Did you ever, late at night, when you ought to have been in bed, read a

very captivating book? You knew then, did you not, that it was not good

for you--that you would be sorry for it? Perhaps you even found the book

to be dull or base. And yet you could not break off, but read on and on,

just one more chapter, to see how it ended.

That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores.

He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to

Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna--nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon,

either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed.

One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he

should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he

reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once

she had done--the same as with her two little daughters?

Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot

know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is

nothing in it to rail about.

Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that

never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to

him.

It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain--sharp pain--and yet it was

sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and

yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory--so

confounding!

One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and

followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of

which the breakers were pounding.

He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had

formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it

seemed! He felt left out. Life--cruel, human life--with its passions and

entanglements, now had him in its grasp.

It seemed agonizing and frightful, as if a great monster had pursued him

to the shore of the sea, and were still close behind. And now Nature had

become strange and inhospitable.

He stretched out his hand, and cried to the clouds:

"Oh, help me, clouds with the silver lining!" But the clouds rolled on

as if wholly unconscious of the wonderful shapes they assumed at every

turn--ever changing, and adorned anew with glittering gold and gleaming

silver. And all the while the sea was roaring just as if it had no

memory whatever of Johannes.

And when he had cried "Help me, clouds with the silver lining!" the

words clung to his mind, and, like shining angels, they beckoned other,

sister words, still lingering in the depths of his soul, to come and

join them. And so they came--one after another, in twinkling file, and

fell into line. Their faces seemed more serious than did ever those of

his own words.

"Help, oh, help me, ye silver-lined clouds!

Oh, save me, sun and stormy sea!

To thee I fly from stifling haunts of men.

_Life_, with its frightful, crimson-flaming hands,

Has laid its hold on me.

Once I was thy friend and confidant--

At home in thy mysterious loneliness.

I explored without fear thy boundless space

And celestial mansions builded I there

With the mere light of stars, and the waves of wind.

Peace I found in thy grandeur stern,

And rest in thy bright expanse.

Now, life sweeps me on with its current swift,

And a seething volcano I find where erst

Was an ocean serene of exalted delights.

Alas! thou doest rest in thy splendor immersed--

As cool as a lion licking his paws.

All slowly the cloud is transformed,

Letting the light stream through,

And the tossing main with sparks is clad,

As if with a golden coat of mail.

Ah, beautiful world! Untrue and unreal

Thou glidest away 'neath my anguished eyes.

The ocean roars ever, and silent are sun and clouds.

Sadly, I see the strange daylight fail.

It leaves me alone with still stranger night.

Oh! may I yet find there my Father's spirit,

That dwells beyond sun and sea and clouds?

Must I join with the hapless, hopeless throng

And bind my sorrowful fate to theirs,

Until the Great Leveler bring surcease?"

What Johannes meant by the "Great Leveler" he did not himself know at

first. Neither did he at all realize that he had composed something

better than formerly. But in the night he understood that it was Death

he had meant. And he knew, also, that something within him had opened to

the light, like an unfolding flower.

He felt that the verses might be sung like a song, but he could not hear

the melody--or but faintly--like wind-wafted tones from the farthest

distance. At night, he heard in his dreams the full strain, but in the

morning he had entirely forgotten it. And Marjon was not there to help

him.

You must remember that Little Johannes was no longer so _very_ little.

Nearly four years had passed since that morning when he had waked up in

the dunes, with the little gold key.

He could not refrain from reading the poem to the countess on the

following day. The making of it--the writing and rewriting--had calmed

the unrest out of which it had come. He was curious, now, to learn what

others would say of it--above all, the one who was ever in his thoughts.

"Ah, yes!" said she, after he had read it aloud, "life is fearful! And

that 'surcease' is all that I long for. I fully agree with you."

This remark, however kind the intention of the speaker, gave Johannes,

to his own astonishment, small pleasure. He would have preferred to hear

something different.

"Do you think it good?" he asked, with a vague feeling that he really

ought not to ask the question, because he had been so very much in

earnest over the verses. And when one is deeply in earnest about

anything one does not ask if it is good; no more than he would ask if

he had wept beautifully. But yet he would have liked, so well, to know

what she thought.

"I do not know, Johannes. You must not hope for a criticism from me. I

think the idea very sympathetic, and the form seems to me also quite

poetic. But whether or not it is good poetry, you must ask of Mijnheer

van Lieverlee. He is a poet."

"Is Mijnheer van Lieverlee coming soon?"

"Yes; I expect him shortly."

One fine day Van Lieverlee put in an appearance. With him arrived a host

of merrily creaking, yellow trunks, smelling delightfully like russia

leather--ditto high-hat box, and a brisk, smooth-shaven,

traveling-servant.

Van Lieverlee wore in his button-hole a dark-red rose, and pointed

pale-green carnation leaves.

He was very much at his ease--contented and gay--and when he saw

Johannes he did not appear to have a very clear remembrance of him.

That evening Johannes read to him the poem. Van Lieverlee listened, with

an absent-minded expression of face, while he drummed on the arm of the

low, easy-chair in which he lay indolently outstretched. It looked very

much as if the verses bored him.

When it was over, and Johannes was waiting in painful suspense, he shook

his head emphatically.

"All rhetoric, my worthy friend--mere bombast! 'Oh! Alas!' and 'Ah!' All

those are impotent cryings which show that the business is beyond you.

If you had full control of expression, you would not utter such

cries--you would form, shape, knead, create, model--_model_! Plasticity,

Johannes! That is the thing--vision, color, imagery! I see nothing in

that poem. I want something to see and taste. Just think of that sonnet

of mine! Every line full of form, of imagery, of real, actual things!

With you, there is nothing but vague terms--weak swaggering--all about

the spirit of your Father, and such things--none of them to be seen.

