PART II

I

I have said that I might perhaps have something more to tell about

Little Johannes. Surely you have not thought I would not keep my word!

People are not so very trustful in these days, nor so patient, either.

But now I am going to put you to confusion, by telling you what else

happened to Little Johannes. Listen! It is worth your while. And the

best thing of all is that it will be rather like a fairy story--even

more so than what I have already told you.

And yet it is all true. Yes, it all really truly happened. Perhaps you

will again be inclined to doubt; but when you are older--much, much

older--you will perceive how true it is. It will be so much more

pleasant for you to have faith in it, that I wish from my heart you may

be able to. If you cannot, I am sorry for you; but at least be truthful.

Therefore skip nothing, but read it all.

And should you happen to meet Johannes, I give you leave to speak with

him about these matters, and to give him my regards. He might not

answer, but he will not be offended. He is still rather small, but he

has grown a bit.

* * * * *

The fine weather did not continue far into the evening. The splendid

clouds which Johannes had seen above the sea, and out of which strode

that dark figure, now betokened a thunder-storm. Before he reached the

middle of the dunes again, the sunset sky and the starry heavens were

obscured, and a wild, exhausting wind, filled with fine, misty rain,

swept him on. Behind him the lightning played above the sea, and the

thunder rolled as if the heavens were being torn asunder, and the planks

of its floor tossed one by one into a great garret.

Johannes was not alarmed, but very happy. He felt the close clasp of a

warm, firm hand. It seemed as if he never yet had clung to a hand so

perfect and so life-giving. Even the hand of Windekind seemed flimsy and

feeble compared with this.

He thought that he now had reached the end of all his puzzles and

difficulties. This may also have occurred to you. But how could that be

possible when he was still such a mere stripling, and did not yet

comprehend one half of all the marvelous things that had befallen him!

It may be that all has been plain to you. But it was not to him,

although he may have thought so. He was yet only a little fellow without

beard or moustache, and his voice was still that of a boy.

"My friend," said he to his Guide, "I know now that I have been

bad--very bad. But now that you have come and I can cling to your hand,

can I not redeem my faults? Is there still time?"

The dark figure kept silently and steadily on beside him in the storm

and darkness. Johannes could see neither his eyes nor his features; he

only heard the swishing and flapping of his garments--heavy with the

rain. Then he asked again, somewhat anxiously, because the consolation

he was yearning for was longer delayed than he expected:

"May I not sometime call myself a friend of yours? Am I not yet worthy

of that? I have always so wanted to have a friend! That was the best

thing in life, I thought--really the only thing I cared about. And now I

have lost all my friends--my dog, Windekind, and my father. Am I too bad

to deserve a true friend?"

Then there came an answer:

"When you can _be_ a true friend, Johannes, then indeed you will find

one."

There was consolation in the soft, low tones, and there was love and

forgiveness; but the words were torturing.

"Bad, bad!" muttered Johannes, setting his teeth together. He wanted to

cry, but he could not do that. That would have been to pity himself, and

that was not in accordance with his Guide's reply. He had not been a

good friend to his dog, nor to Windekind, nor to his father. He wished

now that he could at once make amends for everything, but that could not

be. It had been made clear.

* * * * *

It was desolate on the dunes, and dark as pitch. The wind was whistling

through the reeds and the dwarf poplars, but there was nothing to be

seen. How far away seemed the quiet sunlight now, the playful animals,

and the flowers! Silently and swiftly the two strode on along a winding

cart-track through the deep, wet sand, now and then stumbling over the

ruts. It was the road that led to the town.

"I shall--" began Johannes again, resolutely lifting his head. But there

he halted.

"Who says 'I shall'? Who knows what he will do? Can Johannes say, I am?"

"I am sorry and I am ashamed, and I wish to be better," said Johannes.

"That is well," said the soft low voice. And the tears started in

Johannes' eyes. He clung close to his Guide, trembling slightly as they

went.

"Teach me, my Father. I want to know how to be better."

"Not 'Father,' Johannes. We both have the same Father. You must call me

Brother."

At that word Johannes looked timidly up at his Guide with startled face

and wide-open eyes. In a flash of the steel-blue lightning, Johannes saw

the pale brow, with the dark eyes turned kindly toward him. The hair of

his Guide was matted and dripping with water, as were also his beard and

his moustache. The locks clung to his white gleaming forehead, and his

eyes glowed with an inner light. Johannes felt a boundless love and

adoration, and at the same time an inexpressible compassion. "My

brother!" thought he. "Oh, good, good man!"

And he said: "How wet you are! Put my jacket over your head. I do not

need it."

But in the darkness his hand was gently restrained, and they hurried on

while the sweat and the rain were commingled upon their faces.

* * * * *

After a while his Guide said to him:

"Johannes, pay attention to me, for I am going to say something to you

that you must bear in mind. Your true life is only now beginning, and it

is difficult to live a good life. If only you could remember what I am

now telling you, you would never again be unhappy. Neither life nor

people would be able to make you unhappy. And yet it will not prove

thus--because you will forget."

There was silence for a while, broken only by the whistling of the wind,

the flapping of their garments, and their rapid breathing--for they were

walking very fast.

"Train your memory, therefore; for without an exact and retentive memory

nothing good is attained. And mark this well; not the small and

transient must you be mindful of, but the great and the eternal."

Then there was a flash of lightning, and it seemed as if the heavens

were being consumed in the white fire, while a terrific peal of thunder

immediately followed, directly over their heads.

But Johannes' thoughts were dwelling attentively upon the words he had

heard, and he was neither frightened nor disquieted. He raised his head,

proud and glad that he was not afraid, and looked, with wide-open eyes,

into the high, dark dome of the heavens.

"This is the great and the eternal, is it not?" he asked. "This I will

bear in mind."

But his Guide said:

"It is not the thunder and the lightning which you must bear in mind,

for they are temporal and will often recur; but that you were unafraid,

and bravely held up your countenance--_that_ you must remember, and the

reason why you did so. For it will thunder and lighten at other times,

and you will be afraid. But even now--at this instant--it could strike

you dead. Why do you not fear now?"

"Because you are with me," said Johannes.

"Well, then, Johannes, remember this; you always have me with you."

* * * * *

They were silent for a long while, and Johannes was thinking over these

noble words. But he did not understand their import. If he were always

to have his Leader with him, how could he forget? Then he asked,

although he well knew what the reply would be:

"Are you, then, going to stay with me always?"

"Even as I always have been with you," was the unexpected answer.

"But I did not see you, then."

"And very soon again you will not see me; yet I shall be with you, just

the same. Therefore, you must cultivate your memory, so that it will

remind you when your eyes see not. Who that is forgetful can be relied

on? You have never been faithful, Johannes, and you will forget me also.

But I shall remain faithful, and you will bring me to mind. Then, when

you have learned to bethink yourself, and are yourself a faithful

friend, you shall have a brother and a friend."

* * * * *

The road was firmer now, and in the distance they saw the lights of the

town. Close by, the orange-yellow window-squares were glimmering through

the rain and darkness--the dwellings themselves being still invisible in

the night. They saw the pools glisten, and they met a man. There was a

hurried, heavy footstep--a glowing red cigar-tip. Johannes breathed the

well-known, offensive, human atmosphere of wet garments and tobacco

smoke. By the flashes of lightning he could see all around him little

white and grey cottages. He saw the gleaming street, far out in front of

him--haystacks and barns--a fence along the way; everything suddenly

sharp and livid.

Then a change came over him. At once, he was conscious of everything, as

one, being awakened, is aware of a voice already heard in his dream.

He clearly felt himself to be an ordinary human being, like every one

else. And his exalted companion was also an ordinary man. He saw both,

just as the passers-by would see them; a man and a boy, wet with the

rain, walking hand in hand. Windekind did not get wet in the rain.

As they neared the suburbs, it became lighter and more noisy. It was not

the great city where Johannes had lived with Pluizer, but the small one

where he was born and where he had gone to school.

And as the two approached, they heard, through the rushing of the rain

and the rolling of the thunder, a lighter, indistinct sound which

reminded Johannes so well of former times. It was a confused

intermingling of voices, singing, a continual din of organ-grinding,

sharp little sounds of trumpets and flutes, the reports of fire-crackers

and rifle-shots, and now and then a shrill, discordant whistle, or the

sound of a bell. It was the Fair!

"Be careful now, Johannes. Here are people," said his companion.

Johannes gave a start. His task was to begin. He could no longer rail at

human beings, nor disclaim his own human origin. He knew now that he had

been erring, and he resolved to mend his ways. Had not good Death told

him it was well worth while to be a good man? So now he would live with

men, and try to become a good man himself; to relieve pain, to lighten

grief, and to bring beauty and happiness into the lives of others. Was

not that what He was teaching--He at whose blessed side he should

henceforth go?

But he was greatly distressed. He already knew so well what men were. He

shivered in his wet clothing.

"Are you afraid already? Think how brave you were just now. You must

mind, not only the words, but the meaning of them."

"I will be strong and brave. I will be a man among men, a good

man--doing good to men."

So saying, Johannes nerved himself, and with steadfast step entered the

town.

Here things looked truly dismal. Water was spouting out of the gutters

into the streets. Everything was glistening in the wet, and big streams

of water were flowing down the tent canvases.

But the people were out on pleasure bent, and pleasure they would have.

As the shop doors were opened one could see the red faces within, close

to one another in the blue tobacco smoke, and could hear the uproar of

loud singing and the stamping of feet.

