Johannes first selected a stray thought.

"Is that your own idea?" he asked. Marjon was not quick with an answer,

herself, this time.

"My own? No. Markus told me it. But I knew it myself, though. I knew it,

but he said it. He drew it out of me. I remember everything he

says--everything--even although I don't catch on."

"Is there any good in that?" asked Johannes, thoughtlessly.

Marjon looked at him disdainfully, and said:

"Jimminy! You're just like Kees. He doesn't know either that he can do

more with a quarter than with a cent. When I got my first quarter, I

didn't catch on, either, but then I noticed that I could get a lot more

candy with it than with a cent. Then I knew better what to do. So now I

treasure the things Markus has said--all of them."

"Do you think as much of him as I do?" asked Johannes.

"More," said Marjon.

"That cannot be."

Then there was another long pause. The boat was not in a hurry, neither

was the sun, and the broad stream made even less haste. And so the

children, as well, took plenty of time in their talking.

"Yes, but you see," Johannes began again, "when people speak of our

Father, they mean God, and God is...."

What was it again, that Windekind had said about God? The thought came

to him, and clothed in the old terms. But Johannes hesitated. The terms

were surely not attractive.

"What is God, now?" asked Marjon.

The old jargon must be used. There was nothing better.

"... An oil-lamp, where the flies stick fast."

Marjon whistled--a shrill whistle of authority--a circus-command.

Keesje, who was sitting on the foremast, thoughtfully inspecting his

outstretched hind foot, started up at once, and came sliding down the

steel cable, in dutiful haste.

"Here, Kees! Attention!"

Kees grumbled assent, and was instantly on the alert, for he was well

drilled. His sharp little brown eyes scarcely strayed for one second

away from the face of his mistress.

"The young gentleman here says he knows what God is. Do you know?"

Keesje shook his head quickly, showing all his sharp little white teeth

in a grin. One would have said he was laughing, but his small eyes

peered as seriously as ever from Marjon's mouth to her hand. There was

nothing to laugh at. He must pay attention. That was clear. Goodies were

bound to follow--or blows.

But Marjon laughed loudly.

"Here, Kees! Good Kees!"

And then he had the dainties, and soon was up on the mast, smacking

aloud as he feasted.

The result of this affront was quite unexpected to Marjon. Johannes, who

had been lying prone on the deck, with his chin in his hands, gazed

sadly for a while at the horizon, and then hid his face in his folded

arms, his body shaking with sobs.

"Stop now, Jo; you're silly! Cry for _that_!" said Marjon, half

frightened, trying to pull his arms away from his face. But Johannes

shook his head.

"Hush! Let me think," said he.

Marjon gave him about a quarter of an hour, and then she spoke, gently

and kindly, as if to comfort him:

"I know what you wanted to say, dear Jo. That's the reason, too, why I

always speak of The Father. I understand that the best; because, you

see, I never knew my earthly father, but he must have been much better

than other fathers."

"Why?" asked Johannes.

"Because I am much better than all those people round about me, and

better than that common, dark woman who had another father."

Marjon said this quite simply, thinking it to be so. She said it in a

modest manner, while feeling that it was something which ought to be

spoken.

"Not that I have been so very good. Oh, no! But yet I have been better

than the others, and that was because of the father; for my mother, too,

was only a member of a troupe. And now it is so lovely that I can say

'Father' just as Markus does!"

Johannes looked at her, with the sadness still in his eyes.

"Yes, but all the meanness, the ugliness, and the sorrow that our Father

permits! First, He launches us into the world, helpless and ignorant,

without telling us anything. And then, when we do wrong because we know

no better, we are punished, Is that fatherly?"

But Marjon said:

"Did you fancy it was not? Kees gets punished, too, so he will learn.

And now that he is clever and well taught he gets hardly any blows--only

tid-bits. Isn't that so, Kees?"

"But, Marjon, did you not tell me how you found Kees--shy, thin, and

mangy--his coat all spoiled with hunger and beatings; and how he has

remained timid ever since, because a couple of rascally boys had

mistreated him?"

Marjon nodded, and said:

"There are rascals, and deucedly wicked boys, and very likely there is a

Devil, also; but I am my Father's child and not afraid of Him, nor what

He may do with me."

"But if He makes you ill, and lets you be ill-treated? If He lets you do

wrong, and then leaves you to cry about it? And if He makes you

foolish?"

Keesje was coming down from the mast, very softly and deliberately. With

his black, dirty little hands he cautiously and hesitatingly touched the

boy's clothes that Marjon was wearing. He wanted to go to sleep, and had

been used to a soft lap. But his mistress took him up, and hid him in

her jacket. Then he yawned contentedly, like a little old man, and

closed his pale eyelids in sleep--his little face looking very pious

with its eyebrows raised in a saintly arch. Marjon said:

"If I should go and ill-treat Keesje, he would make a great fuss about

it, but still he would stay with me."

"Yes; but he would do the same with a common tramp," said Johannes.

Marjon shook her head, doubtfully.

"Kees is rather stupid--much more so than you or I, but yet not

altogether stupid. He well knows who means to treat him rightly. He

knows well that I do not ill-treat him for my own pleasure. And you see,

Jo, I know certainly, _ever_ so certainly--that my Father will not

ill-treat me without a reason."

Johannes pressed her hand, and asked passionately:

"How do you know that? How do you know?"

Marjon smiled, and gave him a gentle look.

"Exactly as I know you to be a good boy--one who does not lie. I can

tell that about you in various ways I could not explain--by one thing

and another. So, too, I can see that my Father means well by me. By the

flowers, the clouds, the sparkling water. Sometimes it makes me cry--it

is so plain."

Then Johannes remembered how he had once been taught to pray, and his

troubled thoughts grew calmer. Yet he could not refrain from

asking--because he had been so much with Pluizer:

"Why might not that be a cheat?"

Suddenly Keesje waked up and looked behind him at Johannes, in a

frightened way.

"Ah, there you are!" exclaimed Marjon, impatiently. "That's exactly as

if you asked why the summer might not perchance be the winter. You can

ask that, any time. I know my Father just for the very reason that He

does not deceive. If Markus was only here he would give it to you!"

"Yes, if he was only here!" repeated Johannes, not appearing to be

afraid of what Markus might do to him.

Then in a milder way, Marjon proceeded:

"Do you know what Markus says, Jo? When the Devil stands before God, his

heart is pierced by genuine trust."

"Should I trust the Devil, then?" asked Johannes.

"Well, no! How could that be? Nobody can do that. You must trust the

Father alone. But even if you are so unlucky as to see the Devil before

you see the Father, that makes no difference, for he has no chance

against sincere trust. That upsets his plans, and at the same time

pleases the Father."

"Oh, Marjon! Marjon!" said Johannes, clasping his hands together in his

deep emotion. She smiled brightly and said:

"Now you see that was a quarter out of my savings-box!"

* * * * *

Really, it was a very happy day for Johannes. He saw great, white,

piled-up clouds, tall trees in the light of the rising sun, still houses

on the river-banks, and the rushing stream--with violet and gold

sparkling in the broad bends--ever flowing through a fruitful, verdant

country; and over all, the deep, deep blue--and he whispered:

"Father--Father!" In an instant, he suddenly comprehended all the things

he saw as splendid, glorious Thoughts of the Father, which had always

been his to observe, but only now to be wholly understood. The Father

said all this to him, as a solemn admonition that _He_ it was--pure and

true, eternally guarding, ever waiting and accessible, behind the

unlovely and the deceitful.

"Will you always stay with me, Marjon?" he asked earnestly.

"Yes, Jo, that I will. And you with me?"

Then Little Johannes intrepidly gave his promise, as if he really knew

what the future held for him, and as if he had power over his entire

unknown existence.

"Yes, dear Marjon, I will never leave you again. I promise you. We

remain together, but as friends. Do you agree? No foolishness!"

"Very well, Jo. As you like," said Marjon. After that they were very

still.

XIII

It was evening, and they were nearing Germany. The dwellings on the

river-banks no longer looked fresh and bright colored, but faded and

dirty. Then they came to a poor, shabby-looking town, with rusty walls,

and grey houses inscribed with flourishing black letters.

The boats went up the stream to lie at anchor, and the custom-house

officers came. Then Marjon, rousing up from the brown study into which

Johannes' last question had plunged her, said:

"We must sing something, Jo. Only think! Your Aunt's money will soon be

gone. We must earn some more."

"Can we do it?" asked Johannes.

"Easy. You just furnish the words and I'll take care of the music. If it

isn't so fine at first, that doesn't matter. You'll see how the money

rains down, even if they don't understand a thing."

Marjon knew her public. It came out as she said it would. When they

began to sing, the brusque customs collectors, the old skipper, and

other ships' folk in the boats lying next them, all listened; and the

stokers of the little tugboat stuck their soot-begrimed faces out of the

machine-room hatch, and they, also, listened. For those two young voices

floated softly and harmoniously out over the calmly flowing current, and

there was something very winning in the two slender brothers--something

fine and striking. They were quite unlike the usual circus-people. There

was something about them which instantly made itself felt, even upon a

rude audience, although no one there could tell in what it consisted,

nor understand what they were singing about, nor even the words.

