rock him and the burden in his arms as in a cradle.
The picture of his mother floated before his vision, that of his child,
and of his beautiful work, the great indestructible cathedral, which he
had erected to the honour of God. He reflected what sweet joy each new
spring had brought him, how he had been blessed in his work, what
exquisite delight he derived from all that was beautiful in the world.
No, no, no. Of all the men on this earth, he, the child destined to
misfortune, was the happiest. Overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude, he
returned his wife's kiss. Saved! She was saved! He felt firm ground
beneath his feet; he lifted her on high; but, just as he laid her in the
strong arms that reached down from the cliff to receive her, a high wave
caught him and dragged him back into the deep, and the waters closed over
him.
The next morning a fisherman found his body. George's wife and mother
were saved. The wise men of the land said that the ill-starred child had
perished, as they had foreseen, and the people echoed their words.
In the mausoleum of the Greylocks only two places remained empty, and
these had to be kept for Wendelin the Lucky and his queen, consequently
the ill-omened son might not even rest in the grave of his fathers, and
George was buried on a green hillside, whence there was a beautiful view
of the lake and distant landscape.
King Wendelin the Lucky and his wife lived to a good old age. After the
king became childish, he ceased to groan and whimper in the night, as he
had formerly done. When he died, he was interred next to Queen Isabella,
in the coldest corner of the marble mausoleum, and no ray of sun ever
rested on his stone sarcophagus. His son, Wendelin XVII., visited his
father's grave once a year, on All Saints' Day, and laid a dry wreath of
immortelles on the lid of the coffin.
George's resting-place was surrounded by bushes and flowers. His mother
and wife and child visited it and cared for it. When the spring came,
nightingales, redbreasts, finches and thrushes without number sang their
merry notes above the head of the unfortunate one who lay there. His son
George grew to be the pride of his mother, and became a noble prince
in beautiful Italy. Centuries have passed since then, yet to-day
enthusiastic artists still make pilgrimages to the hillside where the sun
shines so brightly, to lay wreaths on the grave of the great architect
George Peregrinus of the princely house of the Greylocks.
They at least do not regard him who lies there as one born to misfortune.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
At my age we count it gain not to be disappointed
Had laid aside what we call nerves
Like a clock that points to one hour while it strikes another
To-morrow could give them nothing better than to-day