Under the projecting canvas of the booths the crowds flocked together,

slowly pushing one past the other into the bright light of the lamps.

Johannes and his Guide pressed in among them to get out of the rain.

Johannes was fond of fairs. Always he was glad when the boats arrived in

the canal with the timber for the various booths and play-tents; and he

looked on eagerly while the flimsy structures--for that one week

only--were being put together. This onlooking was an earnest of the

strange and fantastic pleasures in store for him.

He liked the gay and merry pageantry, the foolish inscriptions on the

merry-go-rounds, the mysterious places behind and between the tents,

where the performers lodged; and above all, the tiny, out-of-the-way

tents with their natural curiosities, and the strange animals, which

seemed so sadly out of place in this Dutch world, in their tedious,

unvarying captivity, with the reveling crowd around them.

And every summer he found it just as hard to see the breaking up of this

variegated medley.

Not that he ever had longed for the Fair when with Windekind, but, of

all that he had experienced while among human beings, the Fair seemed to

him the most delightful.

And now he was rejoiced at the familiar scene of the booths with their

toys; the cakes, layered with rose-colored sugar and inscribed with

white lettering; all the shining brass-work of the toy-pistol bazaars;

the small tents in lonely places, where brown, smoked eels lay between

brass-headed iron bars; the shooting-galleries; the noisy and showy

merry-go-rounds.

Nor did he, for old remembrance' sake, mind the various odors and

mal-odors; the smell of cake, of frying fat, and of smoking lamps; nor

the strange, mysterious, stable and wild-beast scents that came out of

the large exhibition tents.

The children were running about, as usual, with their red

balloons--tooting upon trumpets, and twirling their rattles. The mothers

had their skirts over their heads to keep off the rain. Now and then a

train of young men and maidens--their caps and hoods askew, or back side

before--danced their way through the crowds, with shining, rollicking

faces, shouting as they went: "hi! ha! hi! ha!" Then they would calm

down, and step one side to look again at the cakes and the knick-knacks.

As Johannes dearly loved a laugh, he stopped again and again where there

was anything funny; at the Punch-and-Judy show, or the antics in front

of the circus, of which the peasants are foolishly fond.

Thus, beside his companion, he stood looking, in the midst of a group of

people holding open umbrellas. On all sides he saw staring faces,

reddened by the light of the sputtering oil-torch in front of the tent.

The people looked stupid, he thought, standing there staring, now and

then all bursting out together in a laugh when a clown cracked a joke.

Painted on the canvas, in front of the tent, he saw ugly pictures of

horrible battles between men and tigers--and everywhere, blood! From the

balustrade, a monkey was watching the people very seriously. Ever and

anon he darted a glance at a boy standing close by, to discover if he

meant well or ill by his outstretched hand.

Behind the little table at the curtained entrance sat a buxom woman

dressed in a black silk gown. Her face was round and broad, and her

dark, glossy hair was smoothly plastered to her forehead. She was not

ugly, but reminded Johannes of the wax dolls in front of the

hair-dressers'.

Suddenly, Johannes heard the ring-master speaking to him; and the people

turned their heads round and grinned at him.

"Come on, young gentleman," said the ring-master, "you must see the

show, too! Ask your papa to let you see the show. There are pretty girls

here, too--very nice for young gentlemen. Just look here, what pretty

girls!"

Then he pointed to the buxom woman behind the table, who, laughing not a

bit, but showing off her rings with their mock jewels, held up the

curtain as an invitation to Johannes to enter. And then the ring-master

pointed to a pale, slim girl, whose lank hair, light and silky, was

combed straight down, and fell below her waist. She stood in front of

the tent, dressed in a soiled white suit, spangled with silver. Her

skirt was short, and her white tights did not fit well over her long,

thin legs.

"Hello! Come on! Come on!" cried the girl, in a shrill, eager little

voice, clapping her hands.

Ha! How suddenly Johannes' attention was riveted! He experienced a

wonderfully strong feeling of tenderness and sympathy as he looked at

that pale child. She wore a little silver crown on her hair, which was

nearly ash-blonde, and her eyes, also, were light-grey or light-blue, he

could not tell which.

"Would you like to go in?" asked his Guide.

Without looking up Johannes nodded his head. They pressed slowly through

the people, and Johannes saw that the girl kept looking at him

attentively, as if his coming mattered more to her than that of the

others. What wonderful things entered his head in those few seconds,

while pressing through the packed, ill-smelling crowd, on his way into

the tent. He thought of his dead father--and about his own going, now,

to an entertainment at a Fair. But, immediately, he thought, also, of

the great change--his deliverance from Pluizer, and that he had not come

to the Fair for his own pleasure, like an every-day schoolboy, but that

he had now come among people in order to soothe their sorrows, and to

make them good and happy. At the same time he felt a strong aversion to

that rough, rude, and unsavory throng. And then he looked again at the

pale girl who had called to him, and was waiting for him. She was a

human being, too, and his whole heart went out to her. She looked so

slight, so serious and intelligent. What a life she must have led! And

what must she think and feel!

For an instant he forgot something; namely, whose hand it was he was

holding. He had not yet let drop that dear hand, but was not thinking

who it was that had been taken for his father, and was leading him into

a circus.

"What is the price?" he heard his Guide ask the young woman, in his

deep, serious voice.

But the pale little girl, who had continued all this time looking at

him, cried out in an abrupt, decided tone: "It's Markus!"

The fat young woman just glanced in silence from the girl to the two

visitors, and then struck the table with her plump, white, ring-covered

hands, till the money-box jingled.

"Jerusalem! Is that you Vissie? Where did you swim from? And how did you

find that kid? Nix to pay! Just step inside. Right here! First row. I'll

see you again, presently, eh?"

Then she looked straight at Johannes with her black eyes. He shrank

from that cold, hard, scrutiny. But she laughed in a friendly way and

said:

"How d' do, youngster?"

Johannes felt the perspiration start, from fright and confusion. That

exalted being, whom he had seen treading the glowing waters of the sea,

whose hand he still retained, to be spoken to in such a manner, by this

insignificant creature--as if he were an old acquaintance! Had he

utterly lost his senses? Had he been dreaming, and had he been walking

with one or other of the Fair-goers?

Not until he had sat awhile, and his heart had ceased to beat so fast,

did he venture to lift his eyes--which had taken in nothing of their

surroundings--and look up at his Guide.

The latter had evidently been regarding him for a considerable time. The

first glance sufficed. Johannes saw the selfsame pale face, the selfsame

somewhat weary, but clear and steady eyes full of earnest ardor,

trustful and begetting trust; bestowing, through their regard alone,

rest and solace indescribable.

But he was an ordinary man--the same as the others. He had on a brown

cap with the ear-flaps tied together over the top, and he wore an old

faded cloak out of which the rain-water was still trickling down upon

the seat. His shoes, mud-covered and water-soaked, stood squarely

against each other on the wooden floor. His trousers were frayed out,

and had lost all definite color.

Johannes wanted to speak to him, but his lips trembled so he could not

utter a word, and tears coursed down his cheeks.

All this time they still sat hand in hand. Nothing had been said, but

Johannes felt his hand being pressed, while a superhuman assurance and

encouragement, from out those kindly eyes, gradually penetrated to the

depths of his being.

His Guide smiled, and indicated that he ought to give attention to the

performance and to the spectators. Slowly, with a long-drawn breath,

Johannes turned his eyes thither; but he looked on listlessly and

without interest.

And now and then--whenever he dared--he looked at his Guide; at his wet,

shabby clothes; at his hands--not coarse--but oddly rough, and with a

blackened thumb and forefinger; at his pale, patient face, with the hair

clinging to the temples.

The boy's lips began to tremble again, his throat contracted, and

irrepressible sobs accompanied the tears.

When he looked into the sanded ring around which the spectators sat, he

saw a large white horse coming in. Upon him stood the pale, fair little

girl. She had more color now, and looked much prettier and more

graceful. She sprang and knelt upon the big white horse while she

enlivened him with her shrill cries.

It was not merely sympathy and tenderness that moved Johannes now, but

something more of admiration and respect; for she seemed no older than

himself, and yet she was not in the least timid, but understood her art

well. The people clapped loudly, and then she put her slender, delicate

hands one by one to her lips, waving them first to the left, then to the

right, with self-possessed grace.

The clown made her a low bow with all kinds of foolish grimaces, and

indicated the greatest respect; and she rewarded him with a studied

smile, like a princess. Johannes could not take his eyes away from her.

"Who is that little girl?" he asked his Guide. "Is she really so

lovely?"

"Her name is Marjon," said his Guide, "and she is a dear, good child,

but too weak for her task."

"I wish I could do something for her," said Johannes.

"That is a good boy. We will go to her, presently."

Johannes did not pay much more attention to the exhibition. His mind was

full of the prospective interview with the little actress. The world in

which she lived was charming. And she herself seemed, at this moment,

the one above all others he most wished to help and benefit.

After the spectators were gone he went with his Guide between the

curtains from behind which the horses had come. In the dimly lighted

space where a single lamp was burning, and close to where the breathing

and stamping of the horses could be heard, Johannes saw her sitting. She

was stooping down to a chest on the top of which were some plates of

food, and she still had on her pretty costume. There was no one with

her.

"Good day, Markus," said she, extending her hand to Johannes' Guide.

"Who is the little boy?"