At first they sang their old songs--_The Song of the Butterfly,_ and the

melancholy song that Marjon had made alone, and which Johannes, rather

disdainfully, had named _The Nurse-Maid's Song_, and also the one Marjon

had composed in the evening, in the boat. But when Marjon said, "You

must make something new," Johannes looked very serious, and said:

"You cannot _make_ verses--they are born as much as children are."

Marjon blushed; and, laughing in her confusion, she replied: "What silly

things you do say, Jo. It's well that the dark woman doesn't hear you.

She might take you in hand."

After a moment of silence, she resumed: "I believe you talk trash, Jo.

When I make songs the music does come of itself; but I have to finish it

off, though. I must _make_--compose, you know. It's exactly," she

continued, after a pause, "as if a troop of children came in, all

unexpected--wild and in disorder, and as if, like a school-teacher, I

made them pass in a procession--two by two--and stroked their clothing

smooth, and put flowers in their hands, and then set them marching.

That's the way I make songs, and so must you make verses. Try now!"

"Exactly," said Johannes;'"but yet the children must first come of

themselves."

"But are they not all there, Jo?"

* * * * *

Gazing up into the great dome of the evening sky, where the pale stars

were just beginning to sparkle, Johannes thought it over. He thought of

the fine day he had had, and also of what he had felt coming into his

head.

"Really," said Marjon, rather drily, "you'll just have to, whether you

want to or not--to keep from starving."

Then, as if desperately alarmed, Johannes went in search of pencil and

paper; and truly, in came the disorderly children, and he arranged them

in file, prinked them up, and dealt them out flowers.

He first wrote this:

"Tell me what means the bright sunshine,

The great and restless river Rhine,

This teeming land of flocks and herds--

The high, wide blue of summer sky,

Where fleecy clouds in quiet lie.

To catch the lilt of happy birds.

"The Father thinks, and spreads his dream

As sun and heaven, field and stream.

I feast on his creation--

And when that thought is understood,

Then shall my soul confess Him good,

And kneel in adoration."

Marjon read it, and slowly remarked, as she nodded: "Very well, Jo, but

I'm afraid I can't make a song of it. At least, not now. I must have

something with more life and movement in it. This is too sober--I must

have something that dances. Can't you say something about the stars? I

just love them so! Or about the river, or the sun, or about the autumn?"

"I will try to," said Johannes, looking up at the twinkling dots

sprinkled over the dark night-sky.

Then he composed the following song, for which Marjon quickly furnished

a melody, and soon they were both singing:

"One by one from their sable fold

Came the silent stars with twinkling eyes,

And their tiny feet illumed like gold

The adamantine skies.

"And when they'd climbed the domed height--

So happy and full of glee,

There sang those stars with all their might

A song of jubilee."

It was a success. Their fresh young voices were floating and gliding and

intertwining like two bright garlands, or two supple fishes sporting in

clear water, or two butterflies fluttering about each other in the

sunshine. The brown old skipper grinned, and the grimy-faced stokers

looked at them approvingly. They did not understand it, but felt sure it

must be a merry love-song. Three times--four times through--the children

sang the song. Then, little by little, the night fell. But Johannes had

still more to say. The sun, and the splendid summer day that had now

taken its leave, had left behind a sweet, sad longing, and this he

wanted to put upon paper. Lying stretched out on the deck, he wrote the

following, by the light of the lantern:

"Oh, golden sun--oh, summer light,

I would that I might see thee bright

Thro' long, drear, winter days!

Thy brightest rays have all been shed--

Full soon thy glory will have fled,

And cold winds blow;

While all dear, verdant ways

Lie deep in snow."

As he read the last line aloud, his voice was full of emotion.

"That's fine, Jo!" said Marjon. "I'll soon have it ready."

And after a half-hour of trying and testing, she found for the verses a

sweet air, full of yearning.

And they sang it, in the dusk, and repeated the former one, until a

troupe of street musicians of the sort called "footers" came

boisterously out of a beer-house on the shore, and drowned their tender

voices with a flood of loud, dissonant, and brazen tones.

"Mum, now," said Marjon, "we can't do anything against that braying. But

never mind. We have two of them now--_The Star Song_ and _The Autumn

Song_. At this rate we shall get rich. And I'll make something yet out

of _The Father Song_; but in the morning, I think--not to-night. We've

earned at least our day's wages, and we can go on a lark with contented

minds. Will you go, Jo?"

"Marjon," said Johannes, musingly, hesitating an instant before he

consented, "do you know who Pluizer is?"

"No!" said Marjon, bluntly.

"Do you know what he would say?"

"Well?" asked Marjon, with indifference.

"That you are altogether impossible."

"Impossible? Why?"

"Because you cannot exist, he would say. Such beings do not and cannot

exist."

"Oh, he must surely mean that I ought only to steal and swear and drink

gin. Is that it? Because I'm a circus-girl, hey?"

"Yes, he would say something like that. And he would also call this

about the Father nothing but rot. He says the clouds are only wetness,

and the sunshine quiverings, and nothing else; that they could be the

expression of anything is humbug."

"Then he would surely say that, too, of a book of music?" asked Marjon.

"That I do not know," replied Johannes, "but he does say that light and

darkness are exactly the same thing."

"Oh! Then I know him very well. Doesn't he say, also, that it's the same

thing if you stand on your head or on your heels?"

"Exactly--that is he," said Johannes, delighted. "What have you to say

about it?"

"That for all I care he can stay standing on his head; and more, too, he

can choke!"

"Is that enough?" asked Johannes, somewhat doubtfully.

"Certainly," said Marjon, very positively. "Should I have to tell him

that daytimes it is light, and night-times it is dark? But what put you

in mind of that Jackanapes?"

"I do not know," said Johannes. "I think it was those footers."

* * * * *

Then they went into the deck-house where Keesje was already lying on the

broad, leather-cushioned settee, all rolled up in a little ball, and

softly snoring; and this cabin served the two children as a

lodging-house.

XIV

On the second day they came to the great cathedral which, fortunately,

was then not yet complete, and made Johannes think of a magnificent,

scrag-covered cliff. And when he heard that it was really going to be

completed, up to the highest spire, he was filled with respect for those

daring builders and their noble creation. He did not yet know that it is

often better to let beautiful conceptions rest, for the reason that,

upon earth, consummated works are sometimes really less fine and

striking than incomplete projects.

And when at last, on the third evening, he found himself among the

mountains, he was in raptures. It was a jovial world. Moving, over the

Rhine in every direction were brightly lighted steamboats laden with

happy people, feasting and singing. Between the dark, vine-covered

mountains the river reflected the rosy, evening light. Music rang on the

water; music came from both banks. People were sitting on terraces,

under leafy bowers, around pretty, shining lamps--drinking gold-colored

wine out of green goblets; and the clinking of glasses and sound of loud

laughter came from the banks. And, singing as they stepped, down the

mountains came others, in their shirt sleeves, carrying their jackets on

alpenstocks over their shoulders. The evening sky was aflame in the

west, and the vineyard foliage and the porphyry rocks reflected the

glowing red. Hurrah! One ought to be happy here. Truly, it seemed a

jolly way of living.

Johannes and Marjon bade their long ark farewell, and went ashore. It

saddened Johannes to leave the dear boat, for he was still a sentimental

little fellow, who promptly attached himself by delicate tendrils to

that which gave him happiness. And so the parting was painful.

They now began the work of earning their livelihood. And Keesje's idle

days were over, as well. They put his little red jacket upon him, and he

had to climb trees, and pull up pennies in a basin.

And the children had to sing their songs until they lost their charm,

and Johannes grew weary enough with them.

But they earned more--much more than Markus with his scissors-grinding.

The big, heavily moustached, and whiskered gentlemen, the prettily

dressed and perfumed ladies, sitting on the hotel terraces, looked at

them with intolerable arrogance, saying all kinds of jesting

things--things which Johannes only half understood, but at which they

themselves laughed loudly. But in the end they almost all gave--some

copper, some silver--until the _friséd_ waiters, in their black coats

and white shirt-fronts, crossly drove them away, fearing that their own

fees might be diminished.

Marjon it was who dictated the next move, who was never at a loss, who

dared the waiters with witty speeches, and always furnished advice. And

when they had been singing rather too much, she began twirling and

balancing plates. She spoke the strange tongue with perfect fluency, and

she also looked for their night's resting-place.

The public--the stupid, proud, self-satisfied people who seemed to think

only of their pleasure--did not wound Marjon so much as they did

Johannes.

When their snobbishness and rudeness brought tears to his eyes, or when

he was hurt on account of their silly jests, Marjon only laughed.

"But do not you care, Marjon?" asked Johannes, indignantly. "Does it not

annoy you that they, every one of them, seem to think themselves so much

finer, more important, and fortunate beings than you and I, when,

instead, they are so stupid and ugly?"

And he thought of the people Wistik had shown him.

"Well, but what of it?" said Marjon, merrily. "We get our living out of

them. If they only give, I don't care a rap. Kees is much uglier, and

you laugh about it as much as I do. Then why don't you laugh at the

snobs?"