And, to produce effect, you call upon the other words: 'Ah!' and

'Alas!' and 'Oh!' as if that helped, at all. Any cad could do that if he

fell into the water. That is not poetry."

Johannes was completely routed. And although his hostess tried to

console him with assurances that if he did his best things would go

better with him by and by, when he was a little older, it was of no

avail. Johannes already knew that it was quite in vain for him to

attempt his best, so long as the inspiration he so much needed was

withheld.

His night was a sad one; for the serious words of the poem were

continually before him, and to think that they had been disdained was

indeed torture. They would not be driven away, but remained to vindicate

their worth. And then he wished that others, as well as he, should value

them. But his powerlessness and his own mistrust, were a grievous

vexation.

In the small hours, he had just fallen asleep--probably for only a few

minutes--when he awoke again with the feeling that his room was full,

but with what kind of company--human beings or other creatures--he

could not tell. He did not see them; for just in the place where he was

looking there was no one, and where he wanted to look, he could not. He

seemed to be prevented from doing so by a strange power.

He heard a laugh, and the sound was very familiar to him. It was a

dismal, old-time memory. It was Pluizer's laugh.

Could Pluizer be in the room?

Johannes tried his best to look at the spot whence the sound came.

Exerting himself, he saw something at last--not an entire figure, but

hands only--two, four, six little hands, busily doing something. Higher

up, to what was above the hands, he could not look--but that they were

the hands of Pluizer he was quite positive.

There was something in those hands--a white band--and the little hands

were very busy tying all kinds of knots in it. And all the while there

was continuous laughing and snickering, as if it was great fun.

What could that mean? Johannes felt that something menaced. The play of

those little hands portended danger. Most plainly of all he saw the

white band--a common, white tape.

Then the hands went out of the room, and Johannes was forced to follow

them. In another room--that of Heléne's nurse--there they were, as busy

as ever, this time with a pair of scissors. The scissors had fallen upon

the floor close to a toilet-table. One point having stuck through the

carpet into the floor, there they stood--erect. The invisible one was

laughing again--giggling and snickering--and all six little hands were

pointing at the scissors.

A light was burning in Heléne's room, but the poor, sick girl was not

now complaining. All was quiet there. The door opened, and the nurse

came out, leaving it open behind her. The nurse went to her own room to

look for something. She was a long time searching, but could not find

it. Surely it was the scissors.

All this time they were sticking by one point, in the carpet behind the

toilet-table, and the six little hands were pointing at them. But the

seeker apparently neither saw the hands nor heard the laughter.

Johannes could not help her. He had to follow the hands. He still heard

giggling and snickering, and saw the little hands go away--downstairs,

through the hall, outside.

Save for the shining of the stars--sharp and clear in the black sky--it

was still very dark out-of-doors.

On the terrace, there was visible to Johannes, a tall, dark figure. He

could look at it better than at the sneering ones. He recognized it,

instantly. It was He with whom he had traveled by sea.

The dark figure now took the lead with slow, firm strides. Pluizer went

next, but in between these two there was a third.

It was quite impossible for Johannes to look at that third one. When he

tried to look, he felt an indescribable agony.

That third one! Yes, he certainly knew it well. It was _it_! Do you

understand? The _It_ which lies in wait around the corner, outside the

door, while you dream of being alone in a dark room, vainly trying to

call for help.

_It_, the most frightful object!--so frightful that no one can either

look at or describe it.

These three now passed down the dark avenue of the park until they came

to the black pool lying deathly still and calmly expectant--shining

beneath the starlight.

There the three sat down and waited.

It was still as still could be. Not a leaf rustled.

The star-tips on the water were as sharply defined as points of light

upon fathomless darkness.

"Prettily planned; don't you think so?" said Pluizer.

_It_ grumbled, sneeringly.

Thereupon good Death, in a soft, restful voice, said: "Yet all is for

the best!"

Then again they sat very still. Johannes waited with them for he could

not do otherwise.

The sound of a door was heard in the still night air, and a white figure

drew near, with light, swift steps. By the faint starlight Johannes saw

the slender girl in a white night-dress, her black hair flowing loose.

For an instant she stood still at the edge of the pool. Johannes could

see her eyes shining with both terror and joy, like those of one pursued

who sees escape. He tried to call or to move, but could do neither.

Then the girl waded into the water with her arms extended as if to

embrace it. She went cautiously, so that the water neither plashed nor

spattered; only, the star-points were broken up and became long stripes,

and serpentine lines of light. These, after the white garment could be

seen no more, still continued--dancing up and down with the ripples.

"We have her!" sneered Pluizer.

"That remains to be seen," said good Death.

* * * * *

At once, Johannes found himself awake, in his own bed. He had been

wakened by noises, cries of anguished voices, hasty runnings hither and

thither through the hallways of the house, and by the opening and

shutting of doors.

"Heléne! Heléne!" rang through the halls, in the garden, in the park.

"Heléne! Heléne!"

Johannes dressed himself, not overhastily, for he knew it was too late.

The members of the household were already gathered in the large

vestibule. The poor nurse, with a startled face of deathly pallor, came

in from the garden.

"I cannot find her anywhere," she cried. "It is my fault--my fault!"

She sat down and began to sob.

"Come, dear," said the countess, in her tranquil voice, "do not reproach

yourself. She may be back again in no time; or perhaps the servants will

find her in the town."

"No, no," shrieked the poor nurse. "She has long wanted to do it, and I

knew it. I never left her door unfastened. But this time I only thought

to be gone two seconds. She had knotted a tape into a tangle, and I

wanted to get my scissors. But I could not find them ... and then.... O

God! How could I be so stupid! I can never forgive myself. Oh, my God,

my God!"

Could not Johannes have run quickly to the pool, and told what he knew?