"This is Johannes. He wishes to make your acquaintance, and to do

something good for you."

"Is that so?" laughed the girl. "Then he might just change my silver

quarters into gold."

Johannes did not know what to say, and was more perplexed than he

remembered ever in his life to have been before. But Marjon looked at

him with her large, light, grey eyes, and nodded kindly.

"Come, little boy, don't be so bashful. Won't you have something to eat?

Quick! Before my sister comes! But you ought to stay with us. We are

going to Delft this week. Are you going with us, Markus?"

"It may be," said Markus. "Now, we are only going to try to find a place

to sleep in. Johannes can hardly feel hungry. Do you, Johannes?"

Johannes shook his head.

"He has had a great sorrow, Marjon; his father has just died."

Marjon looked at him again, gently and good-naturedly, and then gave him

her hand, with the very same, quick gesture of confidence a monkey

employs when he recognizes his master.

"Good-by, till morning," she said, as the two passed out of the rear

door of the tent.

Outside, the moon was shining, and, since the rain had stopped, the

Fair-people had become still more jolly and noisy.

Well, well! How ugly they were! How clumsily they danced, and how badly

they sang! The men and women were now standing in circles, their arms

interlocked, with one another's hoods and caps on, ready to spring into

the street, and to shriek out, in their harsh voices, songs without

sense or tune. All their faces were wanton, vacant, or downright

dissipated, and most of them were flushed with excitement or with drink.

Johannes saw mothers, too, with infants in their arms, and leading

little children by the hand, coming out of the fritter-stalls, dragging

themselves along through the crowds. The tavern doors flew open, and the

rude Fair-goers bounced outside. Here and there, on the street corners,

a fierce quarrel was in progress, with a close ring of on-lookers

gathered around. Nothing more that was pretty, or nice, or pleasing, was

in sight. Everywhere there was raving and ranting and bawling; with a

thousand dissonant noises, and a wretched stench.

The only exception was a squad of six soldiers, passing calmly and

quietly, with regulated step, through the throng, in single file. It was

the patrol. Johannes knew it, and it gave him a feeling of rest and

contentment, as if there was something else in human beings save

rudeness and debauchery; that a little self-restraint and worthiness

still remained.

Up above--beyond that petty tumult--beyond that ruddy flaming and

flickering, the moon was shining, silver-white and stately. Johannes

looked up longingly.

He found his task an awful one, and the people worse than he had

expected. But of one little being he thought with tenderness; and in her

case he would persevere.

"Let us go to sleep," he begged.

"Very well," said his Guide, opening a tavern door.

It was oppressive there, and reeking with the fumes of gin and tobacco.

They pressed their way through the crowd and went up to the bar.

"Have you lodgings for us, Vrouw Schimmel?" asked Johannes' Guide.

"Lodgings? Well, seeing it's you, Markus. But otherwise not! See? Go

now--the two of you!"

They crept up to a small dark garret, and there received a couple of

mattresses which the maid had dragged upstairs; and then they could lie

down.

Johannes lay awake through the clamor and jingling and the stamping of

the Fair-goers downstairs until long after the morning light had broken.

The day just passed--long as a year, and full of great and weighty

matters--was thought over from beginning to end. Serene,

open-eyed--quietly, not restlessly, he lay there meditating till morning

dawned, and the sunlight, like a red-gold stain, touched the wall above

him, and till the din downstairs had subsided and died away. Then he

fell asleep, thinking of Marjon--her bright eyes and silver crown.

II

He was awakened by jovial sounds. There was something hopeful and

powerful about and within him when he opened his eyes again, and looked

around the close, dark little garret. A column of sunbeams stood

slanting from the floor to the little dormer window, and motes were

glistening in the light.

Both out-of-doors, and below him, Johannes heard the women singing, and

busily, merrily talking--the way women do mornings as they hurry with

their kitchen and door-yard tasks. The rubbish of the day before was

thrust aside, and everything was in readiness for a new Fair day.

Beside him lay his Guide, still calmly sleeping. He had removed nothing

but his coat with which he had covered himself, and his shoes which were

standing beside the mattress. He was in a profound sleep--his head upon

his rolled-up mantle. His curling hair was now dry, and looked dark and

glossy, and his cheeks bore a little more color. Johannes gazed

attentively at his right hand hanging down from under his coat, over the

mattress to the floor. It was a slender, shapely hand, with short-cut

nails, but the blackening which Johannes had seen the day before was

still there. That stamp of toil could not be washed away.

Johannes slipped quietly downstairs and went to wash himself at the pump

in the courtyard. About him all was cheerful activity--scrubbing and

scouring, washing and rinsing. The summer morning was warm and yet

fresh. It was a clear and sober world with nothing dreamy or fanciful

about it.

The bar-woman poured him out a cup of coffee, and asked in a familiar

way if his roommate was still sleeping, and how Johannes had met him.

"Oh, just by chance!" answered Johannes, blushing deeply; not only

because he was fibbing, but because it was to himself such a delicate

and obscure matter, and of such supreme importance.

"Who is he, really?" he asked, with a feeling of committing treason.

"Who is he!" re-echoed the mistress, in such a loud voice and with such

emphasis that the other women stopped their work and looked up. "Did you

hear him? He asks who Markus is!"

"Do you mean Markus Vis?" asked a slatternly work-girl.

"Yes, that's who he means!" said the bar-woman.

The women looked at one another, and then went on again with their

splashing and scrubbing.

"I do not know anything _yet_," said Johannes, a little more boldly.

"Neither do we," said the slovenly girl. "Do you, Bet?"

"I know that he is a darn good fellow," answered Bet.

"They do say, though, that he is not good," said another work-woman.

"True, he _may_ not be good--but good he _is_, I say," retorted Bet.

This sounded a bit obscure, but Johannes understood it perfectly well.

"He has more sense than all four of you put together," said the

bar-woman, indignantly. "I have seen, with my own eyes, how the little

daughter of Sannes, the Plumber, who had been given up by as many as

four doctors because there was not a ghost of a chance for her,--how she

was taken by Markus on his lap, when all the phlegm came loose; and only

yesterday, I saw her with her mother, running in front of the booths."

"And the other day," said the slatternly girl, "when that tall Knelis at

the vegetable market was drunk again--you know that common brawler with

the white flap on his cap--well, he just took him gently by the wing,

home to his old woman; and the fellow went along, as meek as a booby

tied to his mother's apron-string."

In this way, one story suggested another, and Johannes soon learned how

much his Guide was liked and esteemed among performers, showmen,

workmen, day-laborers--yes, even by the shopkeepers and tavern-keepers,

although he was a poor customer.

"What does he really do?" asked Johannes.

"Don't you know that?" replied the mistress, astonished. "And yet I

thought you were going to be his apprentice. He is a scissors-grinder.

His cart stands here, in the shed."

Johannes felt his heart thumping again, for he heard coming the very one

of whom they were speaking. He scarcely dared to look at him. But the

woman exclaimed: "Good morning, Markus! That's a sly-boots of yours--he

doesn't even know what your work is!"

Quite in his accustomed way Markus said: "Good morning, all! Is there a

bowl of coffee for me, too? Well, there is time enough yet to understand

about that. One may learn fast enough, turning the wheel."

"Will he have to turn?" asked the woman. "Then have you no footboard?"

Markus set his coffee down among the clean drinking-glasses, on a little

table, and sat down beside it, while the maid was cutting the slices of

bread.

Then Johannes and he regarded each other with a look full of complete,

mutual understanding. In his earnest, musical voice Markus had spoken

lightly, and easily, without conveying to the others any particular

meaning. But that they listened eagerly was apparent. Whenever his voice

was heard, others usually stopped speaking; and the least thing he said,

in jest or in earnest, was listened to with respectful attention.

"Yes, you see," said Markus, "I still have a cart with a footboard. But

nowadays there are much finer ones with window-glass upon them, and a

big wheel which another has to turn."

"Gracious!" said the bar-mistress, "so you're getting up in the world,

Markus! Sure, you've had a legacy, or a lucky lottery ticket."

"No, Vrouw Schimmel, but I thought this; your standing is good, of late,

and as you have to go to the banker's now, with your money, you might

loan me, say, a hundred and fifty guldens, and I'll repay the loan at

the rate of a gulden a week. How will that do?"

The woman stopped working and laughed. The mistress laughed, too, and

cried: "You're a regular Jew!" and, after having sauntered back and

forth a while, she said:

"All right--begin now and here! Sharpen these knives, and mind you make

them sharp as razors!"

* * * * *

After Markus and Johannes had eaten their bread, the old cart was

dragged out of the shed and dusted off, the axles oiled, the rope

moistened, and the knives were sharpened. Johannes watched attentively,

and saw how swiftly and skilfully Markus turned and directed the steel

until it was sharp and bright, and how the golden fountain of sparks

flew over the whizzing wheel.

Afterward they went together up the street, for it was necessary to earn

some money.

Markus stepped slowly wheeling his cart through the sunny streets--alive

with people. From time to time his "Scissors to Gri-i-i-nd!" rang out

above the tramp of feet and the rattle of wagons, while he looked

searchingly right and left to see if there was not some one who had

something to be sharpened. Johannes ran ahead, to ring the bells of all

the houses, and to bring the knives and scissors out to the cart.