Johannes meditated a long time, and then replied:

"Keesje never makes me angry; but sometimes, when he looks awfully like

a man, then I have to cry over him, because he is such a poor, dirty

little fellow. But those people make me angry because they fancy

themselves to be so much."

Marjon looked at him very earnestly, and said:

"What a good boy you are! As to the people--the public--why, I've always

been taught to get as much out of 'em as I could. I don't care for them

so much as I care for their money. I make fun of them. But you do not,

and that's why you're better. That's why I like you."

And she pressed her fair head, with its glossy, short-cut hair, closer

against his shoulder, thinking a little seriously about those hard

words, "no foolishness."

They were happy days--that free life, the fun of earning the pennies,

and the beautiful, late-summer weather amid the mountains. But the

nights were less happy. Oh! what damp, dirty rooms and beds they had to

use, because Fair-people could not, for even once, afford to have

anything better. They were so rank with onions, and frying fat, and

things even worse! On the walls, near the pillows, were suspicious

stains; and the thick bed-covers were so damp, and warm, and much used!

Also, without actual reason for it, but merely from imagination,

Johannes felt creepy all over when their resting-place was recommended

to them, with exaggerated praise, as a "very tidy room."

Marjon took all this much more calmly, and always fell asleep in no

time, while Johannes sometimes lay awake for hours, restless and

shrinking because of the uncleanliness.

"It's nothing, if only you don't think about it," said Marjon, "and

these people always live in this way."

And what astonished Johannes still more in Marjon was that she dared to

step up so pluckily to the German functionaries, constables, officers,

and self-conceited citizens.

It is fair to say that Johannes was afraid of such people. A railway

official with a gruff, surly voice; a policeman with his absolutely

inexorable manner; a puffed-out, strutting peacock of an officer,

looking down upon the world about him, right and left; a red-faced,

self-asserting man, with his moustache trained up high, and with

ring-covered fingers, calling vociferously for champagne, and appearing

very much satisfied with himself,--all these Marjon delighted to

ridicule, but Johannes felt a secret dread of them. He was as much

afraid of all these beings as of strange, wild animals; and he could not

understand Marjon's calm impudence toward them.

Once, when a policeman asked about their passport, Johannes felt as if

all were lost. Face to face with the harsh voice, the broad,

brass-buttoned breast, and the positive demand for the immediate showing

of the paper, Johannes felt as if he had in front of him the embodied

might of the great German Empire, and as if, in default of the thing

demanded, there remained for him no mercy.

But, in astonishment, he heard Marjon whisper in Dutch: "Hey, boy! Don't

be upset by that dunce!"

To dare to say "that dunce," and of such an awe-inspiring personage,

was, in his view, an heroic deed; and he was greatly ashamed of his own

cowardice.

And Marjon actually knew how, with her glib tongue and the exhibition of

some gold-pieces, to win this representative of Germany's might to

assume a softer tone, and to permit them to escape without an

inspection.

But it was another matter when Keesje, seated upon the arm of a chair,

behind an unsuspecting lieutenant, took it into his little monkey-head

to reach over the shining epaulet, and grasp the big cigar--probably

with the idea of discovering what mysterious enjoyment lay hidden in

such an object. Keesje missed the cigar, but caught hold of the upturned

moustache, and then, perceiving he had missed his mark, he kept on

pulling, spasmodically, from nervous fright.

The lieutenant, frightened, tortured, and in the end roundly ridiculed,

naturally became enraged; and an enraged German lieutenant was quite the

most awful creature in human guise that Johannes had ever beheld. He

expected nothing less than a beginning of the Judgment Day--the end of

all things.

The precise details of that scrimmage he was never able to recall with

accuracy. There was a general fracas, a clatter of iron chairs and

stands, and vehement screeching from Keesje, who behaved himself like

murdered innocence. From the lieutenant's highly flushed face Johannes

heard at first a word indicating that he was suspected of having vermin.

That left him cold, for he had been so glad to know that up to this time

he had escaped them. Then he saw that it was not the shrieking Keesje,

but Marjon herself, who had been nabbed and was being severely pommeled.

She had hurriedly caught up the monkey, and was trying to flee with him.

Then his feelings underwent a sudden change, as if, in the theatre of

his soul, "The Captivity" scene were suddenly shoved right and left to

make place for "A Mountain View in a Thunder-storm."

The next moment he found himself on the back of the tall lieutenant,

pounding away with all his might; at first on something which offered

rather too much resistance--a shining black helmet--afterward, on more

tender things--ears and neck, presumably. At the same time he felt

himself, for several seconds, uncommonly happy.

In a trice there was another change in the situation, and he discovered

himself in a grip of steel, to be flung down upon the dusty road in

front of the terrace. Then he suddenly heard Marjon's voice:

"Has he hurt you? Can you run? Quick, then; run like lightning!"

Without understanding why, Johannes did as she said. The children ran

swiftly down the mountain-side, slipped through the shrubbery of a

little park, climbed over a couple of low, stone walls, and fled into a

small house on the bank of the river, where an old woman in a black

kerchief sat peacefully plucking chickens.

Johannes and Marjon had continually met with helpfulness and

friendliness among poor and lowly people, and now they were not sent

off, although they were obliged to admit that the police might be coming

after them.

"Well, you young scamps," said the old woman, with a playful chuckle,

"then you must stay till night in the pigsty. They'll not look for you

there; it smells too bad. But take care, if you wake Rike up, or if that

gorilla of yours gets to fighting with him!"

So there they sat in the pigsty with Rike the fat pig, who made no

movement except with his ears, and welcomed his visitors with short

little grunts. It began to rain, and they sat as still as mice--Keesje,

also, who had a vague impression that he was to blame for this sad state

of things. Marjon whispered:

"Who would have thought, Jo, that you cared so much for me? _I_ was

afraid this time, and you punched his head. It was splendid! Mayn't I

give you a kiss, now?"

In silence, Johannes accepted her offer. Then Marjon went on:

"But we were both of us stupid; I, because I forgot all about Kees, in

the music; and you, because you let out about me.

"Let out about you!" exclaimed Johannes, in amazement.

"Certainly," said Marjon, "by shouting out that I was a girl!"

"Did I do that?" asked Johannes. It had quite slipped out of his mind.

"Yes," said Marjon, "and now we're in a pickle again! Other togs! You

can't do that in these parts. That's worse than hitting a lieutenant

over the head, and we mustn't do any more of that."

"Did he hit you hard?" asked Johannes. "Does it hurt still?"

"Oh," said Marjon, lightly, "I've had worse lickings than that."

* * * * *

That night, after dark, the old woman's son--the vine-dresser--released

them from Rike's hospitable dwelling, and took them, in a rowboat,

across the Rhine.

XV

Bright and early one still, sunny morning they came to a small

watering-place nestled in the mountains. It was not yet seven o'clock. A

light mist clung around the dark-green summits, and the dew was

sparkling on the velvety green grass, and over the flaming red

geraniums, the white, purple-hearted carnations, and the fragrant,

brown-green mignonette of the park. Fashionably dressed ladies and

gentlemen were drinking, according to advice, the hot, saline waters of

the springs; and later, while the cheerful music played, they promenaded

up and down the marble-paved esplanade.

Marjon sought such places; for in them more was to be earned. Already a

couple of competitors were there before them--a robust man and his

little daughter. Both of them were dressed in flesh-colored tights, and

in spangled, black velvet knickerbockers; but oh, how dusty and worn and

patched they were! The little girl was much younger than Marjon, and had

a vacant, impudent little face. She walked on her hands in such a way

that her feet dangled down over her black, curly pate.

Johannes did not enjoy this encounter. Marjon and he belonged to the

better class of Fair-people. Their caps and jackets just now were not,

it is true, quite so fresh and well brushed as formerly, but all that

they had on was whole--even their shoes. Johannes still wore his suit,

which was that of a young gentleman, and Marjon was wearing the velvet

stable-jacket of a circus-boy. They paid no attention to the shabby

Hercules and his little daughter.

In Marjon's case this was only from vexation because of the competition;

in Johannes', he well knew, it was pride. He pitied that rough man with

the barbarous face, and that poor, dull child-acrobat; but it was not to

his taste that he should be thought their colleague and equal, by all

these respectable watering-place guests.

He was so vexed he would not sing; and he walked dreamily on amid the

flowers, with vague fancies, and a deep melancholy, in his soul. He

thought of his childhood home, and the kitchen-garden; of the dunes, and

of the autumn day when he went to the gardener's, at Robinetta's country

home; of Windekind, of Markus, and of Aunt Seréna's flower-garden.

The flowers looked at him with their wide-open, serious eyes--the pinks,

the stiff, striped zinias, and the flaming yellow sunflowers.

Apparently, they all pitied him, as if whispering to one another: "Look!

Poor Little Johannes! Do you remember when he used to visit us in the

land of elves and flowers? He was so young and happy then! Now he is sad

and forsaken--a shabby circus-boy who must sing for his living. Is it

not too bad?"