No, for he also knew, quite as surely, that it was too late. And before

he could have done it, the men came to say she had been found. He saw

her borne into the house, wrapped in a checked bed-cover.

And when he saw them making vain endeavors to resuscitate her he

remarked that he feared it would do no good. And he added, "Indeed, I

don't fear--but I hope so."

"For her sake," said the countess.

"Surely for her sake," repeated Johannes, in some surprise.

Van Lieverlee had not appeared. But when the corpse of the beautiful

girl had been placed upon her death-bed, her slender hands crossed upon

her breast, her hair--still moist--laid in heavy braids about the

delicate, sallow little face, the dark lashes nearly closed over the

sightless eyes, white lilies and snowdrops all around, then Van

Lieverlee came to see.

"Look," said he to Johannes, "this is very pretty. I would not have

cared to see her taken from the water. A drowned person is nearly always

an ugly spectacle. Even the most beautiful girl becomes repulsive and

clownlike when being dragged out of the water by leg or arm, with face

and hair all duck-weed and mud. But _this_ is worth while. Mind,

Johannes, genuine artists are always lucky. They come across the

beautiful, everywhere. Such an event as this is, for a poet, a rare bit

of good luck."

* * * * *

The next day he was deep in the making of poetry. But Johannes was in a

restless, introverted mood, and could find no words for what distressed

him.

VIII

A few days later, the two guests were sitting with their hostess at the

afternoon-tea table.

"Is it not a frightful thought," said Countess Dolores, "that the poor

girl cannot yet have rest, but must do penance for her sinful deed?"

"I cannot believe it," said Johannes.

"But yet it was a sin."

"I would certainly forgive her."

"By which we perceive, Dolores," broke in Van Lieverlee, "that Johannes

is much more kind-hearted than his beloved Lord."

"But why, Johannes, can you not assure us about that of which I have so

often asked?" said the countess again. "Can you not put yourself into

communication with her?"

"No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes.

"But your Mahatma, Johannes!" said Van Lieverlee. "He can do it all

right. It is child's play for him."

"Of whom are you speaking?" asked the hostess, looking with quickened

interest at Van Lieverlee.

"Of his Mahatma. Has he never told you about his Mahatma?"

"Not a word," said the countess, a little pettishly, while Johannes

maintained a mortified silence.

"Well, Johannes knows a sage--a Yogi--a great Magician. He saw him come

ashore from over the North Sea--which phenomenon might be termed

levitation--and this Magician traveled with him in disguise."

"But, Johannes, why have you never told me that? It was not kind of you.

You knew how much I have longed for the advice of such a person."

Johannes knew very little to tell. That question exactly concerned what

was most perplexing and distressing to him in this situation.

Something there was that always restrained him from speaking of

Markus--yes, even the thought of him was baffling. And yet how much he

longed for him! But he felt that that longing was opposed to the other

longings which held him where he was.

"I believe," he said at last, timidly, "that he does not like it when I

talk about him."

"Of course," said Van Lieverlee, "but only in the case of the

uninitiated--the common herd."

"Do you count me in with them?" asked his hostess in her most engaging

manner.

"No, oo!" protested Johannes, with great earnestness. "But neither do I

know where he is."

"He well knows, however, where _we_ are," said Van Lieverlee, "and if we

desire to see him, he will come to us."

"He surely will not come here," said Johannes.

"Why not?"

Johannes could not explain why, but the countess said:

"Then we will go to Holland and have him come to our club."

That gave Johannes a thrill of joy. But ah! he realized at the same time

how cold and unresponsive he had become to the _beautiful_ which had

brought him thither. The two children were indeed just as captivating,

but they did not give him the same happiness as before. And he began

gradually to dislike Van Lieverlee.

* * * * *

In Holland, Countess Dolores dwelt in a villa between a large town and

the ocean. And when Johannes was there again, and, though knowing

better, was expecting to re-see his beloved dunes, then, for the first

time, he felt convinced that Pan was indeed dead, and Windekind's

kingdom at an end.

Civilization had conquered the dunes. Long, straight, barren streets

led out to them, and house after house, all exactly alike--as tedious as

they were ugly--lined the comfortless way. Sand drifted through the

dreary, brick-paved streets, and shavings, bits of tin, and great pieces

of tattered wall-paper were strewn about the intervening spaces.

Buildings were being put up everywhere. Of the beauty and mystery of the

dunes there was nothing left--only dismal, dust-littered heaps of sand.

The ocean also was spoiled for Johannes, for here there were great

crowds of people, come for the sake of society, or else for the music.

And even when they were gone there still remained the ugly buildings

they had erected.

Countess Dolores seemed indeed to share Johannes' aversion and

disappointment. Not so Van Lieverlee. Here he was in his

element--dressing himself most gorgeously, making visits, and attending

the principal clubs, restaurants, and concerts.

"Romance is dead, my friend," said he. "You must have _life_--Life with

a capital letter. Life is Passion. Art is Passion. Life is Art--rude,

real life--one day gloriously luxurious, the next day coarse and

loathsome. You must not dream of the past, Johannes, but live in the

present. And you must experience everything, take a part in and enjoy

everything, and despise everything. You must lead life by the

nose--seize it by the throat and force it to do your bidding. Get tipsy

with life--spew it out of your mouth--strike it flat to earth--sling it

at the clouds--play upon it as upon a violin--stick it in your

buttonhole, like a gardenia--roll with it in the gutter, and consort

with it in orgies of supremest passion. Study it in its hideous

nakedness and vileness, and subjugate it to your dearest dreams of blood

and gold."

This oration was delivered in the evening after Van Lieverlee had dined

with his friends. Later, Johannes observed that Van Lieverlee liked best

to study the hideous phases of life from a safe distance, and to choose

for himself the easy and pleasant ones.

