  Spring in all its beauty was covering the world with blossoms pink and 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. 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. |
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