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Dreamer of Dreams

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<h2>VI</h2> Joy rises in me like a summer's morn. Coleridge. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> It was evening; the sea was calm—so calm that it looked like an enormous mirror into which the sky was reflecting its manifold hues, resembling a crowned woman trying on before her glass various gorgeous robes of glowing colours. Eric Gundian sat at the helm of the boat, his hands folded, gazing before him at the burning horizon; above him the huge rusty sail spread like the giant wing of a bird. The boat moved slowly, and yet it cut steadily through the water, whilst the deep green waves ran along each side like racers—Gundian was waiting ... he knew not for what, but a great peace was over his soul, and his eyes had a steadfast look of happiness. The sky was unfurling before him its most precious colours, all the tones of red and gold and orange, reminding him of the palette he had put away. Now his hands were idle, no doubt, but the artist was still keenly alive, and this beauty and peace seemed part of the very depth of his nature. Far down within him he knew that his great talent slept, awaiting the day when his hands would be untied to finish his great work. His hope and trust were simple, and his smile was sweeter than ever. The red of the sky began now to stain the quiet endless sea—it sank beneath the surface till the whole moving mass was an ocean of flame and light; the little waves that ran along on both sides were like sea-maidens trailing their shining tresses over the water. Gundian rose and stood at the very extremity of the boat, his slim figure outlined by a circle of light. Then he raised his clear young voice, and sang an old song of his country, a song so strange and sweet, that the sailors behind him took up the chorus and the deep manly voices joined in, forming a long echo to the triumphant notes of their young companion. He turned round to them, his golden locks thrown back, his beautiful eyes full of dreams and the strength of all his hopes; they had the feeling that with his youth and beauty he was the very incarnation of life and love. Now his voice was softer; the song became a great sigh of longing, like a long-drawn effort towards the boundless, unreachable promises of life. The old men sank on their knees and the young ones covered their eyes with their hands; each saw before his mind the dreams of his manhood, the loves he had left, the hopes he had buried, the future he longed for or feared. The glorious colours had paled, only a faint reflection remained; the wind began to fill the sail, the boat seemed to bound forward on its course. Eric's upright figure had lost its circle of light; his dark form at the helm of the boat was seen now above, now beneath the horizon. The waves grew in size, and were no longer like slim racers keeping pace with the friendly vessel, but more like great angry beasts longing to consume the frail craft that so confidently rode upon their restless heaving backs. The sail suddenly filled and expanded ready to burst; and the seamen tightened the cords, being tossed from side to side as they moved about. Gundian's face was wet with the spray; his bright young eyes peered before him into the growing darkness. A lantern had been lit and shone far above him like the Star of Bethlehem, flashing on his uncovered head, casting in turn lights and shadows over the fairness of his face. The boat bounded and creaked and groaned; the wind began to howl, frightened gulls flew around the sail with cries of distress, their white wings passing in and out of the gleam of the lantern. The waves grew greater and greater, beating the sides of the vessel, throwing huge masses of water over the low rail. Eric had to keep a firm grip on the ropes so as not to be hurled into the restless, surging, wailing deep—to him this growing storm was a mighty joy; he revelled in the wind with its many tormented voices; he loved the salt water that dashed in his face, drenched his clothes, and tore at the chain he wore round his neck. He loved the heaving and sinking of the vessel under him; he loved the weird shrieks of the birds, the flashing of their white wings when they came within the halo,—loved the shimmer of the lantern on the enormous, rolling, always advancing waves. He trusted the seaman that sailed the ship—trusted the strong boards on which he stood,—above all he trusted with a child's simplicity the great God above. All through the night the storm howled, and raged, and sobbed; and the brave little craft fought her way through the foaming masses, till the morning slowly overcame the darkness, bringing with the new day a hush that held a promise of peace and rest. Thus did day follow on day, night on night. Gundian either basked in the sun, or hardened his hands working with the sailors, or sang them sweet songs that melted their hearts, fired their blood, awoke their longings, brought tears to their eyes, or a laugh to their lips. But at times he would also play his little flute; then, all else vanished from his mind, and always, always did the flute hold the same questioning notes that were like the cry of his soul for the unknown vision he was pursuing, that dreams alone allowed him to grasp. The rough men in the boat looked upon him as a bright being of another sphere. They imagined he brought luck to their voyage, that his presence calmed the storm and had power over the elements, that his wonderful voice and magic flute enchanted the striving, ever-changing winds and waves. They loved him, and were in fear of the day when he would bid them good-bye and withdraw his sunny presence from their lives. They felt that he was but a bird of passage, that it lay not within their power to keep him for ever amongst them, and each day that they looked on his guileless face and on the light that kindled in his eye, was a gift from on high, a day of blessing and plenty. Eric could not explain why he remained, neither did he know why all of a sudden, one day of calm and gladness, he felt he must take up again the call of the road that lay before him. It was on a distant and lonely shore; the boat lay drawn up on the shell-covered beach. The golden-haired youth looked up into the sky and saw a small bird flying into the limitless distance. Then Eric knew that he must follow the direction in which the bird had disappeared. They could not stop him, he had to go. He took his thick stick in his hand, put his flute in his pocket, hung his cloak over his shoulder; then, turning round many a time to wave his cap to the rough companions of yesterday, he walked away into the growing heat of the day. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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