And the white, purple-hearted carnations rocked to and fro with

compassion, and the great sunflowers hung their heads and looked

straight down, with dismay in their eyes.

The sunshine was so calm and splendid, and the pointed heads of the

mignonette smelled so sweet! And when Johannes came to a bed of drooping

blue lobelias that seemed always to have shining drops of dewy tears in

their eyes purely from sympathy, then he felt so sorry himself for poor

Little Johannes that he had to go and sit down on a bench to cry. And

there, just as if they understood the situation--in the music tent,

concealed by the shrubbery--the portly band-master and his musicians,

in their flat, gold-embroidered caps, were playing, very feelingly, a

melancholy folksong. Marjon, however, who persistently kept business in

mind, was on the marble esplanade, deep in jugglery with plates and eggs

and apples. Johannes saw it, and was a little ashamed of himself. He

began trying to make verses:

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!

Ah, lovely lobelia blue!

Why look those eyes so mournfully?

For whom do you wear,

In the morning bright,

Those glistening tears of dew?

"Ah! do you still know me?..."

But he got no further, because he found it too hard, and also because he

had no paper with him.

Just then Marjon came up:

"Why do you sit there bungling, Jo, and let me do all the work? As soon

as the bread and butter comes you'll be sure to be on hand."

She spoke rather tartly, and it was not surprising that Johannes

retorted curtly:

"I am not always thinking of money, and something to eat, like you."

That hit harder than he thought; and now the sun was sparkling not only

upon the dew-drops in the lobelia's eyes, but upon those in the two

clear eyes of a little girl. However, Marjon was not angry, but said

gently:

"Were you making verses?"

Johannes nodded, without speaking.

"Excuse me, Jo. May I hear them?"

And Johannes began:

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!

Ah, lovely lobelia blue!

Why look those eyes so earnestly?

Why thus bedight,

This morning bright

With glistening tears of dew?

"Oh, do you still think of the olden days...."

Again he broke down, and gazed silently out before him, with sorrowful

eyes.

"Are you going to finish it, Jo?" asked Marjon with quiet deference.

"You just stay here, I shall get on very well alone. See if I don't!"

And she returned to the fashionable, general promenade, with Keesje, her

plates, her eggs, and her apples.

Then Johannes looked up, and suddenly saw before him something so

charming and captivating that he became conscious of an entirely new

sensation. It was as if until now he had been living in a room whose

walls were pictured with flowers and mountains and waterfalls and blue

sky, and as if those walls had suddenly vanished, and he could see all

about him the real blue heavens, and the real woods and rivers.

The sunny, flower-filled little park of the watering-place was bounded

by steep rocks of porphyry. At the foot of them, by the side of a small

stream of clear, dark water, was a rich growth of shadowy underwood. A

small path led from the mountain, and two children were descending it,

hand in hand, talking fast in their light, clear voices.

They were two little girls, about nine and ten years of age. They wore

black velvet frocks confined at the waist by colored ribbons--one red,

the other ivory-white. Each one had trim, smoothly drawn stockings of

the same color as her sash, and fine, low shoes. They were bare-headed,

and both had thick golden hair that fell down over the black velvet in

heavy, glossy curls.

The musicians, as if aware of their presence, now played a charming

dance-tune, and the two little girls, with both hands clasped together,

began playfully keeping time with their slender limbs--_One_, two,

three--_one_, two, three--or the "three-step," as children say. And what

Johannes experienced when he saw and heard that, I am not going even to

try to describe to you, for the reason that he has never been able

himself to do it.

Only know that it was something very delightful and very mysterious,

for it made him think of Windekind's fairyland. Why, was more than he

could understand.

At first, it seemed as if something out of the glorious land of

Windekind and Father Pan had been brought to him, and that it was those

two little girls upon the mountain-path, keeping time to the music with

their slim little feet.

Then, hand in hand, the two children went through the park, chatting as

they went--now and then running, and sometimes laughing merrily as they

stopped beside a flower or a butterfly, until, through the maze of

promenaders, they disappeared in the halls of a large hotel.

Johannes followed after them, wondering what they were so much

interested in, observing the while all their pretty little ways, their

intonations and winsome gestures, their dainty dress, their beautiful

hair and slender forms.

When he was again with Marjon, he could not help remarking how much less

pretty she was--with her meagre form and pale face--her larger hands and

feet, and short, ash-colored hair. Johannes said nothing about this

little adventure, but was very quiet and introspective. Because of this,

Marjon also was for a long time less merry than usual.

That afternoon, when they went the round of the place again, trying to

collect money from the families who, according to the German custom,

were taking cake and coffee in front of the hotels and the pavilions,

Johannes felt himself getting very nervous in the neighborhood of the

big hotel into which the two little girls had gone. His heart beat so

fast he could not sing any more.

And sure enough, as they came nearer, he heard the very same two

bird-like little voices which had been ringing in his ears the whole day

long, shouting for joy. That was not on account of Little Johannes, but

of Keesje. For the first time Johannes was fiercely jealous of him.

In a gentle, quieting way, a musical voice called out two names:

"Olga!--Frieda!"

But Johannes was too much confused and undone to note clearly what he

saw. It was they--the two lovely children whom he had first seen in the

morning--and they came close up, and spoke to Keesje. Their mother

called them again, and then the children coaxed and pleaded, in most

supplicating tones, that the delightful monkey might be allowed to come

a little nearer--that they might give him some cake, and that he might

perform his tricks.

It seemed to Johannes as if he were in a dream--as if everything around

him were hazy and indistinct. He had felt that way when he stood in

Robinetta's house, confronted by those hostile men. But then everything

was dismal and frightful, while now it was glad and glorious. He heard,

vaguely, the confusing sounds of voices, and the clatter of cups and

saucers, and silver utensils. He felt the touch of the children's gentle

little hands, and was led to a small table whence the reproving voice

had sounded. A lady and a gentleman were sitting there. Some dainties

were given to Keesje.

"Can you sing?" asked a voice in German.

Then Johannes bethought him for the first time that the two little girls

had been speaking in English. Marjon tuned her guitar and gave him a

hard poke in the side with the neck of it, because she found him getting

so flustered again. Then they sang the song that Johannes had completed

that morning, and which Marjon had since put to music.

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!

Ah, lovely lobelia blue!

Why gaze at me so mournfully?

Why thus bedight,

This morning bright

With glistening tears of dew?

"Ah! is't remembrance of olden days,

When the exquisite nightingale sung?

When the fairies danced, over mossy ways,

In the still moonlight,

'Neath the stars so bright,

When yet the world was young?

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!

Ah, lovely lobelia blue!

The sun is grown dim, and the sky o'ercast,

The winds grow cold,

The world is old,

And the Autumn comes fast--so fast!"

Johannes was singing clearly again. The lump in his throat had gone away

as suddenly as it had come.

Then he heard the gentleman say in great astonishment: "They are singing

in Dutch!" And then they had to repeat their song.

Johannes sang as he never yet had sung--with full fervor. All his

sadness, all his indefinite longings, found voice in his song. Marjon

accompanied him with soft, subdued guitar-strokes, and with her alto

voice. Yet the music was entirely hers.

The effect upon the family at the table, moreover, was quite different

from that which up to this time they had produced. The stylish lady

uttered a prolonged "Ah!" in a soft, high voice, and closely scanned the

pair through a long-handled, tortoise-shell lorgnette. The gentleman

said in Dutch: "Fine! First rate! Really, that is unusually good!" The

little girls clapped their hand, and shouted "Bravo! Bravo!"

Johannes felt his face glowing with pleasure and satisfaction. Then the

stylish lady, placing her lorgnette in her lap, said:

"Come up nearer, boys." She, too, now spoke in Dutch, but with a foreign

accent, that sounded very charming to Johannes.

"Tell me," she said kindly, "where did you come from, and where did you

find that beautiful little song?"

"We came from Holland, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, still a trifle

confused, "and we made the song ourselves."

"Made it yourselves!" exclaimed the lady, with affable astonishment,

while she exchanged a glance with the gentleman beside her. "The words,

or the music?"

"Both," said Johannes. "I made the words, and my friend the music."

"Well, well, well!" said the lady, smiling at his pretty air of

self-satisfaction.

And then they both had to sit at the table and have some cake and

coffee. Johannes was gloriously happy, but the two dear little girls had

eyes only for Keesje, whom they tried cautiously to caress. When Keesje

turned his head round rather too suddenly, and looked at them too

sharply out of his piercing little brown eyes, they quickly withdrew

their small white hands, making merry little shrieks of fright. How

jealous Johannes was of Keesje! Marjon wore the serious, indifferent

expression of face that was native to her.

"Now tell us a little more," said the charming lady. "Surely you are not

common tramps, are you?"

