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Dreamer of Dreams

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<h2>III</h2> From my heart comes out and dances before me the image of my desire. Tagore. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The town was tiny and the streets so narrow that conversation could be held by neighbours across the road beneath the gables. The high pointed roofs had all the shades of red and brick, and before nearly each small window bunches of scarlet geraniums bloomed in profusion,—a sleepy little place, where the grey cats lazily slept in the middle of the pavement quite undisturbed by any passer-by, quite safe from being run over. They blinked their eyes in the bright sunshine, and stretched their supple limbs to the kindly warmth. Over the sea of red roofs the different-shaped chimneys sent up their bluish smoke that hung like a transparent cloud waving slowly backwards and forwards in the still air. Now steps came along one of the quiet streets, and the silence was such that they were heard long before the walker came into sight. He was a quite young man, tired but light of step, and his uncovered head shone like gold in the sunshine. Round his neck he wore a heavy golden chain, and his clothes were new; within his eyes there was a searching look, but a smile was on his face, and the world seemed to him just one long road upon which he could follow his dream. He chose the shady side of the street because the day was warm and the sun had poured down for many hours upon his way. All the time he glanced right and left as if expecting to find what he was looking for; but he was in no hurry, and often a glad little song broke from his lips, whilst the sound of his strong stick on the cobble stones had a cheery note that echoed along the houses. Eric felt like a bird of the air, that could fly whither it would, and for which each tree was a resting-place. He cared little for how long he had wandered, nor for what he had left behind, nor where he was going; all he needed was a long road that would lead him on and on until he reached his goal. And his goal might be reached any day, any hour, any minute. Hope was always within his heart; but it mattered not if its fulfilment were to-day or to-morrow. His smile was so sweet and his face so fair that all were ready to open their doors to him; so he feared neither hunger nor thirst, neither heat nor cold, neither night nor storm. Now he was feeling rather weary, so he sat down on a doorstep, drew his flute from his pocket, and began to play soft little runs up and down; his fingers, as if they were dancing, moving lightly over the small holes. The flies buzzed around him trying to tease him, but he was indifferent to all except the sweet notes of his flute. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the door open behind him, and only looked up when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. 'Twas the trembling hand of a quite old woman, very bent, her face lined with many wrinkles, her eyes dim and tired. Eric sprang to his feet and craved pardon for being in her way. She looked hard at him, at first with annoyance; but his wonderful smile disarmed her, so she hobbled away shaking her head, turning round more than once to look again at the youthful stranger. She had left the door into the crooked little house wide open. Eric sat down once more upon the steps and continued his music. It was wonderful the peace it gave him; he needed nothing else—did not even try to think, leaving Fate to shape events around him. From the upper window trails of scarlet geraniums hung down over his head; a faint breeze fanned them, making some loose petals fall upon his knees. With a smile he gathered them in his hand, enjoying the beauty of their colour, letting them drop through his fingers, playing with them like a child. And now from inside the house he caught sounds of a sweet voice singing softly some old, old song. The notes rose and rose until they entirely filled the small house behind him. He looked up to the window, but could see only the red flowers against the rusty old wall. He rose and stood in the doorway, and listened to the voice that sounded like a bird singing in a wood, singing, singing to its mate a song of Love. It did not make his heart beat as it would have done the hearts of other youths, but it dawned upon him that the voice was human, and that it could only belong to a girl or a woman. Thoughts came but slowly to him as through a mist, because we know that since that fatal morning Eric Gundian had lost his wits. But Eric Gundian was still, to all outward appearance, the same beautiful young man, with the same face, the same golden hair, the same luminous smile that bespoke the simple trust of a pure soul.... Now, moved by some irresistible impulse, Eric walked into the house, and, led by the glorious voice, climbed the narrow dark stairs, up, up, as if he were mounting into the skies. Then before the open door of a small sunlit room, he suddenly paused, seized with wonder.... Sitting near the window, her fair head bent over her work, was a lovely maiden: she drew stitch after stitch through the snow-white linen, and the hand which held the shining thread moved backwards and forwards like a dove hovering over a gateway. As she worked the song burst from her lips; she sang and sang, with the glorious gladness of youth which has not yet known either sorrow or disappointment. There was nothing sad in her tune, it was all hope and joy and sweetness. Behind her head the geraniums made a fiery haze where the sun smote upon them with the blinding rays of summer. Then it was that Gundian felt all his soul awake with the longing that she would look up, so that he might see her eyes.... Perhaps they would be the eyes he was searching for. To-day, to-morrow, this hour, or the next he was sure to meet them. The maiden, all unconscious of his presence, sang on and on, from one song to another, the sweetness of her voice ringing through the stillness like glad Easter bells. The wanderer held his breath; and, both hands pressed against his breast, waited in a sort of agony for her to raise her head. At last she did so, but it was towards the window she looked. She even left her chair and reached far out over the red geraniums to glance into the street below. As she sat down her eyes turned to the door where the stranger stood watching. With a little cry of fear she crumpled the white linen against her and stared at him without finding a word. Impulsively Eric sprang forward, and taking her with a quick movement by both shoulders, he whirled her round to the light, peering with a hungry longing into her eyes.... All was done in a flash; the astonished girl was so taken by surprise that she had no time to defend herself against so sudden an onslaught. But hardly had he seen her eyes than he let her go again, and putting his two hands over his face, with a cry of disappointment, he turned and fled. Down the dark narrow stairs he sped, out into the bright sunlight; there he paused a moment to pick up his stick and flute, then ran as if possessed; and before long he had left the sleepy red-roofed little town far behind.... Still he ran, ran, eager to get away from the eyes which were not the eyes he wanted. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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