Johannes did his very best. He felt that only now had life begun in real

earnest. For one's bread one must work, and earn money. He had never yet

thought about money and money-making; but the reality was stern and

sobering. Every one around him talked about money and money-getting. Yet

his noble Guide, he saw, was poor and shabby--forced to hard and

constant labor to keep from starving. Life grew serious indeed.

They said but little to each other. They were too busy. Johannes enjoyed

the work. He felt there was something heroic and important in the fact

that he, the young gentleman who had been to a superior school here, was

now going around as a scissors-grinder's boy. And when the housemaids,

somewhat surprised, looked at his neat little suit, he carried it more

jauntily. But the meeting with an old schoolmate was full of pain.

Toward twelve o'clock he grew tired and hungry. In passing by the

bakeries he had a feeling now that he had never known before--almost

peevishness--as if something had been taken away from him--as if that

bread were his by very right.

Then they came to the circus, where Marjon was. And there she sat, with

her dark-eyed sister. Her flaxen hair was now braided and wound around

her head.

Johannes heard the sound of an iron kettle being shaken, and he knew

that that meant potatoes. And there was bacon, also, and some boiled

vegetables. At first, these things were of prime importance to him. He

could think of nothing else until he had eaten--ravenously. Then, rather

ashamed, he glanced up.

They were sitting out-of-doors, in the rear of the tents and the booths,

with an awning stretched out over their heads to protect them from the

sun, which was shining fiercely and brightly. Close by stood the

circus-wagon--painted green, with variegated red and white trimmings. A

canary's cage stood upon the platform, between flower-pots, and the

yellow bird was singing merrily.

Johannes thought it fine and good now to be among people. There sat the

bright little being with the pale face, the large grey eyes, and the

ash-blonde hair--braided and wound like a diadem about her head. It

seemed to Johannes as if a brilliant light streamed out from her; a

light which tasted sweet, and smelled sweet also. And could she not ride

a horse, and spring through hoops, and with those slender hands throw

plates up high, and catch and balance them? And she looked often at

Johannes, and seemed to find him a nice little boy.

Beside her, calm and serious, his head bent forward, his dark hair

curling in his neck, sat Markus, eating. This made him seem to Johannes

still more dear and intimate.

Next, sat Marjon's sister. Johannes felt a little uneasy in her

presence. She sat close by him, and ate very audibly. She shoveled food

upon Johannes' plate, and now and then patted him on the shoulder, to

encourage him to eat. Then she looked at him, kindly enough, but with a

cold penetration as if with some fixed purpose. Her eyes seemed almost

black, and her glossy hair was as black as ebony. But her skin was waxy

white. Whenever she stirred, something in her clothing always creaked,

and there was a heavy odor of perfumery about her.

Beyond Marjon sat the little monkey, watching the movements of the steel

forks with his sharp, earnest eyes. Occasionally Marjon spoke to him,

and then he whined in eager expectation of something to eat.

That quarter of an hour was delightful! Johannes looked repeatedly at

Marjon, trying to think who she looked like, and why it seemed as if he

must have known her a long time. And he found it pleasant and adorable

when she spoke to him, and was as confidential as if with a friend. Yes,

he remembered something of that old sensation with Windekind--the

feeling of friendship and intimacy. But he could well see that she did

not resemble Windekind. He noticed that her nails were not very clean,

and admitted that she did make use of coarse and profane language. Yet

her speech was not flat, but musical--with a foreign accent; and her

bearing was nearly always winsome, although she did things considered

bad manners--things never permitted him.

The afternoon which now followed, filled with the same sort of

work--continually running back and forth across the sunny

streets--seemed hard indeed. At last he could not think any more, and

his feet burned fiercely. Sad and perplexed he sat down on a stone stoop

as the shadows grew deeper and cooler, and thought of the gloomy garret

where he was again to sleep.

"Come, Johannes. The day's money is nearly earned, and then we go to

Vrouw Schimmel's for our supper."

"How much have we earned?" asked Johannes; expecting to hear, to his

consolation, of the riches which he had procured by his hard work.

"Two guldens, forty-seven cents," said Markus.

"Is that enough?"

"So long as we can sleep for nothing at Vrouw Schimmel's and can eat for

nothing at the circus. But we cannot do that every day."

Johannes felt greatly discouraged. Already so tired, and so little

accomplished! Not enough earned yet for one day's support! How would he

ever have enough strength left over to help the people? With his head in

his hands he sat staring vacantly at the pavement.

"Tired?" asked Markus, gently. Johannes nodded. Markus spoke again:

"But remember, my boy! This is your first day. It will be easier after

you get used to it."

Johannes lifted his weary, disheartened eyes, and looked at his Guide

who was patiently engaged in putting something about the cart-axle to

rights.

"It is not _your_ first day, though, Markus, is it? It can never be any

easier for _you_. And that ought not to be so. It will never do."

A strange bitterness of thought took possession of Johannes--as if

everything were full of fraud and foolishness--as if he himself were

made a fool of. What sort of fellow was that, with the long hair, the

silly old cap, and frayed-out trousers, who sat there, pottering?

Markus glanced round and looked at him. Immediately Johannes grew

ashamed of his thoughts and felt a deep, over-mastering sorrow and

sympathy, that He--He who was standing there before him, was obliged to

toil so--in poverty and squalor.

This time he burst into unrestrained sobs, he was both so tired and so

over-excited. Weeping, he could only utter, "Why is it? I cannot

understand. It will never--never!--"

Markus did not attempt to console him; he merely said gently but firmly

that he must wheel the cart and go home, for people were observing them.

Johannes went early to bed, and his Guide went with him. The din from

below came up to them, as before, and the moon shone brightly into the

little garret. The two friends lay upon their hard mattresses, hand in

hand, talking together in an undertone. They did not use the careless

common-places of every-day speech, but they spoke as Johannes had done

with Windekind;--in the old, serious way.

"When I look at you, my brother, what is it makes me feel so sad?" asked

Johannes. "When I see your shabby clothes and blackened hands; when I

hear you addressed as comrade by those poor and filthy people; when I

see you sharing their hard, unlovely life, then I cannot keep from

crying. I am sorry I gave way to my feelings, and attracted attention,

but then it is so dreadful!"

"It is dreadful, Johannes, not on my account, but because of the

necessity for it."

"How can there be any need of your being so plain and sad? Is there

anything good in plainness and sadness?"

"No, Johannes; plainness and sadness are evils. The beautiful and the

joyful only are good, and it is they we must seek."

"But, dear brother, you may be both beautiful and joyful. Indeed, what

is there you cannot be? I saw you walking upon the shining waters. That

surely was no illusion?"

"No, that was no illusion."

"I saw only your face--not your clothing; only your face, and that was

beautiful and noble. And if you can walk upon the sea, then you can, if

you wish to, be beautiful and grand and joyful, even among those ugly

people."

"Yes, I can do that also, Johannes, but I will not do it, because I love

those plain and sorrowful people. I will do much more, just because so

much power has been given me. I will be a brother to them, so that they

may learn to know me.

"Must you, for that reason, be low in station and be sorrowful?"

"I am not of low degree, nor am I sorrowful. My spirits are high and my

heart is glad: and because I am so strong I can stoop to those who are

lowly and sad, in order that they may attain me, and with me, the

Light."

In the dark--eyes shut close--Johannes nodded his satisfaction, and then

fell asleep, his hand still in that of his friend.

III

At the end of the week, the bell rang from noon until one o'clock, to

announce the closing of the Fair. The tent canvases remained fastened

down, and the performances were hurriedly broken off. The stakes and

boards were loaded upon the boats lying in the canal; and there the

wooden lions of the merry-go-rounds made a sorry figure. They bore no

resemblance whatever to the lively, furious lions of the day before; and

one could hardly tell what had become of all that motley and magnificent

array.

The real, living Hons, and the people, in their different vehicles, went

up the street, in a long caravan, to the next town where the Fair was to

begin anew; for the summer is one long Fair for the Fair-folk.

Days before, Johannes and Markus had passed through that same street;

for with their heavy cart, they would have been unable to keep up with

the more rapid, horse-drawn vehicles. The weather remained fine and

clear. The walks along the road from village to village, with the

excitement of finding work and earning money--the restings on the sunny,

grassy wayside--the baths in retired spots--and now and then coffee in

the kitchens of the farmhouses--all this was new, pleasant, and

stimulating, and Johannes grew light-hearted and merry again.

Close by the next town the circus overtook them. It was only a mite of a

company. The big white horse was drawing the green wagon, and two

black-and-white spotted horses were drawing the second one. The

ring-master walked beside it, swearing now, not joking, and wearing a

very sour face. Then came a couple of men and some loose horses, in the

rear.

Johannes lay in the grass on the lookout for Marjon. There she came, in

her hand a big branch of alder leaves, with which she was brushing away

the flies from the white horse.

She was walking on dreamily, with only an indifferent look at the

staring peasant children along the way. But when she saw Johannes, her

eyes grew big and bright, and she waved her branch at him.

He sprang up and ran to her, and she struck at him playfully with her

alder branch. Then, with a sudden charming movement, she gave him a

kiss. Johannes kissed her bashfully in return. The peasant children were

astonished, but circus folk are always queer!

From between the muslin curtains of the little window in the green

wagon, Johannes saw two jet-black eyes peeping at him. They were the

eyes of Marjon's sister, and they wore a strange smile.

Johannes and Marjon walked on, hand in hand, chatting busily about the

experiences of the past few days. And while Marjon told of her

performances--how she had learned her tricks, and how often, too, she

had fallen--he listened as deferentially as if he were being initiated

into the mysteries of a princely court or of the national government.