Visitors from very respectable circles came to Dolores' villa; and

already, at the receptions preceding the seances of the Pleiades,

Johannes had met the members of that "ideal community of ideals in

common."

There were, of course, besides the countess and Van Lieverlee, only five

others; and when Johannes hesitated to add to this number of seven, he

was assured that the Constellation was composed of eight visible stars,

besides a great many others not visible to the naked eye.

The leader was a General with a gold-embroidered collar and a grey,

closely-cut beard. He had a powerful, commanding voice, and spoke with

great respect of the present dynasty. Johannes wondered that he could

think of anything other than cannon and battles; but it appeared that he

had a very gentle heart, and was extraordinarily curious concerning the

immaterial and the life on the other side of the grave.

He even seemed to be conscious that his blood-thirsty trade did not

tally with his philosophical researches, and therefore preferred that no

one should know he belonged to this ideal community--a weakness common

to all the members of the Pleiades.

Then there were a senator and his wife--both of them very courtly and

fashionable persons. The husband had exquisitely cut grey hair, and a

handsome white beard, small hands, and thin legs. The wife, who was an

invalid, had a languishing voice, a discontented face, and a manner that

became earnest and excited as soon as things were mentioned of highest

import to the society.

Then there was Professor Bommeldoos--an impressive man, who certainly

would have been chosen as leader had it not been known that at heart he

scorned and condemned such researches. He took part only at the urgent

request of the countess, to whose beauty he was not insensible, for as a

representative of pure science she desired him to be present. Professor

Bommeldoos was awfully learned--his Greek was as fluent as water, and he

had, so to speak, every conceivable system of philosophy under his

thumb. He was so much taken up with himself that he paid no attention to

any reply he might have received to his discourse. He thought only of

his own words, and if he did not receive instant assent, or if some one,

with a bow, wished to differ from him, he turned himself about, and

declared the hearer to be an ignoramus.

These bad manners, however, were the exception among the well-bred

Pleiades; but they were endured as being a necessary attribute of his

great erudition.

The seventh, and last, was an Honorable Lady, no longer young. She was

of noble birth, fat, unattractive, and as ignorant as Professor

Bommeldoos was learned. Every one of her observations was crushed by

him, with cold disdain, under some obscure quotation or other. Whereupon

the Honorable Lady, smiling insipidly, became silent, but with a face

which seemed to say that she was by no means convinced.

Johannes waited in great suspense for the first seance, above all

because of the possibility that Markus would perceive his longings, and,

as Van Lieverlee surmised, suddenly appear.

The members of the society gathered just as if they had no other thought

than to make a casual evening visit. The Privy Counselor, who bore a

threefold name, and whom therefore I shall call simply the Privy

Counselor, chatted with the fat Honorable Lady about the climate on the

Riviera, along which he had been traveling with his wife, for her

health's sake, and whence he had brought her back home more ill than

when she left. The General chatted on about the early shell-peas, while

Van Lieverlee talked softly in French to the countess, to the silent

distraction of Johannes. No one appeared to care to know the object of

their meeting.

But this dissimulation was rudely shaken by Professor Bommeldoos, who,

having scarcely entered, burst out in his frightful voice:

"Come, followers of Allan Kardec! Where is the keeper of the door--he

who shall unlock for us that portal through which we may step from the

kingdom of the three dimensions into that of the fourth dimension?"

Thereupon he looked searchingly into the faces of those present. They

smiled in a rather embarrassed way, and glanced at the General. After a

good, thorough clearing of his throat, the General said:

"If you refer to our medium, Professor, there is none yet; but we

should--ah ... can--ah ... begin to form the circle, in order to prepare

ourselves, in some degree, for...."

During oppressive silence, a round, marble-topped table was drawn by the

gentlemen into the middle of the room. The assistance of the servants

was not desired.

"Look! See what a crack was made in it the other time," whispered the

Honorable Lady, "when it rose completely up into the air, you know. We

could not possibly hold it down."

"Ought not the light to be put out?" asked the Professor, who had not

yet attended a seance.

"No, no," said the General. "A little lower--just a little lower."

"Very well! H'm--h'm!" muttered Bommeldoos.

"The Professor must not counteract with his irony," said the countess,

pleasantly.

"Mevrouw," declaimed the Professor, solemnly, "in the researches of a

philosopher nothing is trifling, nothing is ridiculous. He stands for

all phenomena like an unbroken mirror. Darwin had the contrabass played

to an audience of sprouting garden-beans, in order to observe the effect

of music on vegetation. And if you have read my book about Plotinus...."

"Pardon, Professor, I have not."

"What! Then the one about the material basis of ideas?"

"Nor that."

"Then you certainly must read my book upon Magic. Do not forget it, or I

will not come the next time. Plotinus says...."

Here followed a quotation in Greek that I will spare you, but which was

listened to with respect. Then the Honorable Lady chimed in with:

"Shall we not sing something? It puts one in such a good frame of mind."

They all agreed with her, but no one wanted to begin. The General seated

himself mettlesomely at the table, and spread out his hands on the top

of it.

With simulated unconcern, one after another followed him. At last,

Johannes also was invited to take part.

"Is the young gentleman a novice in psychical fields?" asked the Privy

Counselor, condescendingly.

"My friend Johannes ought to have strong mediumistic powers. I hope that

those present will not object...." said the countess.

"Not at all, not at all," said the General. "In this research we are all

as ignorant as children."

"I do not in the least agree with you, there, General," blustered

Bommeldoos. "Have you read all the writings of Phillipus Aureolus

Paracelsus Theophrastus Bombastus ab Hohenheim, born in 1493, died in

1541?"

"I have not, Professor," replied the warrior, meekly.

