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Dreamer of Dreams

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<h2>II</h2> I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands ... because I am hunting for a golden dream. Tagore. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The road was long and dusty, and stretched out before the wanderer's feet. He carried a small wallet on his back, and in his hand was a strong stick. The little birds on the trees sang glad songs because it was spring-time, and the branches were weighed down by the wealth of their blossoms. The wanderer was young, and his face was good to look upon; his clothes were new, and round his neck he wore a golden chain which was the royal gift of a King. His step was light and eager, and there was a look of hope in his eyes; he had a flute in his pocket upon which he played from time to time a sweet little tune—a little tune the end notes of which always sounded like an unanswered question. None had been able to keep him back; Eric of the golden locks, ... Eric the fairy-fingered, ... Eric the sweet-voiced, ... Eric the mad painter, had left the white castle of beauty, to wander the wide world over seeking for two eyes that had come to him in a dream. In the great hall King Wanda stood, looking on the unfinished frieze; it was a marvellous painting in glowing colours that ran all round the room. A master hand alone could have been capable of such perfect composition, such rich colouring, such charm and poetry. The great procession represented the triumph of Love. It was like a wondrous wedding-feast, and all the figures were moving, an army of joyous youths and maidens, towards a golden throne. On the throne sat a woman whose golden robe flowed, like a river seen at sunset, down towards the youths and maidens who were singing songs of praise, whilst they swung bloom-laden branches over their heads and cast white roses before the throne of Love. Behind this vision of youth came stern-faced warriors on snorting chargers, and pearl-crowned queens who led golden-haired children by the hand. Then came musicians who were followed by troops of beggars and the tattered forms of the poor, all hurrying, pressing, streaming towards that golden throne.... But the woman on the throne had no face. The fairy fingers of the artist had stopped here, suddenly; before the final accomplishment, which was to have crowned his whole masterpiece, Eric's brush had failed him. In his dreams he had seen the face he wanted, the eyes that haunted him; but the moment he woke his vision paled, and no effort of will could call back the look of those eyes which he needed for the woman on the throne. So Eric—the Eric whom every one loved, who had been the stern King's joy—had gone mad because of the desire for those eyes of his dream. The light began to fail in the great hall; still King Wanda stood gazing at the figure on the throne which had no face. Great rage seized him because of his helplessness, and a great longing for the fair-haired youth who had been his joy and pride. Little Oona came up to where he stood, and slipped her cool hand into his, laying her curly head against his arm. He turned to her with a deep sigh, and together they passed out into the flowering garden. The wanderer sped along the endless road always farther and farther from the palace of the King. His shoes were covered with dust, and when his steps began to lag he would take from his pocket the flute upon which he played that sad little tune with the questioning notes at the end. It was mid-day—Eric had already walked many miles, and now the sun beat down with great force on his head. He wondered where he was, but only vaguely, because since his dream he seemed to have another head on his shoulders, and none of the tidy thoughts of other days would come to him. He had no notion where he was going; he only knew that he could not rest until he found that face he needed for his picture, and above all those great eyes that haunted his dreams. He sat very still at the edge of the road where he had thrown himself. He closed his eyes, and the moment he did so those he was seeking were before him, great and luminous, with an expression he had never seen in any other look. How clear they were, and how steadfastly they rested upon him with never a droop of the eyelids. It did not strike him that he might be on a fool's errand, he had no doubts and no fears; the great genius had become like to a little child, confident and with no thoughts of failure. He had no plan, he simply meant to travel all the world over till he found what he was seeking; God would care for him as He did for the birds of the air, and time did not count. He wiped his damp brow, and then looked about him; all was very still, the air was laden with the sweet perfumes of summer flowers; the sky was blue, and not a leaf stirred on the trees. Eric smiled to himself, and played on his flute; he liked to listen to his own little tunes; they were very sweet to him, and he quite forgot everything whilst he piped away like a bird. He began many different melodies, but they always ended on the same questioning notes. He never remarked that each of his little tunes had the same ending; to him they were infinitely varied. And intensely sweet they were, with a haunting sound like human sighs mixed with the laughter of little children. And now the clearest bird notes rang out, and then again the sob of a nightingale or the trickling sound of running water, clear and crystalline, as if a little source were bubbling forth close by. He was completely absorbed by the music, and more than one passer-by had stopped a moment to listen; but Eric had only nodded and smiled as if each one had been a personal acquaintance. Then he rose and wandered onwards, always keeping straight along the road that stretched before him, never inquiring his way, serenely confident that all would go well with him if he only held his one great aim in view. Before the King's palace Oona, flitting hither and thither, like a gay butterfly, played with her golden balls in the sunshine, occasionally tripping over her too royal apparel, her clear laugh sounding through the summer-laden air. But within the still, white palace sat King Wanda, and all the time his eyes beheld a small cloud of dust, raised by the feet of a golden-haired youth, who had been the joy of his days, leaving him and all his kingly splendour to follow a vision which the grey-haired man could never understand,—and it seemed to him that the little cloud of dust became always smaller and smaller till he could see it no more. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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