Walking thus hand in hand beside the white horse, they approached the

town. By the wayside, with projecting tea-arbors, and well-planned

gardens, stood those low, wide country-seats which are still to be seen

in the neighborhood of the towns of Holland. They bear such names as

"Rust-oord,"[1] or "Nooit-gedacht,"[2] and make one think of ancient

times when the burghers went out to walk, with their Gouda[3] pipes, and

when the fragrant violets still grew upon the ramparts.

Between the windows of these houses, fastened to a curved iron rod, are

little mirrors, in which the inmates, seated by the window, are able to

see any one standing on the stoop, or approaching from a distance. They

are called "spionnetjes." The passer-by sees in this glass only the face

of the indweller.

In one of these little spyglasses Johannes suddenly saw a face that

startled him. Yet it was not a frightful countenance. It was pale and

spectacled, with two stiff "puffs" on each side. A lace cap crowned the

whole, with lavender ribbons falling over the ears down to the

shoulders. Two very clear, kindly, serious eyes were looking straight at

him. Johannes was startled, because he knew the face so well. It was

that of his aunt.

There was no doubt about it--it was Aunt Seréna. She had often been to

visit at his home, and now Johannes remembered the house where she

lived. He had even spent the night there. He cast a shy glance toward

it. Yes, to be sure! That was the one-story, white stucco house, with

the low windows, and the glass doors opening on the garden. He

remembered the garden, with the splendid beech-trees. Between the house

and the road was a green ditch, and on the fancy iron railing was the

name "Vrede-best." He recalled it all very well now, and it made him

uneasy and anxious.

"What makes you so white, Jo?" asked Marjon. "Aren't you well?"

"An aunt of mine lives there," said Johannes, blushing deeply now.

"Did she see you?" asked Marjon, quickly perceiving the significance of

the event.

"She surely did."

"Don't look round," said Marjon. "Cut around the corner! Can she do

anything to you?"

Johannes had not thought about that, at all. He owned to himself, that

while his Aunt Seréna was looking at him, he felt ashamed of being seen

with the circus-wagon, but he said nothing, and grasped Marjon's hand

again, for he had let it drop.

Fortunately Markus did not tell him to ask if there was anything at

"Vrede-best" to be sharpened.

But that pale face, with the puffs, the spectacles, the clear eyes, as

seen in the little mirror, continued to follow Johannes in a very

disconcerting way. The reflector was double, and Johannes felt certain

that his aunt now sat before the other side, and that the fixed eyes

were watching him.

"Have you any aunts, Marjon?"

"How do I know? Maybe," laughed Marjon.

"Your father, then?--Is he dead?"

Marjon lowered her voice a little, and, in a more serious manner, began

a confidential explanation of an important matter: "I do not know, Jo.

My mother is dead. She was a lion-tamer, and met with an accident. She

is buried in Keulen; but my father was rich, and he may be living still.

So you see I may have aunts--a lot of them--rich ones, perhaps."

"Have you never seen your father?" asked Johannes, speaking softly

himself, now.

"No, never! But Lorum says" (Lorum was the ring-master) "that he was a

count and had a castle."

"I can well believe that," said Johannes, looking at her admiringly.

"Yes, but Lorum tells lies."

That cast a shadow over Johannes' beautiful imaginings. Later, he often

had occasion to experience the untruthfulness of Lorum.

It was a hot noon-time when they entered the town. Those afoot were

tired and irritable, and the customary visit to the municipal

authorities concerning positions was attended with no little quarreling

and swearing. The empty, darkened parlors of the stately houses looked

cool and alluringly tranquil. Bright housemaids came to the doors to see

the circus-troup go by, and they chatted and giggled with one another.

Outside the town a large, grass-grown place was pointed out, where the

dwelling-wagons might stand. So they were all in a circle--twenty or

more of them--from the big, two-horsed leading wagons, freshly painted,

with dainty curtains, flower-pots, gilded decorations, bird-cages and

carvings, to the rickety, home-made wagons, constructed of old boards,

patched up with bits of canvas and sheet-iron, and drawn by a man and a

dog.

And now the steaming dust-covered horses were unharnessed, the hay and

straw--which had been pilfered or begged--spread out, fires were

started, and preparations made for a hasty meal. It was a lively,

bustling camp. Markus was there, too. His new scissors-cart with its

window-glass stood beside Marjon's wagon glittering in the sunshine. He

was thoughtfully walking around among the people with Johannes,

exchanging greetings with everybody, and carrying on brief

conversations. His raincoat and cap were packed away, but his coat and

trousers were the same, for he had no others. He had on now a very

broad-brimmed straw hat, such as can be purchased at the Fairs for two

stuivers. Johannes much preferred to see him in this, and was pleased to

note how the hat became his long, dark hair.

Wherever Markus came, things went better. Disputes filled the air, and

shocking language was to be heard on every side, even from the lips of

the children. But when Markus appeared they calmed down, and threats and

quarrels were soon exorcised. Not having been seen in a long while, he

was greeted with hearty exclamations of surprise, and with all sorts of

questions which he answered jestingly.

"Hello, Vis! What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been under

water?"

"At court, Dirk Volders. See what a fine present I have brought away."

And he pointed out the new cart.

"Surely, you've been sharpening the coupon-scissors again, haven't you?"

"No, the nail-scissors, Dirk, and it's time to do it here."

Wherever Markus went, a troop of children followed him Without apparent

reason, or any expectation of delicacies, always several children tagged

untiringly after him, an hour at a time, clinging fast, with their dirty

little hands, to a shred of his coat or a fold of his trousers. With

earnest faces they listened to his words and watched his movements,

quietly managing the while to usurp one another's place at the front.

Whoever could catch hold of his coat held on. Wherever he went, the

ragged, unwashed little ones, from under wagons and behind boxes, put in

an appearance--trotting after, so as to be on hand. There was always a

chance of his suddenly throwing himself down and telling a story to a

dozen dirty little listeners. Their small mouths, all smeared and

stained, were wide open with interest, and their hands, furnished with a

bread-crust or an old doll, hung down motionless, as they listened in

suspense. And no one had ever surprised Markus in a peevish or impatient

word to his troublesome little admirers. Not one of the surly, scolding

parents had ever been able to admit to a child that it was naughty

enough for Markus, even, to send it away.

Johannes observed this with great admiration. At first it seemed to him

wonderful--supernatural. A whimpering, naughty child became submissive,

a troublesome one tractable, and rude, unmannerly, and passionate

children went away composed and quiet. And how could any one remain

patient under such a continual din, and tagged after by the dirtiest and

the worst-behaved children in the world? But, listening and keenly

scrutinizing, Johannes gradually came to understand the apparently

incomprehensible. It was the power of the interest in them which

performed the miracle. There was nothing concerning those neglected

little waifs in which Markus did not evidence the keenest interest, and

he gave it his fullest attention--sparing no trouble nor exertion. Thus

the roving mind of the child was at the same time pacified and

restrained, and reduced to a state favorable for guidance. But, however

he himself might explain it, the parents who were unable to control

their children maintained that Markus had something in his eyes, or in

his fingers--a "magic," they called it--by which he ruled the children.

And these convictions grew still more settled through the knowledge of

the willing and blessed help he gave to the sick.

There prevailed among these people a great distrust of physicians, and

the one grievance they had against Markus was that he too often

(according to their views) referred the sick to the doctor and the

hospital. "He can do it better himself," they thought. "He surely is

afraid of getting into jail." Yet they begrudged the police the

satisfaction of seeing him there. But they tried to induce Markus to

help them in every illness--even that of a broken bone--without their

having recourse to doctor or hospital. In cases where the sick body

could do without the relief of costly attendance and technical

apparatus, Markus did not refuse to help with his simple expedients. It

was said that he was a healer, yet no one had ever seen or heard him

pray beside a sick person. He sometimes sat for a long time, deep in

thought, by the side of a sufferer who was restless, or in pain. He

would lay his hand upon the head, or the affected part, or take the hand

of the patient. This he would sometimes do hour after hour, and he

seldom left without having reduced the pain and restlessness.

Johannes had already heard this related by Marjon, and now he also saw

mothers bringing their crying infants to him for advice, and he gave

eager attention to what Markus would say.

A baby screamed and wriggled like a worm, resisting vehemently, for it

dreaded the light, and wanted to hide its affected eyes in the mother's

arms. But Markus insisted on examining the poor little eyes. They were

all stuck together with foulness, and were red and swollen.

Johannes expected nothing else than that Markus would anoint them and

command them to open. But Markus said:

"That's a loathsome lot of stuff, mother. There is a good eye-clinic in

Leyden. But there is also a good one here. Go to it soon--now--to-day."

The mother, a strong, bony woman, looked at him through her straggling

hair, in an irresolute, dissatisfied way.

"Curse 'em--those quacks! You do it instead. You can do it just as

well."

"I'll not do it, mother, positively. And think of it! If you do not go

quickly, your child will surely be stark blind. Go! It is your duty to."

"How is it, Markus? Can't you do it, or don't you dare to, that you send

me off to those murderers?"

Markus regarded her several moments, and then said, gently: "Mother, it

is your own fault--you know it very well. I may not give you help, but

it is not on account of the police. There in the town they will give you

good advice. But go now, quickly, or the blindness of your child will be

upon your conscience."