Johannes looked into the refined face, and the eyes that were slightly

contracted from near-sightedness. It seemed to him as if he never before

had seen such a noble and beautiful lady. She was far from old

yet--perhaps thirty years of age--and was very exquisitely dressed, with

a cloud of lace about her shoulders and wrists, pearls around her neck,

and wearing a profusion of sparkling rings and bracelets. An exquisite

perfume surrounded her, and as she looked at Johannes, and addressed him

so kindly, he was completely enchanted and bewildered. Acceding to her

request he began, with joyful alacrity, to tell of himself and his life,

of the death of his father, of his Aunt Seréna, and of his meeting with

Marjon, and their flight together. But still he was discreet enough not

to begin about Windekind and Pluizer, and his first meeting with Markus.

The circle gave close attention, while Marjon looked as dull and

dejected as ever, and busied herself with Keesje.

"How extremely interesting!" said the children's mother, addressing the

gentleman who sat next her. "Do you not think so, Mijnheer van

Lieverlee?--Very, very interesting?"

"Yes, Mevrouw, I do, indeed--very peculiar! It is a find. What is your

name, my boy?"

"Johannes, Mijnheer."

"Is that so?--But you are not Johannes, the friend of Windekind!"

Johannes blushed, and stammered in great confusion: "Yes,--I am he,

Mijnheer!"

Suddenly Keesje gave an ugly screech, causing the lady and gentleman to

start nervously. Evidently, Marjon had pinched his tail--a thing she

rarely did.

XVI

See, now, what comes of not doing what I expressly desired! Mijnheer van

Lieverlee knew very well that I did not wish Little Johannes to be taken

in hand; and yet now it happened, and, as you are to hear, with

disastrous consequences.

Mijnheer van Lieverlee was not more than six years the senior of

Johannes. He had large blue eyes, a waxy white face with two spots of

soft color, a scanty, flax-like, double-pointed beard, and a thick tuft

of sandy hair artfully arranged above his forehead. A scarf-pin of blue

sapphires was sparkling in his broad, dark-violet scarf, a high,

snow-white collar reached from his modish coat-collar up to the hair in

his neck, and his hands--covered with rings--were resting on the

exquisitely carved, ivory head of an ebony walking-stick. On the table,

in front of him, lay a fine, light-grey felt hat, and his pantaloons

were of the same color.

All were silent for a moment after Johannes' acknowledgment. Then

Mijnheer van Lieverlee pulled out a handsome pocket-book, bearing an

ornamental monogram in small diamonds, made in it several entries, and

said to the lady:

"We can say to a certainty that this is not an accident. Evidently, his

'karma' is favorable. That he should have come directly here to us who

know his history, and comprehend his soul, is the work of the highest

order of intelligences--those who are attending him. We must heed the

suggestion."

"It surely is an important circumstance, and one to be considered," said

the lady, irresolutely. "Where do you live?"

"Over there by the railway--in the lodging-house," replied Marjon.

Mevrouw looked rather coldly, and said: "Well, boys, you may go home

now. Here are three marks for each of you. And, Johannes, will you not

write out that little song for me? There really was a charming

melancholy in it. 'Twas sympathetic."

"Yes, Mevrouw, I will do so. And then may I come and bring it to you

myself?"

"Certainly, certainly!" said the lady; but, at the same time, she

closely scrutinized his clothing, through her lorgnette.

When they had turned away, and were out of sight, Marjon ran straight

back again to the rear of the hotel, and began making personal

inquiries, and kept busy as long as she could find any one who knew

anything about the household of the stately lady, and the two lovely

little girls.

"Do you mean the Countess?" asked a conceited head-waiter, with scornful

emphasis. "Do you perchance belong to the family?"

"Well, why not?" retorted Marjon, with great self-assurance. "All the

same, there have been countesses who eloped with head-waiters."

The cook and the chambermaids laughed.

"Clear out, you rascal!" said the waiter.

"What country is she from?" asked Marjon, undeterred.

"She? She has no native country. The Count was a Pole, and the Countess

came from America. At present she is living in Holland."

"Widow--or divorced?" asked one of the chambermaids.

"Divorced, of course! That's much more interesting."

"And that young Hollander? Is he related to her?"

"What! He's a fellow-traveler. They met there."

"Shall we not start out again, Jo?" asked Marjon, as they sat together

eating their supper of brown bread and cheese, in the same cramped,

smoky room where the humble Hercules and his little daughter were also

sitting--dressed, at present, in shabby civilian clothes, and each

provided with a glass of beer.

"I am going to take my song," said Johannes.

"Manage it some way, Jo; I'll have nothing to do with those people."

Johannes ate his supper in silence. But, secretly, his feeling toward

Marjon grew cooler, and she dropped in his estimation. She was jealous,

or insensitive to what was beautiful or noble in people. She had also

lived so long among dirty and rude folk! Oh, those two dear little

girls! They were nobler and more refined beings.

Softly--fervently--Johannes repeated their names: "Olga! Frieda!"

Then, as true as you live, there came a gold-bebraided small boy from

the big hotel, bearing a note so perfumed that the close little room was

filled with its sweetness; and the beer drinkers sniffed it with

astonishment.

It was from Mijnheer, requesting Johannes to come to him, but without

the monkey.

"Go by yourself," said Marjon. "Kees mustn't go along because he has an

odor of another sort. You may say that I prefer that of Kees."

Mijnheer van Lieverlee was drinking strong black coffee from small metal

cups, and smoking a Turkish pipe with an amber mouthpiece. At each pull

of the pipe the water gurgled. He wore black silk hose and polished

shoes, and he invited Johannes to a seat beside him on the broad divan.

After a pause he addressed Johannes as follows: "There--that's it,

Johannes! Sit quite still, and while we talk try to maintain yourself in

the uppermost soul-sphere." Then, after a period of pipe-gurgling,

Mijnheer van Lieverlee asked: "Are you there?"

Johannes was not quite sure about it, but he nodded assent, being very

curious concerning what was to follow.

"I can ask you that, Johannes, because we understand each other

instantly. You and I, you know--you and I! We knew each other before we

were in the body. It is not necessary for us to make each other's

acquaintance after the manner of ordinary, commonplace people. We can

instantly do as you and Windekind did. We are not learning to know, but

we recognize each other."

Johannes listened attentively to this interesting and extraordinary

statement. He looked at the speaker respectfully, and tried indeed to

recall him, but without success.

"You will already have wondered that I should know about your

adventures. But that is not so very marvelous, for there is some one

else to whom you appear to have told them. Do you know whom I mean?"

Johannes knew well whom he meant.

"Really, you ought not to have done it, Johannes. When I heard of it I

said at once that it was a great pity. The world is too coarse and

superficial in such matters. People do not comprehend them. You must not

permit that which is rare and delicate to be desecrated and contaminated

by the foul touch of the indifferent public--the stupid multitude. Do

you understand?"

Johannes nodded, the pipe gurgled, and Mijnheer van Lieverlee took a sip

of coffee. Then, in a lighter tone, and gesticulating airily with his

slender, white hands, he resumed:

"The veil of Maja, Johannes, obscures the vision of all who are

created--of all who breathe and have aspirations--of all who enjoy and

suffer. We must extricate ourselves from it. Will you have some coffee,

too?"

"If you please, Mijnheer," said Johannes.

"A cigarette? Or do you not smoke yet?"

"No, Mijnheer."

"It is true, Windekind did not like tobacco smoke. But I do not smoke as

common people do, for the fun of it or because it is pleasant. No! I

permit myself to do so through my lowest qualities--the eighth and ninth

articulations of Karma-Rupa. My higher attributes--the fourth and fifth

--remain apart; just as a gentleman from the balcony of his country-seat

views his cattle grazing. The cows do nothing but eat ravenously,

digest, and eliminate. The gentleman makes of them a poem or a

picture."

A pause, accompanied by the gurgling of the pipe.

"Well, as I have said, we should not cast before swine the pearls of our

higher sensations and states of mind. We, Johannes--you and I, who have

already passed through many incarnations--we are aged souls--we have

already worn the veil so long that it is beginning to wear out. We can

see through it. Now, we must not have too much to do with those young

novices who are just setting out. We should decline, retrograde, and

lose the benefit of our costly conquests."

That all seemed quite just to Johannes, and very flattering moreover.

And it was also now made clear to him why he got on so poorly with

people. He was of age, among minors.

"We, Johannes," resumed Van Lieverlee, "belong, so to speak, to the

veterans of life. We bear the scars of countless incarnations, the

stripes of many years--or, rather, let me say ages--of service. We must

maintain our rank, and not throw to the dogs our dignity and prestige.

This you will do if you continue to noise abroad all your intimate

experiences; and I believe you still have a childish and quite perilous

tendency that way."

Johannes thought of his many faults and blunders--of his stupidity in

asserting his wisdom at school, and in blurting out Windekind's name

before the men. Ashamed, he sat staring into his empty coffee cup.

"In short, it evidently was intended that you should find me, this

time--me and Countess Dolores. For you must know that you have found two

souls of the supremest refinement. Exactly what you need."

"Yes, how charming she is, and how lovely the children are!" chimed in

Johannes, enthusiastically.

"Not on account of her being a countess," said Van Lieverlee, with a

gesture of disdain. "Titles signify nothing with us. My family is

perhaps more distinguished than hers. But she is the sister of our

souls--a blending of glowing passion and lily-white purity."