"Well, I have, and it was not child's work. Magic is a subdivision--and

only a small subdivision--of philosophy. In my library I have a hundred

and seventy-five volumes, all that subdivision--all of them on magical

subjects, from Apollonius Tyannæus to Swedenborg, Hellenbach, and Du

Prell. Do you call that childish ignorance?"

"'Suffer the little children to come unto me,'" said the fat Honorable

Lady, improving the opportunity to make a quotation, also.

"I am not going to drive them away," said Bommeldoos, "if only they do

not imagine they know as much as I do."

Johannes did not at all imagine that, and, hands upon the marble top of

the table, he waited very patiently for the manifestations. They sat a

considerable time, however, without anything unusual having happened.

Van Lieverlee said to the countess, softly yet quite distinctly:

"Neither are those magical powers of Johannes very unusual."

Then came the medium--a demure young woman of the middle class, who made

deep courtesies to right and left, and appeared not to feel quite at

home in this dignified society.

She had scarcely seated herself at the table, before the wife of the

Privy Counselor cried out in a shrill voice: "I feel it already. There

it goes!"

"Yes, a genuine shock," declared the Honorable Lady, in an excited tone.

"Be calm," commanded the General.

The table began turning and tilting, and now the questions were plied.

The first spirit to put in an appearance gave general advice about

reading the Bible, and about faithful attendance at church. This advice

seemed to make a deep impression on the circle. Asked his name, the

spirit replied, "Moses." This gave Professor Bommeldoos the opportunity

to inquire if Moses himself had written the Pentateuch. "Yes": was the

reply. But when the Professor queried him in Hebrew, Moses said that the

medium needed a brief rest; and after that rest he left it to some one

else to make reply. In succession followed Homer and Cicero, who both

lamented that they had not known the true faith; and after them

Napoleon, who evinced great sorrow for the amount of blood he had caused

to be shed. One could see that this gave the General food for

reflection.

But, save that all these people urged, in the main, the practice of

purity and piety, it was unanimously demonstrated that Johannes and the

countess were the ones from whose co-operation the greatest results were

to be expected. They would have to study up these matters, and apply

themselves to automatic writing.

Then Johannes had to sit beside the countess and hold her hand, and

thus, together, write down the communications of the spirits. This was

a bitter-sweet experience for Johannes. Would Markus come now?

But Markus did not come, nor any news of poor Heléne, nor of her father.

Yet a spirit disclosed itself who treated this ideal society in a very

impolite, bearish manner. He called himself Thomas, and would not reply

when Bommeldoos asked him if he was Thomas the Apostle, or Thomas

Aquinas, or Thomas à Kempis, or Thomas Morus.

"Do you know us?" asked the Privy Counselor.

"Yes, you are heathen and malefactors."

"Will you help us?"

"Confess, pray, and do penance," said Thomas.

"Will you tell us something of the hereafter?" asked Countess Dolores,

paling somewhat.

"Hell, if you go on this way," said Thomas.

"Then what must I do?" asked Dolores, almost trembling.

"Be converted," was the reply.

"That is all well and good," said Bommeldoos, "but I know at least

twelve religions, and twice as many systems of philosophy. To which of

them must we be converted?"

"Be still, you heretic," was the parting shot.

Such treatment as that was a bit too much for the learned Professor, and

he declared he had had enough of it, and could better employ his time.

The society was of one mind--that the manifestations this evening had

not been propitious. The medium ascribed this to her own indisposition.

She had suffered the entire day with a headache, and, moreover, there

were--she was certain of it--unfavorable influences present. Saying

this, she cast a reproachful glance at the Professor.

"Oh, it was much more lively the last time," said the Honorable Lady.

"Was it not truly extraordinary, General?"

"Phenomena cannot be forced," replied the General. "One has to practise

patience. We would better stop, for the present."

So the session ended, and after the medium, with many obsequious airs,

had taken her leave, they partook of a delicious supper.

Johannes retained his place beside the hostess, and the remembrance of

the soft, warm hand that he had been able to hold in his own for so long

a time made him very happy. He was not disappointed. Oh, no, he was

elated--his excellent friend was so nice, so good, and so kind to him.

A new Dutch waitress in black and wearing a snow-white cap with long

strings was in attendance. Johannes paid no attention to her, but

noticed that Van Lieverlee looked at her repeatedly.

"Did you not think it a remarkable evening?" asked the countess, after

the guests were gone and they were alone together.

"I thought it splendid," replied Johannes, with sincerity.

"They called it a failure," said the countess, "but it impressed me

quite otherwise. I feel greatly moved."

"I too," said Johannes.

"Do you? That makes me happy. So you, also, feel that we need to be

converted?"

"I do not think that," said Johannes, "but you have been so good to me."

Countess Dolores made no reply, but she smiled and pressed his hand

kindly. Johannes retained her hand, while he looked into her eyes with

passionate devotion.

The waitress had been standing at the buffet, placing silver in the

drawer. At this moment she turned round, and when Johannes in some

confusion looked at her to see if she had paid any attention to his

all-too-tender airs and words, he suddenly found himself gazing into a

pair of well-known, light-grey eyes.

They were Marjon's eyes, and they wore a look of unutterable anguish and

sorrow.

It seemed to Johannes as if his heart had stopped beating. He sat like

one paralyzed, until his friend's hand slipped from his clasp. He

appeared to wish to rise--to say something....

But Marjon put her finger to her lips, and went quietly on with her

work.

IX

Among the visitors at Villa Dolores was a Roman prelate--a friend of

Dolores' deceased husband. He was heavy of build and always cheerful,

and never talked on religious subjects. Sometimes he came sociably, as a

table guest, and besides a fund of anecdotes he also had much to say

that was instructive, to which Johannes listened eagerly.

He was a far more amiable person than Dominie Kraalboom, and Johannes

liked him much better. He understood all about flowers and animals,

about poetry, paintings, and music; and of special interest were his

observations on beautiful Italy and holy Rome, where he had traveled and

studied.