With a sullen look the woman turned away, and Johannes asked in a

whisper: "Are these doctors more clever than Markus?"

"They know enough for this," said Markus, abruptly.

[1] Rust-oord = Place of repose.

[2] Nooit-gedacht = Beyond thought.

[3] Gouda = Name of town.

IV

In the heat of the afternoon the Fair-folk went to sleep. They lay

snoring everywhere--on straw or heaps of rags, in ugly, ungainly

postures. But the children continued in motion, and often here and there

the sound of their teasing and crying could be heard.

Johannes strolled around dejectedly. To go and lie calmly down, to sleep

between those vile men, as Markus did, was impossible. Rank odors

pervaded everything, and he was afraid, too, of vermin. Should he go

walk in the town park, or between the sunny polders? Although he was

ashamed to run away, he could not remain in peace. Again that frightful

feeling arose, of unfitness for his great task. He was too weak--too

sensitive.

He thought, with a painful longing, of the cool, stately, and peaceful

parlors in the houses of the town, with furniture neatly dusted by tidy

maids. He thought, too, of Aunt Seréna and her pretty, old-fashioned

house, and of her large, shady garden, where surely the raspberries were

now ripe.

Strolling moodily along, he came upon the green wagon, and behold, there

was Marjon, lying in peaceful sleep. She lay on a shaggy, red-and-yellow

horse-blanket, and her lean arms and scrawny neck were bare. She was so

still--her knees drawn up and her cheek in her hand--that one could not

tell whether she was really sleeping, or lying awake with closed eyes.

The monkey sat close beside her in the hot sun, contentedly playing with

a cocoanut.

Johannes felt touched, and went to sit down against the wheel of the

wagon. Looking intently at the dear little girl, he thought over her

troubled, wandering life.

In thinking of that he forgot his own grief; and from the depths of his

discontent he passed over to a mood of tender melancholy full of

compassion. And then there awakened in him words which he was careful

to remember. He thought of a butterfly that he had once seen flying

seaward over the strand; and thinking of Marjon he said to himself:

"Out to the sea a white butterfly passed--It

looked at the sunshine, not at the shore;

Now it must flutter in every blast,

And may rest never more."

As he repeated those last words he was greatly moved, and tears coursed

down his cheeks. He repeated the lines, over and over, adding new ones

to them, and ended by losing himself wholly in this sweet play.

Thus the summer afternoon sped quickly, and Johannes went to the wagon

for pencil and paper, to write down the thoughts which had come into his

head. He was afraid they might escape.

"What are you doing?" asked Marjon, waking up. "Are you sketching me?"

"I am making verses," said Johannes.

Marjon had to see the verses, and when she had read them she wanted to

sing them. Taking from the wagon a zither, she began to hum softly,

while trying to find the chords. Johannes waited in suspense.

At last Marjon found a sad yet fervent melody, that sounded to Johannes

like one well known to him of old; and together they sang the song:

"Out to the sea a white butterfly passed--

It looked at the sun, but at the shore, never;

Now it must flutter in every blast,

Nor may rest, ever.

"Oh, butterfly, little butterfly,

Seeking everywhere for your valley fair,

Never, ah, never again will you spy

The shady dell, where sweet flow'rs dwell.

"By wild winds driven out to sea,

Floating on sunshine far from the shore,

Evermore she a-wing now must be,

And can rest, never.

"Oh, butterfly, lovely butterfly!

Through sunny blue, or shadowy grey,

Never again shall you descry

That leafy dell where the roses dwell."

The children sang it once, twice, three times through; for those who had

been awakened listened and asked for a repetition. Like a sudden

illumination of sense and soul there came to Johannes the consciousness

of having done something good. The poor, vile, neglected people--adults

and children--had listened. He had made it, and it had given him

happiness; now it seemed also to afford these sorrowful people some

pleasure. This made him glad. It was not much, but then he could do

something.

Night came; the air grew cooler, a fresh wind blew in from the sea over

the grassy polders, and a rosy mist hung over the dunes. The broad canal

along which the camp lay was sparkling in the sunset light. Everywhere

noises awoke, and from the town came the twilight sounds of hand-organs

and the rattling of carts.

The Fair-people formed a ring, and, eager for more music, besought

Markus to play for them.

Markus took a harmonica, and played all kinds of tunes. Men and women,

squatting down, or prone upon the ground, chin in hand, listened with

great earnestness; and when the children, talking or loitering, and

paying no attention to the music, came up to their parents, they were

impatiently sent off.

When Markus stopped, a man cried out in a husky voice: "Come, boys,

let's sing something--The Song of the Poor Customers."

Instantly, they all fell in obediently--Markus striking the

key-note--and sang the following song:

"We coatless wand'rers without land,--

We are poor customers.

He who more dollars has than wits,--

'Tis he may loll around.

Tho' high we jump, or low we jump

We're bound to lose the game.

With empty stomachs we must dance,--

Our Ruler is the dollar.

"In olden times the King was boss,

To rack us for our sins;

But now he's only a figure-head,

And has his own boss found.

Whoever crown, or scepter bears,

And gorgeous raiment wears,--

Tho' he jump high, or jump less high,

He's ruled by the dollar.

"Before his men the General stands

And tells 'em how to kill.

The dapper heroes--one and all--

Make haste to do his will.

Yet, in his 'broidered uniform,

The dickens! what commands he?

Tho' he jump high or jump less high

Th' Commander is--The Dollar.

"Where lies our land? where spreads our roof?

We live by favor, only.

To them who have but pelf in pocket

We show our arts and tricks.

But if at last we come to grief

There yet is something for us,--

The fill of our mouths, a tasteful cover,

And a nook that's all our own."

When the last word of the song had died away, the husky voice cried:

"You might as well say, while you are about it, that the churchyards are

emptied out every tenth year."

"Every twentieth!" cried another.

"Children," said Markus, setting his instrument upon the ground between

his feet, "children, now listen to me. We have been singing of money,

and of those who had more money than sense; but have you more sense than

money? What is it you have that is better than either?"

"Only give me the money," cried the husky voice.

"And me!" cried the other.

"I would sooner give money to the monkey, who would throw it into the

water, and not get tipsy with it," said Markus.

"Children," he continued, and gradually Johannes heard that deep ring in

his voice, which riveted attention and caused an inner thrill, "where

there is gold without sense, there will be misery; and where there is

sense, there will be prosperity. For wisdom will not lack for gold.

"You truly are poor wretches--ill-treated and deceived.

"But nobody receives what is not his due. So do not rage and curse about

it.

"He who is wise is strong, and cannot be ill-treated. The wise one

cannot be deceived. The wise one is good, and neither steals nor lets

himself be stolen from.

"You are weak and foolish; therefore you are deceived.

"But you cannot help it, poor children. I know it well; for the children

suffer because of what parents and grandparents have done.

"But yet nobody receives what he does not deserve.

"We suffer for our parents and grandparents. Do not call that unjust.

The wise ones love their parents, and will redeem their wrong-doing.

"And we can all make amends for what our parents did amiss. Yes, we can

make amends to our parents--even now that they are dead.

"The grave is not a snare, children, for catching soul-birds. Father

and mother are living still, and are benefited through our efforts.

"Make your little ones good, then, for you will have need of them. Yes,

those who die like the dumb beasts--like the harlots and drunkards--even

they will find good children most needful.

"And no one can complain who fails of the expiation of the good

children, nor is there any one who with their help cannot grow wiser.

"If two travelers, wandering at night in the cold--the one having wood,

the other matches--do not understand each other, both will suffer and be

lost in the dark.

"And if two shipwrecked people have between them a single cocoanut, and

one takes the milk and the other the meat, then they both will

perish--one from hunger, the other from thirst.

"So, also, with wisdom; and no one lives upon the earth who can be wise

alone."

Markus' voice rang loud and clear, and it was as still as death in the

sultry field, among those ragged people. For a time he was silent, and

Johannes was so moved he was softly weeping; although he by no means

accurately understood the meaning of the discourse.

Finally, the husky voice sounded again, but now more gently:

"I'll be darned if I can make head or tail of it; but I take it for

truth."

"Children," said Markus, "you are not bound to understand, and you are

not bound to believe me; but will you, for my sake, remember it, word

for word, and teach it to your children? Then I will be grateful to

you."

Softly rang the voices here and there: "Yes--yes, indeed!"

"Will you not play some more?" asked a young girl with large, dark eyes.

"Yes, I will play, and then you can dance," said Markus, nodding kindly.

Then he took a violin from one of the musicians and began to play for

the dancing--such fine music that the promenaders upon the street along

the canal stood still, and remained to listen. A magistrate, who often

played piano and violin duets with his friend the notary, remarked that

there must be a veritable Zigeuner among the Fair-folk, since he only

could play in such a manner.

Then, forming a large circle, the people began to dance. The men,

holding the maidens with stiff right arms under the armpits, whirled

them around in an awkward, woodeny way. They kept it up until the

perspiration streamed from their red, earnest faces. The children and

their parents sat around. Occasionally, also, songs were sung. There was

a good deal of laughing, and they all enjoyed themselves greatly.

* * * * *

In the midst of their jollity, two breathless children came running in.

The larger was a little girl of eight years, with a dirty little

cherub-face, haloed with flaxen ringlets. She had on an old pair of

boy's trousers, held up by suspenders, and falling quite down to her

little bare feet, so that in running so fast she nearly tripped in them.