At these fine words of Van Lieverlee, uttered with great care and

emphasis, Johannes felt himself coloring with embarrassment. How did any

one dare to say such words as if it were nothing?

"Are you a poet?" he asked bashfully.

"Certainly, I am. But you are one also, my boy. Did you not know it?

Well, then, let me tell you, you are a poet. You see, at present you are

the ugly duckling that for the first time meets a swan. Do you

understand? Do not be afraid, Johannes. Do not be afraid, brother swan!

Lift up your yellow beak--I shall not oppress you, but embrace you."

Johannes did lift up his yellow beak, but, instead of embracing him, Van

Lieverlee took out the diamond-bedecked pocket-book, and began writing

in it, hurriedly. Then, as he put away book and pencil, he smilingly

said: "One must hold fast to good ideas. They are precious."

"Well, then," he resumed, drawing at his pipe again, while again it

gurgled loudly, "you really could not have managed better, in the

pursuit of your great aim, than to have come to us. We know the

explanation of all those singular adventures with Pluizer and Windekind,

and we can show you the infallible way to what you are seeking. That is,

we go together."

Now was not that good news for Johannes? How stupid of Marjon not to be

willing to go too! He listened thoughtfully to what followed.

"Give me your attention, Johannes, and I will tell you who all those

beings are that you have encountered. I will also solve the riddle of

their power, and tell you what there remains for us to do."

At that moment the door opened, and Countess Dolores came in with the

children. She was dazzling, with magnificent jewels sparkling on her

bare neck and arms. The children were in white. The grand table-d'hôte

was over, and the countess had now come to drink her Arabic coffee with

Van Lieverlee.

"Ah!" said she, looking at him through her lorgnette, "Have you a

visitor? Shall we disturb you? But, really you can make such delicious

coffee, and I cannot endure the hotel coffee!"

"Where is the monkey? Where is the monkey?" cried the two children,

running up to Johannes.

Johannes stood up, in confusion. The two winsome children encircled him.

He scented the exquisite perfume of their luxuriant hair and their rich

dress. He felt their warm breath, their soft hands. He was charmed,

through and through--possessed by delightful emotions. The little girls

caressed him while they, asked after the monkey, until the gently

reproachful "Olga!--Frieda!" sounded again.

Then they went and sat with Johannes on the sofa, one each side of him.

The mother lighted a cigarette.

"Now proceed with your talking," said she, "so that I can be learning a

little." Then in English: "If you listen quietly, girls, and are not

troublesome, you may stay here."

Van Lieverlee had risen, put aside his Turkish pipe, grasped the lapel

of his skirtless dinner coat with his left hand, and was gesticulating

with the right, in front of Johannes and the countess.

"I ought to explain to him who Windekind, Wisterik, or--What is his

name? Wistarik?... and Pluizer, are, Mevrouw. You know, do you not,

those characters in Johannes' life?"

"I--I--do not recall them," said the lady, "but that is nothing--speak

out. Do not mind me. I do not count. I am only a silly creature."

"Ah! If people in general were similarly silly! Windekind, Wisterik, and

Pluizer, then Johannes, are nothing other than "dewas," or elementals,

materialized by a supreme effort of the will. They are personified, or

rather impersonated, natural power--plasmatic appearances from the

crystal-clear, elementary oneness. Windekind is harmonic poetry, or,

rather, poetic harmony--the original dawning, or, rather, the dawning

originality, of our planetary aboriginal consciousness. Wistarik, on the

contrary, or Pluizer, is demoniacal antithesis--the eternally skeptical

negation, or negative skepticism. They are like all ebb and flow, like

the swinging pendulum, like winter and summer, eternally struggling with

each other--continually destroying and forever reviving, the

indispensable, mutually excluding, and yet again mutually complementing,

first principles of dualistic monism, or of monistic dualism."

"How interesting!" murmured the countess; and turning to Johannes, she

asked very seriously: "And have you really met with these elementals?"

"I--I believe I have," stammered Johannes.

"But, Van Lieverlee, then he truly is a medium! Do you not think so?"

"Of the second grade, Mevrouw, undoubtedly. Perhaps, with study and

proper culture, he will attain the first rank."

"But would it not be well for us to introduce him to the Pleiades?"

And turning toward Johannes, she said affably: "We have a circle, you

know, for the study of the higher sciences, and for the general

improvement of our 'Karma.'"

"An ideal society, with a social ideal," supplemented Van Lieverlee.

That sounded very alluring to Johannes. Would Frieda and Olga belong to

it also? he wondered.

He said, however, as politely and modestly as possible: "But, Mevrouw,

would I really be in place there?"

His manner pleased the countess. Smiling most sweetly she said: "Surely,

my boy! Rank has nothing to do with the higher knowledge."

Then to Van Lieverlee, in English, with that characteristic, cool

loftiness of the English, who suppose the hearer does not understand

their language: "Really, he is not so bad?--not so very common!"

But Johannes had learned English at school; yet, because he was still

such a mere boy, with so little self-consciousness, he felt flattered

rather than offended. He said--using English now, himself: "I am not

good yet, but I will try my best to become so."

This word fell again upon good ground, with mother and daughters. There

came to Johannes that exhilarating sensation of making conquests; he,

Little Johannes--a brief while ago the scissors-grinder boy--at present

a singer of street songs--_he_, in a world of supremely refined spirits,

with a beautiful countess, all decked with glittering jewels, and her

two enchanting little daughters! And that, not on account of birth or

patronage, but through his own personal powers. If he could only see

Wistik again, now--how he would boast of it!

But, suddenly, to his honor be it said, something else occurred to him:

"My comrade, Mevrouw! May we both go?"

"Who is your comrade? How did you meet him?"

Whoever had heard Johannes then would not have said that, only so short

a time ago, he had thought slightingly of his little friend. He stood up

for her warmly, described her natural goodness and her unusual

talents,--yes even drew on his imagination for her probable noble

origin, until it ended in his having touched the heart of Countess

Dolores. But, in his enthusiasm, he said, by turns, "he" and "she," so

that one of the little girls, being observing, as children usually are,

abruptly asked: "Why do you say 'she'? Is it a girl?"

Then Johannes confessed. It could do no harm here, he thought--among

such high-minded people. Blushing more deeply than ever, he said: "Yes,

it is really a girl. She is disguised, so as not to fall into anybody's

hands."

Van Lieverlee looked at Johannes very sternly and critically, without

making any comment. The little girls, with a serious air, said: "How

lovely!" Mevrouw laughed, rather nervously:

"Oh, oh! That is romantic. Almost piquant. Then let her come, but in the

clothing that belongs to her, if you please."

"And the monkey, Mama? Will the monkey come, too?" asked Olga, the

elder.

"Oh, lovely, lovely!" cried Frieda, clapping her hands.

"No, children; it is not to be thought of. Of course, you understand,

Johannes, that the monkey cannot come with you. He would have a very bad

influence. Would he not, Van Lieverlee?"

Van Lieverlee nodded his head emphatically, and, with an expressive

gesture of refusal, said: "It would simply nullify all the higher

influences. We must exclude carefully all low and impure fluids. The

monkey, Johannes, has in general a very low and unfavorable aura, or

inimical sphere, as you may always perceive from his fatal odor."

"It would make me ill," said the countess, putting her handkerchief to

her face at the very thought of it.

So Johannes walked home that evening, proud and happy, with his head

full of brilliant fancies; but at the same time burdened with a

charge--a message to Marjon--which grew more and more heavy as the

distance between him and the grand hotel increased, and the distance

between him and the small lodging-house lessened.

XVII

You will be sure to think matters went hard that night, in the rank

little room, and that there was a scene between Marjon and Johannes,

involving many tears. If so, this time you have made a mistake.

Even before he reached the house, the task had become too difficult for

him. When he saw Marjon, with her stolid face, sitting as she probably

had been sitting the entire evening--listless and lonely, his own joyful

excitement vanished, and with it went the inclination to be outspoken

and communicative. He well knew in advance that he should meet with no

response nor interest. And what chance would there be of inducing Marjon

to give up Keesje for the Pleiades, so long as he could not convey to

her even the slightest spark of that ardent admiration for the beautiful

and worthy of which he himself had become conscious.

Therefore, he said nothing, and, as Marjon asked no questions, they went

calmly and peacefully to sleep. Johannes, however, first lay awake a

long time, musing over the splendid worldly conquest he had made, and

the distressing difficulties into which it had led him. Marjon would not

go with him, that was certain; and ought he to desert her again? Or must

he renounce all that beauty--the most beautiful of all things he had

found in the world?

You must not suppose, however, that he had such great expectations from

what Van Lieverlee had pictured to him. Although looking up with

intelligent respect to one so much older than himself, so elegant and

superior in appearance, and who professed to be so traveled, well read,

and eloquent, Johannes in this instance was clever enough to see that

not all was gold that glittered.

But the two dear little girls and their beautiful mother drew him with

an irresistible force. If there was anything good and fine in this

world, it was here. Should he turn away so long as he could cling to it?

Had the supremely good Father ever permitted him to see more beautiful

creatures? and should he esteem any faith more holy than faith in the

Father of whom Markus had taught him, and who only made himself known

through the beauty of his creation?