Of course he did not belong to the Pleiades; and if by rare exception

the circle was referred to in his presence, he, being both cautious and

courteous, remained silent.

Yet, after that first meeting of which I have told you in the preceding

chapter, Johannes observed that he came oftener than before, and also at

unconventional hours; and when Johannes came into the room he noticed

that the conversation between the countess and the priest was suddenly

broken off. He saw, also, that his hostess had more color in her cheeks,

as if she had been speaking of weighty matters.

"Your Mahatma does not come," said Dolores once, when, after such a time

as this, the priest had just taken his leave. "He has turned his back

upon us."

"Yes, Mevrouw," Johannes was forced to admit.

"I think myself very fortunate in having found a wise man who can help

me."

"Do you mean Father Canisius?"

"Yes. Do you know what he says? That we are on a dangerous road in the

pursuit of our object. It is all the work of the devil, he declares. And

everything he says agrees with what we heard that evening. Would you

not like to have a chat with him?"

But Johannes hesitated. He had not yet spoken to Marjon, and was hoping

to hear from her something concerning his brother.

Marjon evaded him, and he had not found an opportunity to meet her

alone. Every morning he went to his room with a beating heart, hoping to

find her there busied in putting it to rights; but generally it was

already in order, and he found merely the traces of her care: his

clothing brushed and folded, his linen looked over and nicely placed in

the linen-press, and fresh flowers in the little vase on his table. He

observed everything, and was deeply touched by it.

But she seemed careful to be always in company with the other servants,

and to bear herself as stiffly and coldly as the most pert, demure, and

well-trained chambermaid possibly could. Not a word nor a look nor a

sign betrayed her acquaintance with Johannes; and he often heard the

countess declare to her visitors that she had never before found so

quickly a good Dutch servant.

Neither had Van Lieverlee recognized her, but was simply struck with her

peculiar, somewhat alien manner, which led him to ask the lady of the

house if she knew the origin of the girl.

"No," said the countess; "she was recommended to me by an old friend,

and apparently she deserves all that was said of her."

* * * * *

But Johannes' yearning for Markus grew stronger every day. He both

dreaded and longed for his coming, and he wished that in some way he

might be delivered from his uncertainty.

Therefore he was ever on the alert to seize an opportunity for speaking

with Marjon alone. One evening he detained her in the hall under the

pretense of inquiring about his shoes.

"Where did you leave Keesje?" he asked in a low voice.

"You know very well," replied Marjon, curtly, and in the same low tone.

Johannes did indeed know, and for that very reason he had asked the

question.

"Yes, but where is he who has Keesje?"

"I do not know; and even if I did, I would not tell you. He knows his

time."

At that moment Countess Dolores passed by.

"Johannes," said she, "I am having a talk with Father Canisius. If you

wish you may come, too."

Johannes questioned Marjon with a look; but there fell before her eyes

that impenetrable veil which always completely hid her inmost self from

every stranger.

Father Canisius was in the parlor, seated in a low chair. His black

soutane fitted tightly over his robust body, and his heavy feet in their

buckled shoes were planted wide apart. He was polishing his spectacles

with a handkerchief, and as Johannes entered the room he put them

quickly in place, and turned his large eyes, full of interest, toward

the door.

When Johannes came forward he took his hand in a kindly way and drew him

nearer. Johannes looked into the broad, smooth-shaven face with its flat

nose and sagacious eyes.

"Have you never had good guidance, my boy? Without it life is difficult

and dangerous."

"I have indeed had good guidance, Mijnheer," said Johannes, "but I have

more than once preferred to go my own way; and then I disregarded my

guidance."

"But was it _good_ guidance?" asked the priest.

"I had a good father; later, I found a dear, good friend. But I left

them both."

"Why did you do that? Were you not satisfied with what they taught you?

What was it that took you from them?"

Johannes hesitated.

"Were they too strict?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Then what was lacking that you found elsewhere but not with them?"

"I do not know, Mijnheer, what to call it. It is not pleasure, for I am

willing to endure much suffering. And yet again it is the most glorious

thing I know. I think it is what is meant by 'the beautiful.'"

On saying this, he bethought himself that it was not merely "the

beautiful" for which he had left his father, and that the emotion which

had led him away from Markus, and which he had felt for the two little

girls, might indeed be called love.

"Perhaps it is also called love," said he.

Father Canisius considered a moment, and throwing a glance at the

countess, he said:

"Then did you not find the love of that good father and the good friend

enough for you?"

"Oh, yes, yes," said Johannes, with spirit. "But it was from them I had

learned that I ought to follow what seemed to me, in all sincerity, the

most beautiful, and to do what I truly thought best."

The priest dropped Johannes' hand, and pressed his own fleshy palms

together, while he slowly and sorrowfully shook his great head, gave a

deep sigh, and continued to look at Countess Dolores with a very serious

face.

"Poor boy!" said he then. "Poor, poor boy!"

Then, lifting his head and looking Johannes straight in the eyes, he

said: "No, Johannes, they were not good guides. I do not know them, and

I shall not judge them, but I assure you positively that with such

teaching, such guidance, you are bound to be lost unless granted

extraordinary grace."

A long silence ensued. Johannes was touched, and even startled.

"What do you mean?" he finally stammered with trembling lips.

"Listen, Johannes," said Countess Dolores. "Father Canisius is very

wise--a man of large experience in life."

"Do you believe in God, Johannes?" asked the priest.

"I know that I have a Father who understands me," said Johannes, slowly.

"Do you mean a heavenly Father? Very well; so far, so good. But you must

have observed also that there is an evil one--Satan--who goes about

deceiving us."

"Yes," said Johannes, promptly, thinking of his many disappointments.

