The Dreamer Of Dreams Part 20

XXII

He seeks to know The joy that is more great than joy The beauty of the old green earth can give.

FIONA MACLEOD.

Zorka kept her promise; and one day, who knows whence, Eric found all he needed for beginning the picture the old woman had commanded him to paint.

The tents had been pitched quite near to a forest all shining and shimmering in every shade of gold; gold under foot, gold overhead, gold falling softly from every bough.

The sun threw his glinting rays upon all the beauty that was a last glorious farewell Nature was taking from the departing year. The smoke of the camps and the mist of the autumn mornings mingled like spirit souls, and waved in moving vapours, veils that some fairy might have hung over the branches to fill her dwelling with mystic shadows and shades. From within the shelter of the wood, the great naked plain could be seen as far as the eye could reach, but the waving ocean of corn was a past dream of the summer months.

Now the fields and pastures looked desolate and barren, dark and cold, even beneath the face of the kindly life-giving planet that shone down upon it with a friendly face.

The rusty tents resembled dwarf pyramids standing upon some desert seen from afar off.

But the forest was a palace fit for a king, fashioned out of l.u.s.trous rays all woven together into a web of sunny yellows, and there sat Eric for many an hour trying to make his picture live.

Stella never refused to let him take her hand, and followed him meekly whither he led. He seated her upon a bank of gra.s.s, having first covered it over and over with leaves of fiery red.

For her lovely feet he made a nest of warm green moss, and at her side he laid a sycamore leaf full of jet-black bramble-berries as polished as agate b.a.l.l.s.

Out of their flexible branches he wound a wreath about her head; their fading leaves made a many-tinted crown, more beautiful than a queen could wear, all amber, topaz, and burnished gold, deep and rich in hue, splashed in places as with stains of blood.

In and out among the rusty leaves he had plaited dark purple aster stars that nestled among her waving hair. Whilst his nervous fingers were by slow degrees laying hold of his forsaken art, Stella played him ancient tunes of such melting sweetness that often his hot tears flowed down and mixed in crystal rivulets with the colours on his palette. As she played, all the visions of the days of his wanderings rose up out of the distance and floated like shadows before his brain.

He saw little Oona playing with her b.a.l.l.s on the smooth marble terrace, saw the sleepy little town with the scarlet bunches of geraniums, heard the bird-like voice of the unknown girl singing her song of innocence.

He walked again under the face of the moon into the ice maiden's snowy castle, and there he stood with her amongst the beating, broken hearts that lay awaiting the great trumpet call. He stood on the wave-tossed boards of the frail little vessel, mingling his voice with the cries of the sea.

Then, wandering through the enchanted grottos, he came to the place where he shudderingly knelt by the murdered form of the far too entrancing woman. In the ruined cathedral the Virgin's eyes once again blessed his folded hands with her flowing tears.

Above all, the venerated face of his dearly loved master rose startlingly vivid, waving to him with trembling hands, and his little travelling companion came running towards him, her dear arms outstretched in joyous greeting.

The silent army of phantoms pa.s.sed and faded into s.p.a.ce, so that amongst the falling leaves of autumn he imagined he could clearly see the many-coloured bubbles rise like tropical b.u.t.terflies floating always farther away.

Last of all came Radu the shepherd, with eyes resembling two burning coals, his white teeth shining from between his smiling lips.

And there was not one of these trembling apparitions that did not look down upon him with loving glances;--only this fair being playing at his side would not turn her look his way.

Oh, those eyes that his fairy fingers at last were fixing on his canvas: deep, grey, wide open, surrounded by long black lashes that were like dark rays radiating from the unfathomed pupils, starry eyes overflowing with celestial dreams, eyes that never, ah, never would come down to look into his!

He clenched his teeth, and, casting away his brushes, he threw himself down at her feet, laying his face close against them as they rested, pale twin sisters, amongst the mosses he had gathered.

But Stella was as ever in a world of her own; and whilst the young painter was trembling with uncontrollable longing, his lips pressed upon the ground as close to her as he dared, she serenely played on her violin, making it cry out all the infinite yearning to which her ethereal nature had never yet awakened.

XXIII

And know that the sorrow of sorrows is only a law of his being.

FIONA MACLEOD.