* * * * *

The following day he found himself no nearer a solution of his

difficulties. Marjon still asked no questions, and gave him no

opportunity to tell anything.

Keesje sipped his sweetened coffee out of Marjon's saucer with much

noisy enjoyment, carefully wiping out what remained with his flat hand,

and licking it off, while he kept sending swift glances after more, as

calmly and peacefully as if the Pleiades and the higher knowledge had no

existence.

How, then, could Johannes now accompany her to their daily work? He did

not feel himself in a condition to do so; and, since they had received

six marks extra, the day before, he said he was going out to take a

walk, alone, in order to think. "Perhaps I may come home with a new

poem," said he. But he had slight hope of doing so. He would be so glad

if he could find a way out of his difficulties. He went to seek help in

the mountains. Was there not there an undefined bit of nature, the same

as on the dunes of his native land--beside the sea?

Marjon's pale face wore a really sorrowful look, because he wanted to go

without her. Her obstinacy gave way, and she would have liked to

question him, but she held herself loftily and said: "Have your fling,

but don't get lost."

* * * * *

Johannes went up the mountain path where he had first seen the two

little girls. It was a still, beautiful September day--a little misty.

Here and there, beneath the underwood, the ferns had become all brown;

and the blackberries, wet with dew, were glistening along his way amid

their red-bordered leaves. How many spider-webs there were amidst the

foliage! There was a solemn stillness over all; but, as Johannes climbed

farther up the mountain dell, he heard the constant rushing of water,

and in the small mountain meadows--the open places in the woods--he saw

many little rivulets glistening in the grass, gurgling and murmuring as

they flowed.

Still farther, where the woods were denser and the mountains more

lonely, he heard now and then the sound of a fleeing deer; and he saw

too a fine roe, with fear-filled eyes and large ears directed toward

himself from the forest's edge.

At last he came to a narrow path bordering a small brook. To right and

left were dark rocks glistening with moisture and beautifully overgrown

with fantastic lichens; and there were little rosette-like clumps of

ferns, and exquisite, graceful maiden-hair, gently quivering in the

spray of the waterfall. Higher up began the overhanging underwood, and

thorny bramble-bushes, while only now and then were there glimpses of

the steep mountain sides, with the knotty roots of dense firs and

beeches.

There seemed no end to that path. It wound all through the bottom of the

ravine, following the brook--sometimes crossing it by a couple of

stepping-stones, and thence again continuing to the other bank. And it

grew stiller in the mountains. The blue sky above could seldom be seen,

and the sunlight sifted only dimly through the leaves of the mountain

ash and the hazel tree. Tall digitalis, with its rows of red and yellow

bells, looked down upon Johannes out of the shadowy depths of the

thicket with venomous regard, as if threatening him.

Where was he? An agitation, half anxious, half delightful, took

possession of him. It was like Windekind's wonderland here!

He went on and on, wondering how much farther he could go without there

being a change. He grew very tired, and then quite distressed.

Out of the general stillness a vague, indefinable sound now proceeded.

At first it seemed to be the throbbing and rushing of his blood, and the

heart-beats in his ears; but it was stronger and more distinct--a

roaring, with an undertone of melancholy moaning like continuous thunder

or ocean surf, constant and regular, and, also, a higher note sounding

by fits and starts, like the ringing of bells borne by a high wind.

And listen! A sound loud as the report of a cannon, making the ground

tremble!

Johannes ran about in his agitation, looking on all sides. But there was

no wind--every leaflet, every blade of grass, was still as death. The

sound of water, alone--the rush of water--grew louder!

Then he saw, in front of him, the small cascade which caused the sound.

The brook was flowing over the face of a rock, down amid the ferns. The

path seemed to come to an end, and lose itself in the darkness.

Behind the waterfall, hidden by the foaming flow as by a veil, was a

grotto, and the path entered it.

And now Johannes heard the sounds clearly--as if they were coming out of

the earth: the deep resounding, the short intermittent thunderclaps, and

the ringing of bells--incessant and regular.

He sat down beside the path much agitated, and panting from his rapid

movement, and gazed through the veil of water into the cool, dark

grotto. He sat there a long time, listening, hesitating, not knowing

whether to venture farther or to turn back.

And slowly--slowly--a great mysterious sadness began to steal over him.

He saw, too, that the mists were still rising from the valley, and that

a mass of dark grey clouds was silently taking the place of the glad

sunlight.

Then he heard near him a slight sound--a soft, sad sighing--a slight,

gentle wailing--a helpless sobbing.

And, sitting on the rock next to him he saw his little friend Wistik. He

was looking straight at Wistik's little bald head, with its thin grey

hair. The poor fellow had taken off his little red cap, and was holding

it, with both hands, up to his face. He was sobbing and sniveling into

it as if his heart would break, and the tears were trickling down his

long, pointed beard to the ground.

"Wistik!" cried Johannes, filled with pity and distress. "What is it,

little friend--my good mannikin? What is the matter?"

But Wistik shook his head. He was crying so hard he could not speak.

At last he controlled himself, took his cap wet with tears away from his

face, and put it on his head. Then, sobbing and hiccoughing, he slid

from his seat, and stepped upon the stone in the brook. With both hands

he grasped the sparkling veil of falling water, tore a broad rent in it,

turned round his whimpering little face, and silently beckoned Johannes

to follow him.

The latter went through the dark fissure while Wistik held the water

aside, and reached the interior quite dry. Not a drop fell upon his

head. Then they went farther into the cavern, Wistik taking the lead,

for he was used to the darkness and knew the way. Johannes followed,

holding him by the coat.

It was totally dark, and continued so a long time while they walked on,

perceptibly downward, over the smooth, hard way.

The sombre sounds grew louder and louder about them. The echoing, the

peals of thunder, the ringing of bells--all these overwhelmed now the

babbling of the water.

In the distance the light was shining--a grey twilight, pale as the

misty morning. The day shone in, making the wet stones glimmer with a

feeble sheen. A tumultuous noise now penetrated the rocky passage, and

the screaming and bellowing of the wind-storm greeted the ear.

Soon they were standing outside, in sombre daylight. There was nothing

to be seen save a desolate heap of mighty rocks, grizzly and

water-stained. No plant--not a blade of grass--was growing in its

midst.

Just before them an angry sea was roaring and raving, casting great

breakers upon the strand. Once in a while Johannes saw the white foam

tossing high. Great, quivering flakes were torn away by the storm, and

driven from rock to rock.

Iron-grey clouds, in ragged patches, were chasing along the heavens,

transforming themselves as they sped. They scudded close to the boiling

sea, and the white foam torn from the mighty breakers seemed almost to

touch them. The earth trembled as the waves broke on the rocks, and the

wind howled and shrieked and whistled amid the uproar, like the baying

of a dog at the moon, or the yell of a man in desperation.

Wherever the dark clouds were torn apart an alarmingly livid night sky

was exposed.

Oppressed by the high wind, blinded by the spray, Johannes sought

shelter with Wistik in the lee of a rock, and looked away, over the open

country.

It appeared to be evening. Over the sea, but at the extreme left, where

Johannes had never seen it, the sunlight was visible. For one instant

the face of the sun itself could be seen--sad, and red as blood--not far

from the horizon. Beneath it, like pillars of glowing brass, the rays of

light streamed down to rest upon the sea.

And now and then, on the other side, high up in the ashen sky, appeared

the pale face of the moon--deathly pale, hopelessly sad, motionless and

resigned--in the midst of the furious troop of clouds.

Johannes looked at his friend in indescribable anguish.

"Wistik, what is this? Where are we? What is happening?--_Wistik!_"

But Wistik shook his head, lifted up his swollen eyes toward the sky,

and, in mute anguish, clenched his fists.

Above the roar of wind and sea could still be heard the deep-toned

sound, like the report of cannon or the booming of bells. Johannes

looked around. Behind him rose the mountains--black and menacing--their

proud, heaven-high heads confronting the rushing swirl of clouds that

were piled up, miles high, into a rounded black mass. At times it

lightened vividly and then followed a frightful peal of thunder. And

when one of the highest peaks was freed from its mantle of mists,

Johannes saw that it was afire with a steady, orange-colored glow which

grew ever fiercer and whiter.

The tolling of bells came from every direction, as if thousands on

thousands of cathedral bells were ringing in unison.

Then Wistik and Johannes took their way inland, clambering over the

jagged rocks, clinging to each other in the wild wind. The sea thundered

still louder, and the wind whistled as if in utter frenzy--like an

imprisoned maniac tugging at his bars.

"It is no use," wailed Wistik. "It is no use. He is dead, dead, dead!"

Then Johannes heard the winds speaking as he had formerly heard the

flowers and animals talk.

"He shall live!" shrieked the Wind; "I will not let him die!"

And the Sea spoke: "Them that menace him shall I destroy--his enemies

devour. The hills shall I grind to powder, and all animals o'erwhelm."

Then spoke the Mountain: "It is too late. The time is fulfilled. He is

dead."