"That is so. I have observed it."

"Well, then, Satan is always lying in wait for us, like a wolf lurking

near the sheep. One who trusts only in his own powers and his own

opinion is like a sheep that strays from the fold. The wolf surely waits

his opportunity, and, unless God perform a miracle, that sheep is lost."

Johannes felt the fear strike to his heart, and he could not speak.

"We first notice the approach of this wolf by a terrible sensation. That

is God's warning to us. That feeling is doubt. Have you ever known what

it was to doubt, Johannes?"

Johannes, with clenched fists and compressed lips, nodded in quick and

utter dismay. Yes, yes, _yes_! He had known what it was to doubt.

"I thought so," said Father Canisius, calmly. "It is a fearful feeling,

is it not?" Raising his voice, he proceeded: "It is like the sound of

howling wolves in the distance--to the wandering sheep. Let it not be in

vain that you are warned, Johannes."

After a pause he continued:

"Doubt itself is a sin. He who doubts is on an inclined plane that

slopes toward a fall. Have you ever heard of the hideous octopus,

Johannes--that soft sea-monster with the huge eyes, and eight long arms

full of suckers which, one by one, he winds around the limbs of a

swimmer, before dragging him down to the deeps? You have? Well, Satan is

such an octopus. Unnoticed, he reaches out his long arms, and twines

them about your limbs--holding them fast with his suckers until he can

stab his sharp beak into your heart. Doubt is not only a warning but

positive proof that Satan has already gripped you. It is the beginning

of his power. The end is everlasting pain and damnation."

Johannes raised his head and looked at the priest, who was watching the

effect of his words.

In spite of his distress there was suddenly aroused in Johannes a

feeling of resistance. He felt that an effort was being made to frighten

him; and even if he was but a stripling he would not allow that.

"My Father does not condemn those who err in good faith," said he.

Father Canisius observed that by bearing on too hard he had awakened a

rebellious spirit. He therefore became more cautious, and resumed

gently:

"Certainly, Johannes. God is infinitely good and merciful. But have you

not remarked that there is a justice from which you cannot escape? And

do you believe that one who has been led astray can plead, 'I am not

guilty, for I was deceived'? No, Johannes, you take this matter too

lightly. Punishment attends sin. That is God's inexorable law. And only

if He had failed to warn us--only if He had not accurately revealed to

us His will, could you call that cruel and unjust. But we _are_

warned--_are_ instructed--and may follow good guidance. If then we

continue to stray, it is our own fault and we must not complain."

"You mean the Bible, do you not, Mijnheer?"

"The Bible and the Church," said the Father, not pleased at the tone of

this question. "I very well comprehend, my boy, that you, with your

poetic temperament and your craving for the beautiful, have not found

peace in the cold, barren, and barbarous creed of Protestantism. But the

Church gives you everything--beauty, warmth, love, and exalted poetry.

In the Church alone can you find peace and perfect security. You know,

however, do you not, that the flock has need of a Shepherd? And you know

also who that Shepherd is?"

"Do you mean the Pope?"

"I mean Christ, Johannes--our Redeemer, of whom the Pope is merely a

human representative. Do you know this Shepherd? Do you not know Jesus

Christ?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes, in all simplicity, "I do not know him

at all."

"I thought as much; and that is why I said to you, 'Poor boy.' But if

you wish to learn to know him, I will gladly help you. Do you wish me

to?"

"Why not, Mijnheer?" said Johannes.

"Very well. Begin, then, by accompanying the countess to the church she

has promised me to attend--Have you, indeed, arranged to go?"

"Yes, Father," replied the countess. "Oh, I am so happy that you take

such an interest in us! Johannes will surely always be grateful to you."

Father Canisius pressed very cordially the hands of both of his new

disciples, and, with an expression of calm satisfaction on his face, he

took his leave.

The children came in, and nothing further was said that day between

Johannes and his friend concerning the matter; but the countess was much

more animated than usual, and wonderfully kind toward Johannes. She even

kissed him again when they said good-night, as once before she had done

--when with her children.

* * * * *

Johannes could not sleep. He was full of anxiety, and in a state of high

nervous tension. When the house grew still, and the lonely, mysterious

night had come, came also fear and doubt and faint-heartedness. He

doubted that he doubted, and feared the doubt of the doubt. He heard the

howling of the wolf that lay in wait for the wandering sheep; he felt

the slippery, slimy, crawling grasp of those terrible arms, that

unnoticed, had fastened their suckers everywhere to his limbs; he saw

the great yellow eyes of the octopus, with the narrow, slit-shaped

pupil; and he felt the mouth searching and feeling about his body for

his heart, that it might stab it with the sharp, parrot-like beak. With

chattering teeth he lay wide awake between the sheets--shivering and

shaking, while the perspiration poured from him.

Then he heard a faint, creaking sound on the stairs, followed by a light

footfall at the doorway. His door was opened, and a slim, dark form came

cautiously up to the bed.

He felt a soft, warm hand on his clammy forehead, and heard Marjon's

voice whispering:

"You must be faithful, Jo, and not let them make you afraid. The Father

likes brave and loyal children."

"Yes, Marjon," said Johannes; and the shivering ceased, while a gentle

warmth stole over and through his entire body. He dropped asleep so soon

that he did not notice when she left the room.

X

"Jump out!" cried Wistik, excitedly, swinging his little red cap. "Come

on--jump!"

Johannes saw no way of doing so. The window was high and quite too

small. Perhaps by climbing still higher he might find a way out. A

flight of stairs, and another garret. Still another narrow passage, and

another stairway. Then he caught another glimpse of Wistik, astride a

large eagle.

"Come on, Johannes!" cried he. "You must dare to--then nothing can

happen."