The tired leaves were falling always thicker; the days were shorter; night came down with the rapidity of a swooping bird; and more than once in the early morn a white frost had covered the ground like crystallized sugar strewn all over the earth.

The gypsies' camp was still pitched beside the wood. They had work to do in the villages close by, and often in the evenings the long-suffering donkeys came back heavily laden with vessels of shining copper, which the dark people mended and patched, as is the wont of their wandering race.

Their voices could be heard, either in song or strife, as they hammered away on the rounded caldrons that shone from far, the colour of molten lead.

The naked children played about in noisy groups, quarrelling like little brown monkeys, pursuing, with extended hands, every traveller that ventured too near their tents, and relating their misery with lamentable cries.

There was word of moving to some warmer clime, but as yet no order of march had been given, though the nights were cold and the large fires that were lit, and glowed in the dark like funeral pyres, were hardly sufficient protection. When the young men had finished their work for the day they would sit around in groups, playing games of cards with packs all greasy and blackened by constant use, games which often ended in noisy discord, when more than one sharpened blade would have to be knocked out of angry hands. The old women came together and sat by the leaping flames, weird witches of ancient legends, talking and chattering, relating endless yarns of endless deeds both gay and sinister, often scolding the young ones for all they had left undone, threatening them with every curse if they did not mend their ways.

The lean dogs walked about s.n.a.t.c.hing at every remnant of food they could lay their hungry teeth upon, but the horses pa.s.sively waited till the dark hour would sound for receiving once more their heavy burdens, which they would carry with patient resignation in spite of the scarcely healed wounds upon their tired backs.

Only Zorka never joined those rowdy groups; she sat alone in her gloomy tent like some old beggared queen, thinking about long-past glories. Her pipe was ever between her lips; the smoke curled upwards in tiny wisps, forming odd shapes that quivered about like mystic signs mounting into the damp cold air.

Each day she watched with growing anxiety the two young people, who, at the fall of night, would come slowly towards her out of the forest.

Since long she had imagined that nothing more could touch her withered heart; but the sight of these mortals, so full of beauty, purity, and light, had filled her with a new benevolence, and she longed with an unspeakable longing to help them if she could.

She was moved by conflicting feelings, asking herself if Stella's marvellous visions were worth one poor human kiss, one enchanted awakening to the wonders of love.

Oh, what use was all her long-acc.u.mulated wisdom if it failed her at a moment like this! What should she do? Should she tell the enamoured youth to go his way, not to waste his days running after something that could never be?

But it would break his heart; was he not a dreamer of dreams, and therefore a kindred soul to the solitary maiden who had never seen anything but pictures that certainly were not of this world.

Sometimes she felt an overpowering desire that a sweet miracle might come to pa.s.s, and that these two lovely innocents should both at the same instant put their lips to the full cup of Life.

Even ... even ... yes, death in attainment; would it be so terrible a thing! Ah! But does death ever mercifully cover with his wings two living hearts at once? Does he not always leave the one in cold misery to carry his despair alone? So many heavy problems! and she who had thought that her overburdened brain had already solved the mysteries of life! One evening she sat thus alone, pondering over all these questions to which she could find no answer.

The early dusk was descending slowly over one of autumn's last fine days, and darkness was also rising out of the cold barren earth, meeting the coming night half-way.

The sky was covered by leaden clouds, dashed by streaks of glowing red, where the sun resentfully opposed the grey shadows that strove to hide him out of sight. The air was chilly and the very old woman shivered, feeling forsaken and sad and useless.

Over the sombre expanse that lay beyond, a faint mist mounted, like fleecy wool, giving each object the appearance of floating over the earth. The tents, the gypsies that moved about, the tethered horses, the slinking dogs, all seemed to have lost their bases and to be floating in the air.

Zorka was weary, too tired to think. She was only allowing her mind to wander slowly through the past.

The fire, that young hands always built up beside her venerable grey head, leapt and sprang like restless spirits eternally striving after unattainable heights, casting fantastic lights upon her crouching form.

It was a picture of old age, in all its forlorn, colourless sadness, from which all else has been taken except the weary comfort of looking back.

Zorka was remembering the distant years when she, too, had known wild love and scorching hate; when the day had been a long smile of promise, when for her also young hearts had beaten with pa.s.sionate desire.