Now Johannes knew what it was the bells were sounding. They cried

through all the earth, and the darkened heavens:

"Pan is dead! Pan is dead!"

And the pale Moon spoke softly and plaintively:

"Alas! poor earth! Where now is thy beauty? Now shall we

weep--weep--weep!"

Finally, the Sun also spoke: "The Eternal changes not. A new day has

come. Be resigned."

And all at once it grew still--perfectly still. The wind went suddenly

down. The air was so motionless that the iridescent foam-bubbles floated

hither and thither as if uncertain where to alight.

A silence, full of dread, oppressed the whole dreary land.

The waste of waters only, could not so suddenly subside, and still

pounded in heavy rollers upon the shore.

But it also grew still and calm--so calm that the sun and the moon were

reflected in it, as perfectly as in a mirror.

The thunder was silenced about the volcano, and everything was waiting.

But the bells pealed on, loud and clear:

"Pan is dead! Pan is dead!"

And now the clouds formed a dark, fleecy layer above the mountains--soft

and black, like mourning crepe. From it there fell perpendicularly a

fine rain, as if the heavens were shedding silent tears.

The air was clearer above the sea, and moon and evening star stood

bright against a pale, greenish sky. Glowing in a cloudless space, the

red sun was nearing the horizon. When Johannes turned away and looked

toward the mountains, now veiled in leaden mists, a marvelous double

rainbow, with its brilliant colors, was spanning the ashen land.

Out of a deep valley that cleft the mountains like the gash of a sword,

and upon whose sides Johannes thought to have seen dark forests,

approached a long, slow-moving procession.

Strange, shadowy figures like large night-moths hovered and floated

before it, and flew silently like phantoms beside it.

Then came gigantic animals with heavy, cautious tread--elephants with

swaying trunks and shuffling hide, their bony heads rolling up and down;

rhinoceri, with heads held low, and glittering, ill-natured eyes;

snuffling, snorting hippopotami, with their watery, cruel glances;

indolent, sullen monsters with flabby-fleshed bodies supported by slim

little legs; serpents, large and small, gliding and zig-zagging over the

ground like an oncoming flood; herds of deer and antelopes and

gazelles--all of them distressed and frightened, and jostling one

another; troops of buffaloes and cattle, pushing and thrusting; lions

and tigers, now creeping stealthily, then bounding lightly up over the

turbulent throng, as fishes, chased from below, spring out of the

undulating water; and round about the procession, thousands of

birds--some of them with slow, heavy wing-strokes--alighting at times

upon the rocks by the wayside; others, incessantly on the wing, circling

and swaying, back and forth and up and down; finally, myriads of

insects--bees and beetles, flies and moths--like great clouds, grey and

white and varicolored, all in ceaseless motion.

And every creature in the throng which could make a sound made

lamentation after its own fashion. The loudest was the worried,

smothered lowing of the cattle, the howling and barking of the wolves

and hyenas, and the shrill, quivering "oolooloo" of the owls.

The whole was one volume of voiced sorrow--an overwhelming cry of woe

and lamentation, rising above a continual, sombre humming; and buzzing.

"This is only the vanguard," said Wistik, whose despair had calmed a

little at the sight of this lively spectacle. "These are only the

animals yet. Now the animal-spirits are coming."

Then, in a great open space respectfully avoided by all the animals,

came a group of wonderful figures. All had the shapes of animals, only

they were larger and more perfectly formed. They seemed also to be much

more proud and sagacious, and they moved not by means of feet and wings,

but floated like shadows, while their eyes and heads seemed to emit rays

of light, like the sea on a dark night.

"Come up nearer," said Wistik. "They know us."

And it really seemed to Johannes as if the ghosts of the animals greeted

them, sadly and solemnly; but only those of the animals known to him in

his native land. And what most impressed him was that the largest and

most beautiful were not those esteemed most highly by human beings.

"Oh, look! Wistik, are those the butterfly-spirits? How big and handsome

they are!"

They were splendid creatures--large as a house--with radiant eyes, and

their bodies and wings were clearly marked in brilliant colors. But the

wings of all of them were drooping as though with weariness, and they

looked at Johannes seriously, silently.

"Are there plant-spirits, too, Wistik?"

"Oh, yes, Johannes, but they are very large and vague and elusive. Look!

There they come--floating along."

And Wistik pointed out to him the hurrying, hazy figures that Johannes

had first seen in front of the procession.

"Now he is coming! Now he is coming! Oh! Oh! Oh!" wailed Wistik, taking

off his cap and beginning to cry again.

Surrounded by throngs of weeping nymphs who were singing a soft and

sorrowful dirge--their arms intertwined about one anothers'

shoulders--their faded wreaths and long hair dripping with the

rain--came the great bier of rude boughs whereon lay Father Pan, hidden

beneath ivy and poppies and violets. He was borne by young,

brawny-muscled fauns, whose ruddy faces, bowed at their task, were

distorted with suppressed sobs. In the rear was a throng of grave

centaurs, shuffling mutely along, their heads upon their chests, now and

then striking their trunks and flanks with their rough fists, making

them sound like drums.

Curled up, as if he intended to stay there, a little squirrel was lying

on the hairy breast of Pan. A robin redbreast sat beside his ear,

mournfully and patiently coaxing, coaxing incessantly, in the vague hope

that he might still hear. But the broad, good-natured face with its

kindly smile never stirred.

When Johannes saw that, and recognized his good Father Pan, he burst

into tears which he made no effort to restrain.

"Now the monsters are coming," whispered Wistik. "The monsters of the

primal world."

Ugh! That was a spectacle to turn one into ice! Dragons, and horrid

shapes bigger than ten elephants, with frightful horns and teeth, and

armor of spikes; long, powerful necks, having upon them small heads with

large, dull eyes and sharp teeth; and pale, grey-green and black,

sometimes dark-red or emerald-green, spots on the deeply wrinkled,

knotty or shiny skin. All these now went past with awkward jump or

trailing body; most of the time mute, but sometimes making a gruff,

quickly uttered, far-sounding howl. And then odd creatures like reddish

bats, having hooked beaks and curved claws, flashed through the air with

their black and yellow wings, chattering and clumsily floundering in

their flight.

At last, when the entire multitude had come to the broad, rocky strand,

thousands upon thousands of little and big rings were circling over the

mirror-like surface of the water, as far as eye could see; swift

dolphins sprang in and out of the water, in graceful curves; pointed,

dorsal fins of sharks and brown-fish cut the smooth surface swiftly, in

straight lines, leaving behind them widely diverging furrows. The mighty

heads of shining black whales pushed the water from in front of them,

spouting out white streams of vapor with a sound like that of escaping

steam.

The sun neared the horizon, the rain ceased falling, and the mists

melted away, disclosing other stars. Above the crater of the mountain

stretched a dark plume of smoke, and beneath it the fire now glowed

calmly, at white heat.

Then all that din of turbulent life grew fainter and fainter, until

nothing was audible save a faint sighing and wailing. At last--utter

silence.

The bier of Pan was resting upon the seashore, encircled by all the

living.

The red rays of the sun lighted up the great corpse, the tree-trunks

upon which it rested, and the dark heaps of withered leaves and flowers.

But also they shot up the mountain heights, sparkling and flaming in

glory there--over the rigid, basaltic rocks.

Wistik stared at the red-reflecting mountain-top, with great, wide-open

eyes, and a pale, startled little face, and then cried in a smothered

voice:

"Kneel, Johannes, Kneel! She comes! Our holy Mother comes!"

Trembling with awe, Johannes waited expectantly.

He could not begin to comprehend that which he saw. Was it a cloud? a

blue-white cloud? But why was it not red, in the glow of that sunset?

Was it a glacier? But look! The blue-and-white came falling down like an

avalanche of snow. Steel-blue lightning flashed in sharp lines upon the

red mountain-side.

Then it seemed to him that the descending vapor was divided. The larger

part, and darker--that at the left--was blue, and blue-green; that at

the right, a brilliant white.

He saw distinctly now. Two figures were there, in shining, luminous

garments; and the light of them was not dimmed by the splendor of that

setting sun. Rays of green shone from the garment of the larger, but

around the head was an aureole of heavenly blue. The other was clothed

in lustrous white.

They were so great--so awful! And they swept from the mountain in an

instant of time, as a dove drops from out a tree-top down upon the

field!

When they stood beside the bier, Johannes looked into the face of the

larger figure, and he felt that it was as near and dear to him as a

mother. It was indeed his mother--Mother Earth.

She looked upon the dead, and blessed him. She looked at all the living

ones, and mused upon them. Then she looked into the face of the sun ere

it disappeared, and smiled.

Turning toward the volcano, she beckoned. The side of the crater burst

open with a report like thunder, and a seething stream of lava shot down

like lightning.

After that everything was night, and gloom, and darkness to Johannes. He

saw the bier on fire--consumed to a pile of burning coals--and the

thick, black smoke enveloped him.

But also he saw, last of all, the shining white figure moving beside

Mother Earth, irradiating the night and the smoke. He saw Him

coming--bending down to him His radiant face until it embraced the

entire heavens.

Then he recognized his Guide.