  Over thy creations of beauty there is a mist of tears. Tagore. High and austere in their forsaken silence stood the walls of the great church—God's own sun looked in through the crumbling windows, and God's own sky was its only roof. Many of the columns had fallen, but others stood, erect and rigid, frowning down from their immense height, grey and lonely, like giant trees in winter. Large heaps of stones lay about the mosaic floor that still showed signs of a beautiful design; statues had fallen from their pedestals and lay in helpless attitudes, their arms broken, their vacant eyes gazing with stony indifference into the sunshine. Sometimes their heads were missing, having rolled away as they fell. Nature was rapidly doing her work; she was spreading her consoling mantle of verdure and flowers over this crumbling work of art, which human hands had once, long ago, built with pious vows and prayers. Growths were bursting out of every crevice and crack in rambling confusion. Even the wild plants of the heath beyond had begun to creep into the church, giving the forgotten monument a festive look as if flowers had been strewn everywhere on the floor for some blessed feast-day. In greater masses than any other plant, wild lavender had taken possession of the church, bursting the mosaic floor asunder in a thousand places and pushing its way everywhere, so that over all lay a bluey-grey shimmer like evening mists rising out of a bog. Through the wide-open portals the desolate land could be seen, stretching as far as the eye could reach, covered with the same dusty blue flower, and quite on the horizon it mixed with the sky, so that it was difficult to discern where the one began and the other ended. A peculiar stillness lay over everything; it was not easy to imagine that human feet had once crowded towards the now broken altar that shone like a death-cloth as the rays of the sun struck upon the still white stone. The thick carpet of lavender sent out a faint perfume of other days, within which a whole treasure of memories was stowed away ... forgotten. Peace, peace, peace was over all, the peace of things that are past. Before the altar, stretched out all his length on the ground amongst the blue of the lavender, lay Eric, his face pressed against the floor, his golden curls matted, his neat clothes soiled and dusty. He lay there, all his young body expressing one long cry of protest against the cruel things he had just learnt. He had fled and fled, blind instinct guiding his steps, quite ignorant as to how he had found his way out. And then, when he once more saw the great sky over his head, he had rushed unseeingly forward, climbing the rocks, leaving the sea far behind. On, on, in breathless haste to get away from that silent figure wrapped in grey folds, with the sightless eyes and the dagger within her heart ... neither did he know how he had reached this desolate place. He had seen this ruined fane standing grey and forsaken on a waste of blue-grey flowers; he had seen it outlined in magnificent solitude against the clear sky, and a great wish had come over him to take refuge there, in that holy place, after the atmosphere of tragedy and temptation he had just left behind. What mattered that the place was a ruin, that holy chants and fervent prayers were no more heard within the skeleton walls! It had been God's house, and the weary wanderer needed sanctuary. Motionless as one asleep or dead he lay. There was no sound around him except the buzzing of bees amongst the sweet-smelling lavender. They flitted hither and thither, fetching out of each blossom its treasure of honey and sweetness, whilst tiny blue butterflies danced in their midst in frivolous useless gaiety. All of a sudden a flight of doves came floating out of the summer sky and settled like white sunlit clouds on every window-sill, where they fluttered their wings, filling the whole place with flashes of light, as the sun gleamed on their snowy feathers. But still Eric lay without movement, his face among the crushed flowers. The doves cooed and kissed each other; the bees swarmed around, and from somewhere very far overhead a bird sang a glad song, his voice rising shrill and pure into the warm air. The sun began to slant his rays through the beautiful high windows, lighting up one of the sides of the building with sheets of gold. He sent his warm beams to kiss the young man's curls, and to caress the white hands that were clasped before him; then one of the rays fell upon a picture that still kept its place above the altar. At that very moment Eric, for the first time, raised his head—and there, smiling down upon him in angelic pity, was a face of such perfect sweetness, that he felt the hot tears come rushing to his tired eyes. With folded hands he knelt in a posture of adoration, and gazed into the wonderful countenance that looked into his. A long cloak of some indescribable shade flowed down, enfolding the Virgin's ethereal limbs. Her hands were outstretched in a gesture of blessing; upon her head she wore a high golden crown, and the sun beat upon it making it shine like real metal; and her eyes, her wonderful eyes, were full of tears.... But in her heart.... Oh! did he rightly see? or was he dreaming the same awful dream over again?... in her heart, too, a dagger had been thrust! Must all hearts be killed? What was this old world teaching him? Was sorrow everywhere? Were those that blessed treated alike with those who poisoned heart and soul? How ignorant he had been, singing like a bird in the sunshine, understanding nothing, feeling nothing but his own joy to be alive! Now all seemed changed; pain and temptation, hard words and sweet smiles, had replaced each other in bewildering confusion, and into the heart of this miraculous Mother of God, this most pure of all women they had also thrust a cruel blade—and yet she continued to smile, her fair hands extended to his helpless gropings to understand! His eyes riveted to the Holy Face, he approached the devastated altar around which the sun-rays had concentrated all their brightness, till the picture of the Virgin was no longer a painting, but a living woman, all light and radiance, Divine pity and love. The weary wanderer sank on his knees, his hands folded, his head bent on the altar, and as he knelt there murmuring old forgotten prayers of his childhood, real warm tears streamed from the eyes of the holy picture and fell drop by drop on his sunny locks. And it was like a gentle blessing which held within it a sweet promise of peace and comfort. |
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