"The cops!" cried the child, panting, and the little one cried after

her: "The cops!"

Johannes scarcely comprehended the full import of this word; but it had

the effect upon the group which the appearance of a hawk in the upper

air has upon a flock of tomtits, or of sparrows.

The presence of one or two watchmen, or policemen, on the road in front

of the camp was nothing unusual; but now they were coming in greater

numbers, and conducted by a dignified official in a black coat, and with

a walking-stick and eye-glasses--the mayor, perchance! With that heroic

tread which indicates an exalted sense of duty he led his men upon the

scene. The music and noisy demonstrations were struck dumb, the dancing

stopped, and everybody looked toward the road whence the common danger

menaced. Each asked himself who most probably would be the victim; or

considered the possibility of a harmless retreat from the neighborhood.

Johannes alone thought nothing specially about it, not comprehending the

extraordinary concern of the others.

But, behold! After the policemen and the presumptive mayor had stood a

while at the entrance to the camp, asking information, they came

straight up to Marjon's wagon. They soon had their eyes on Marjon and

Johannes, and Johannes at once felt that the affair concerned himself.

He felt wretchedly ashamed, and, although he could not remember any evil

deed, he felt as if he certainly must have done something very wrong,

and that now the law--the _Law_, had come to get him, and to punish him.

"_Jimminy_, Johnnie! Now you're in a pickle!" said Marjon. "She's got

you in a hole."

"Who?" asked Johannes, all at sea, and turning pale.

"Well, that furious aunt of yours, of course."

Johannes heard his name called, and he was requested to go with them.

While he was hesitating, in miserable silence, Marjon's sister began

scolding, in a sharp voice.

But the policemen acted as if they did not hear her, and the chief

began, in a kindly, admonitory tone: "Young man, you are a minor--you

must obey the orders of your family. Here you are not in your own

station. Your aunt is a very nice and excellent lady. You will be much

better off with her than you are here. Your aunt is influential, and you

must do what she says. That is the wisest way."

In his uncertainty, Johannes looked round at Markus and asked:

"What shall I do?"

Gravely, without any consolation in the look he gave him, Markus said:

"Do you think, Johannes, that I shall tell you every time what you ought

to do? That would not make you any wiser. Do what seems to you best, and

do not be afraid."

"Come, boy, this isn't a matter of choice," said the gentleman with the

cane. "You can't stay, and that's the end of it."

And when Johannes started to follow, Marjon threw herself upon his

shoulder, and began to cry. The Fair-people drew together in groups,

muttering.

But Johannes did not cry. He was thinking of his Aunt Seréna's tidy

house, and of the fresh, spacious chamber with its large bed curtained

with green serge, and of the big bed-tassel.

"Cheer up, Marjon," said he. "I'll not forget you. Good-by till we meet

again."

And with the three officials he went his way to Vrede-best, often

turning round to look at the camp, and to wave his hand at the weeping

Marjon.

V

"Well, well, Master Johannes!" said Daatje, the old servant, as she

thrust the heated bed-pan between the fresh linen sheets. "Truly, that

was a blessed escape for you; like getting out of purgatory into

paradise--away from those vile people to be with our mistress. That was

fortunate, indeed. My! My!"

Damp sheets are dangerous, even in midsummer, and Daatje had been

drilled very strictly by her mistress in caring for the comfort of

guests.

Daatje wore a snow-white cap and a purple cotton gown. Her face was

wrinkled, and her hands and arms were still more so. She had been an

astonishingly long time in Aunt Seréna's service--perhaps forty

years--and lost no opportunity clearly to prove to Johannes what an

excellent being his aunt was: always polite and kind, always ready to

assist, a blessing to the poor, a refuge for every one in the

neighborhood, adored by all who knew her, and pure as an angel.

"She is converted," said Daatje, "yes, truly converted. Ask whoever you

please; like her there are not many living."

Johannes perceived that "converted" meant "very good." According to

Daatje, the natural man was not good, and it was necessary for every one

to be converted before he was fit for anything. For a long time before

falling asleep, while looking around the big, quiet bedroom, Johannes

lay thinking over these things. A night-light was spluttering in a glass

filled with equal parts of water and oil. As soon as the flame was

lighted, behind the milk-white, translucent shade appeared strange,

dreamy landscapes--formed by the unequal thicknesses.

The chamber had an ancient, musty odor, and all the furniture bore an

old-fashioned stateliness. There was a queer pattern upon the green

bed-curtains, distressing to see; like half-opened eyes, alternately

squinting. The big bed-tassel hung down from above in dogged dignity,

like the tail of a lion keeping watch up above, on the canopy of the

four-poster.

Johannes felt very comfortable, yet there was something uncanny around

him that he did not quite relish. Once, it really seemed to be the

ponderous linen-chest of dark wood, with its big, brass-handled drawers,

upon which stood, under a bell-glass, a basket filled with wax fruit.

What the pictures represented could not be seen in the dim light, but

they were in the secret too, as was also the night-stand with its

crocheted cover, and the fearfully big four-poster.

Every half-hour "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" rang through the house, as if those

out in the hall and in the vestibule were also in the secret; the only

one left out being the little fellow in clean underclothes and a

night-gown much too big for him, who lay there, wide awake, looking

around him. In the midst of all these solid, important, and dignified

things, he was a very odd and out-of-place phenomenon. He felt that, in

a polite way, he was being made sport of. Besides, it remained to be

seen whether, after his more or less unmannerly adventures, he could

ever be taken into confidence. Evidently the entire house was, if not

precisely hostile, yet in a very unfriendly attitude. He kept his eye

upon the bed-tassel, all ready to see the lion wag his tail. In order to

do that, however, he must surely first become "converted," just like

Aunt Seréna.

When the day dawned, this new life became more pleasant than he had

anticipated. Aunt Seréna presided at the breakfast, which consisted of

tea, fresh rolls, currant buns, sweet, dark rye-bread, and pulverized

aniseed. Upon the pier-tables, bright with sunshine, stood jars of

Japanese blue-ware, filled with great, round bouquets of roses,

mignonette, and variegated, ornamental grasses. The long glass doors

stood open, and the odor of new-mown grass streamed in from the garden

to the room, which was already deliciously fragrant with the roses and

mignonette, and the fine tea.

Aunt Seréna made no allusion to the foregoing day, nor to the death of

Johannes' father. She was full of kindly attentions, and interrogated

him affably, yet in a very resolute manner, concerning what he had

learned at school, and asked who had given him religious instruction. It

was now vacation time, and he might rest a little longer, and enjoy

himself; but then would come the school again and the catechism.

Until now Johannes had had small satisfaction out of his solemn

resolution to value men more highly in order to live with them in a

well-disposed way. But this time he was more at ease. The nice, cool

house, the sunshine, the sweet smells, the flowers, the fresh rolls,

everything put him in good humor; and when Aunt Seréna herself was so in

harmony with her surroundings, he was soon prepared to see her in the

light of Daatje's glorification. He gazed confidingly into the gleaming

glasses of her spectacles, and he also helped her carry the big,

standing work-basket, out of which she drew the bright-colored worsteds

for her embroidery--a very extensive and everlasting piece of work.

* * * * *

But the garden! It was a wonder--the joy of his new life. After being

released by his aunt until the hour for coffee, he raced into it like a

young, unleashed hound--hunting out all the little lanes, paths,

flower-plots, arbors, knolls, and the small pool; and then he felt

almost as if in Windekind's realm again. A shady avenue was there which

made two turns, thus seeming to be very long. There were paths between

thick lilac-bushes already in bloom; and there were mock-oranges, still

entirely covered with exceedingly fragrant white flowers. There was a

small, artificial hill in that garden, with a view toward the west, over

the adjacent nursery. Aunt Seréna was fond of viewing a fine sunset, and

often came to the seat on the hilltop. There was a plot of roses, very

fragrant, and as big as a plate. There were vivid, fiery red poppies

with woolly stems, deep blue larkspurs, purple columbines, tall

hollyhocks, like wrinkled paper, with their strange, strong odor. There

were long rows of saxifrage, a pair of dark brown beeches; and

everywhere, as exquisite surprises, fruit trees--apples, pears, plums,

medlars, dogberries, and hazel-nuts--scattered among the trees which

bore no fruit.

Indeed, the world did not now seem so bad, after all. A human being--a

creature admirably and gloriously perfect--a human dwelling filled with

attractive objects, and, close beside, a charming imitation of

Windekind's realm, in which to repose. And all in the line of duty, with

no departure from the prescribed path. Assuredly, Johannes had looked

only on the dark side of life. To confess this was truly mortifying.

Towards twelve o'clock Daatje was heard in the cool kitchen, noisily

grinding coffee, and Johannes ventured just a step into her domain,

where, on all sides, the copper utensils were shining. In a little

courtyard, some bird-cages were hanging against the ivy-covered walls.

One large cage contained a skylark. He sat, with upraised beak and fixed

gaze, on a little heap of grass. Above him, at the top of the cage, was

stretched a white cloth.

"That's for his head," said Daatje, "if he should happen to forget he

was in a cage, and try to fly into the air."

Next to this, in tiny cages, were finches. They hopped back and forth,

back and forth, from one perch to another. That was all the room they

had; and there they cried, "Pink! Pink!" Now and then one of them would

sing a full strain. Thus it went the whole day long.

"They are blind," said Daatje. "They sing finer so."

"Why?" asked Johannes.

"Well, boy, they can't see, then, whether it is morning or evening, and

so they keep on singing."

"Are you converted, too, Daatje?" asked Johannes.

"Yes, Master Johannes, that grace is mine. I know where I'm going to.

Not many can say that after me."

"Who besides you?"

"Well, I, and our mistress, and Dominie Kraalboom."

"Does a converted person keep on doing wrong?"

"Wrong? Now I've got you! No, indeed! I can do no more wrong. It's more

wrong even if you stand on your head to save your feet. But don't run

through the kitchen now with those muddy shoes. The foot-scraper is in

the yard. This is not a runway, if you please."

* * * * *

The luncheon was not less delicious: fresh, white bread, smoked beef,

cake and cheese, and very fragrant coffee, whose aroma filled the entire

house. Aunt Seréna talked about church-going, about the choosing of a

profession, and about pure and honest living. Johannes, being in a

kindly mood, and inclined to acquiescence, avoided argument.

In the afternoon, as he sat dreaming in the shady avenue of lindens,

Aunt Seréna came bringing a tray, bearing a cooky and a glass of

cherry-brandy.

At half-past five came dinner. Daatje was an excellent cook, and dishes

which were continually recurring on stated days were particularly well

prepared. Vermicelli soup, with forced-meat balls, minced veal and

cabbage, middlings pudding with currant juice: that was the first meal,

later often recalled. Aunt Seréna asked a blessing and returned thanks,

and Johannes, with lowered eyes and head a little forward, appeared,

from the movement of his lips, to be doing a little of the same thing.

Through the long twilight, Aunt Seréna and Johannes sat opposite each

other, each one in front of a reflector. Aunt Seréna was thrifty, and,

since the street lantern threw its light into the room, she was not in a

hurry to burn her own oil. Only the unpretending little light for the

making of the tea was glimmering behind the panes of milk-white

glass--with landscapes not unlike those upon the night-light.

In complete composure, with folded hands, sat Aunt Seréna in the dusk,

making occasional remarks, until Daatje came to inquire "if the mistress

did not wish to make ready for the evening." Then Daatje wound up the

patent lamp, causing it to give out a sound as if it were being

strangled. A quarter of an hour later it was regulated, and, as soon as

the cozy, round ring of light shone over the red table-cover, Aunt

Seréna said, in the most contented way: "Now we have the dear little

lamp again!"

At half-past ten there was a sandwich and a glass of milk for Johannes.

Daatje stood ready with the candle, and, upstairs, the night-light, the

chest of drawers with the wax fruit, the green bed-curtains, and the

impressive bed-tassel were waiting for him. Johannes also descried

something new--a big Bible--upon his night-table. There was no

appearance yet of any attempt at a reconciliation on the part of the

furniture. The cuckoo continued to address himself exclusively to the

stilly darkness, in absolute disregard of Johannes; but the latter did

not trouble himself so very much about it, and soon fell fast asleep.

The morning differed but little from the foregoing one. Some Bibles were

lying ready upon the breakfast-table. Daatje came in, took her place

majestically, folded her half-bare wrinkled arms--and Aunt Seréna read

aloud. The day before, Aunt Seréna had made a departure from this, her

custom, uncertain how Johannes would take it; but, having found the boy

agreeable and polite, she intended now to resume the readings. She read

a chapter of Isaiah, full of harsh denunciations which seemed to please

Daatje immensely. The latter wore a serious look, her lips pressed close

together, occasionally nodding her head in approval, while she sniffed

resolutely. Johannes found it very disconcerting, and could not, with

his best endeavors, keep his attention fixed. He was listening to the

twittering of the starlings on the roof, and the cooing of a wood-dove

in the beech tree.

In front of him he saw a steel engraving, representing a young woman,

clad in a long garment, clinging with outstretched arms to a big stone

cross that stuck up out of a restless waste of waters. Rays of light

were streaming down from above, and the young person was looking

trustfully up into them. The inscription below the engraving read, "The

Rock of Ages," and Johannes was deep in speculation as to how the young

lady had gotten there, and especially how she was to get away from

there. It was not to be expected that she could long maintain herself in

that uncomfortable position--surely not for ages. That refuge looked

like a peculiarly precarious one; unless, indeed, something better might

be done with those rays of light.

Upon the same wall hung a motto, drawn in colored letters, amid a

superfluity of flowers and butterflies, saying: "The Lord is my

Shepherd. I shall not want."

This awakened irreverent thoughts in Johannes' mind. When the

Bible-reading was over, he was suddenly moved to make a remark.

"Aunt Seréna," said he, conscious of a rising color, and feeling rather

giddy on account of his boldness, "is it only because the Lord is your

Shepherd that you do not lack for anything?"

But he had made a bad break.

Aunt Seréna's face took on a severe expression, and adjusting her

spectacles somewhat nervously, she said: "I willingly admit, dear

Johannes, that in many respects I have been blessed beyond my deserts;

but ought not you to know--you who had such a good and well-informed

father--that it is very unbecoming in young people to pass judgment,

thoughtlessly, upon the lives of older ones, when they know nothing

either of their trials or of their blessings?"

Johannes sat there, deeply abashed, suddenly finding himself to be a

silly, saucy boy.

But Daatje stood up, and in a manner peculiarly her own--bending a

little, arms akimbo--said, with great emphasis: "_I'll_ tell you what,

mistress! you're too good. He ought to have a spanking--on the bare

spanking place, too!" And forthwith she went to the kitchen.

VI

There were regularly recurring changes in Aunt Seréna's life. In the

first place, the going to church. That was the great event of the week;

and the weekly list of services and of the officiating clergymen was

devoutly discussed. Then the lace cap, with its silk strings, was

exchanged for a bonnet with a gauze veil; and Daatje was careful to have

the church books, mantle, and gloves ready, in good reason. Nearly

always Daatje went also; if not, then the sermon was repeated to her in

detail.

Johannes accompanied his aunt with docility, and tried, not without a

measure of success, to appreciate the discourse.

The visits of Minister Kraalboom were not less important. Johannes saw,

with amazement, that his aunt, at other times so stately and estimable,

now almost humbled herself in reverent and submissive admiration. She

treated this man, in whom Johannes could see no more than a common,

kindly gentleman, with a head of curling grey hair, and with round,

smoothly shaven cheeks, as if he belonged to a higher order of beings;

and the adored one accepted her homage with candid readiness. The most

delicious things the aunt had, in fine wines, cakes, and liqueurs, were

set before him; and, as the minister was a great smoker, Daatje had a

severe struggle with herself after every visit, between her respect for

the servant of the Lord and her detestation of scattered ashes, stumps

of cigars, and tobacco-smelling curtains.

Once a week there was a "Krans," or sewing circle, and then came Aunt

Seréna's lady friends. They were more or less advanced in years, but all

of them very unprepossessing women, among whom Aunt Seréna, with her

erect figure and fine, pale face, made a very good appearance; and she

was clearly regarded as a leader. Puff-cakes were offered, and warm wine

or "milk-tea" was poured. The aim of the gatherings was charitable.

Talking busily, the friends made a great many utterly useless, and, for

the most part, tasteless, articles: patchwork quilts, anti-macassars,

pin-cushions, flower-pot covers, picture frames of dried grasses, and

all that sort of thing. Then a lottery, or "tombola,"[1] as it was

called, was planned for. Every one had to dispose of tickets, and the

proceeds were given, sometimes to a poor widow, sometimes to a hospital,

but more often, however, to the cause of missions.

On such evenings Johannes sat, silent, in his corner, with one of the

illustrated periodicals of which his aunt had a large chestful. He

listened to the conversation, endeavoring to think it noble and amiable;

and he looked, also, at the trifling fingers. No one interfered with

him, and he drank his warm wine and ate his cake, content to be left in

peace; for he felt attracted toward none of the flowers composing this

human wreath.

But Aunt Seréna did not consider her duty accomplished in these ways

alone. She went out from them to busy herself in parish calls on various

households--rich as well as poor--wherever she thought she could do any

good. It was a great satisfaction to Johannes when, at his request that

he be allowed to go with her, she replied: "Certainly, dear boy; why

not?"

Johannes accompanied her this first time under great excitement. Now he

was going to be initiated into ways of doing and being good. This was a

fine chance.

So they set out together, Johannes carrying a large satchel containing

bags of rice, barley, sugar, and split peas. For the sick there were

jars of smoked beef and a flask of wine.

They first went to see Vrouw Stok, who lived not far away, in French

Lane. Vrouw Stok evidently counted upon such a visit, and she was

extremely voluble. According to her statements, one would say that no

nobler being dwelt upon earth than Aunt Seréna, and no nicer, more

grateful, and contented creature than Vrouw Stok. And Dominie Kraalboom

also was lavishly praised.

After that, they went to visit the sick, in reeking little rooms in

dreary back streets. And everywhere they met with reiterations of

gratitude and pleasure from the recipients, together with unanimous

praising of Aunt Seréna, until Johannes several times felt the tears

gather in his eyes. The barley and the split peas were left where they

would be of use, as were also the wine and the jars of smoked beef.

Johannes and his aunt returned home very well pleased. Aunt Seréna was

rejoiced over her willing and appreciative votary, and Johannes over

this well-conducted experiment in philanthropy. If this were to be the

way, all would be well. In a high state of enthusiasm he sped to the

garden to dream away the quiet afternoon amid the richly laden

raspberry-bushes.