Johannes was ready to venture, but he could not do it. The little window

was again out of reach. Back again. Empty garrets, steep stairs--stairs

without end. And there was the octopus! He knew it. Again and again he

saw one of the long arms with its hundreds of suckers. Sometimes one of

them lay stretched along the garret floor, so that he had to step over

it. Sometimes one meandered over the stairs that Johannes was obliged to

mount. The whole house was full of them.

And out-of-doors the sun was shining, and the blue air was clear and

bright. Wistik was circling around the house, seated on the great

eagle--the very same eagle they had come across before, in Phrygia.

Out-of-doors also rang the voice of Marjon. Hark! She was singing. She,

too, was in the open air. She seemed to have made a little song,

herself--words and melody--for Johannes had never before heard either of

them.

"Nightly there come to me,

White as the snow,

Wings that I know to be

Strange, here below.

"Up into ether blue,

Pure and so high,

Mounting on pinions true,

Singing, I fly.

"Sea-gull like then I soar--

Not light more swift--

So near to Heaven's door

To rock and drift!"

Alas! Johannes could not yet do that. He had no wings. He did, indeed,

see rays of light at times, and here and there a bit of blue sky. But he

could not get to it--he could not get out! And on he went

again--upstairs, downstairs, through doorways, halls, and great garrets.

And the terrible arms lay everywhere.

Again Marjon sang:

"Marvelous, matchless blue

I cleave in flight.

The spheres are not so fleet

As my winged feet.

"World after world speed by

Under my hand,

New ones I ever espy,

Countless as sand.

"Blue of the skies!

Blue of the deep!

Now make me wise--No

more to weep."

Johannes also heard the blue calling him; but what the magic word was he

could not guess. He was on his knees now, before a small, garret window

through which he could barely thrust his arm. Behind him he could hear a

shuffling and sliding. It was the long arm again!

"It's a shame!" said Wistik again, his little face red with anger, "the

way they have maligned me! I ought to be hail-fellow with the Evil One

for not letting you be. What a rascal he is! Do you want to be rid of

me, Johannes?"

"No, Wistik. I believe that you are good even if you have often

disappointed me and made me very restless. You have shown me so much

that is beautiful. But why do you not help me now? If you call me you

ought to help me.

"No," said Wistik; "you must help yourself. You must act, you

understand? Act! You know that _It_ is behind you, do you not?"

"Yes, yes!" shrieked Johannes.

"But, boy, do not shriek at me! Shriek at _It_. It is much more afraid

of you than you are of It. Try!"

That was an idea. Johannes set his teeth, clenched his fists, turned

round and shouted:

"Out, I say! Out with you--you ugly, miserable wretch!"

I even believe he used a swear-word. But one ought to forgive him,

because it was from sudden excitement. When he saw that the long arms

shriveled and drew away, and that it grew still in the house--when he

felt his distress abating and saw the sunlight burst out, revealing a

spacious deep-blue sky--then his anger calmed down, and he felt rather

ashamed of having been so vehement.

"That is good!" said Wistik. "But do not be unmannerly--do not scold.

That is hateful. But nevertheless, act, and learn compassion."

Johannes was now no longer afraid; he shouted for joy. Yes, he was

bathed in tears of thankfulness and relief. Oh, the glorious blue sky!

"Now you know it, once for all," said Wistik.

Marjon's voice again in song. But this time very different--the air of

one of her old songs merely hummed: a customary calling sound--a soft

suppressed little tune. And thereupon followed a "tap, tap, tap," at his

chamber door, to tell him that it was half-past eight and time to get

up.

* * * * *

Fresh energy, a feeling of high spirits and courage, filled Johannes

that day. At last he was going to act--to do something to end his

difficulties.

First, he sought an opportunity to speak with Van Lieverlee. He went to

brave him in his own rooms where he had never yet been. There he saw a

confused medley of dissimilar things: some rare old pieces of furniture,

and oriental rugs; a large collection of pipes and weapons; a few modern

books; on the wall some picture-studies of which Johannes could not

glean the meaning; some French posters picturing frivolous girls. With

the same glance he saw mediæval prints of saints in ecstasy, and plaster

casts of wanton women, and the heads of emaciated monks. There were

images of Christ in hideous nakedness, and lithographs and casts so

blood-curdling, crazy, and bizarre that they made Johannes think of his

most frightful dreams.

"What are you here for?" asked Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest who, with an

empty pipe in his mouth and a face full of displeasure, lay stretched

out languidly on the floor.

"I have come to ask something," said Johannes, not exactly knowing how

to begin.

"Not in the mood for it," drawled Van Lieverlee.

The day before, Johannes would have wilted. Not so to-day. He seated

himself, and thought of what Wistik had said--"Act!"

"I will not wait any longer," he began again. "I have waited too long

already."

"The big priest has had you in hand, has he not?" said Van Lieverlee,

with a little more interest.

"Yes," replied Johannes; "did you know it? What do you think of him?"

Van Lieverlee gaped, nodded, and said: "A knowing one! Just let him

alone. Biceps! you know--biceps! All physique and intellectuality.

Representative of his entire organization. Can't help respecting it,

Johannes. How those fellows can thunder at the masses! One can't help

taking off his hat to them. The whole lot of the Reformed aren't in it

with them! Theirs is only half-work; they are irresolute in everything

they give or take; _krita-krita_, as we say in Sanscrit. Whether you do

good or do ill, aways do it wholly, not by halves; otherwise you

yourself become the dupe. If you would keep the people down, hold them

down completely. To establish a church, and at the same time talk of

liberty of conscience, as do the Protestants--that is stuff and nonsense

--nothing comes of it. You may see that from the results. Every dozen

Protestants have their own church with its own dogmas, with its own

little faith which alone can save, and with its little coterie of the

elect! No, compared with them the Roman Church is at least a respectable

piece of work--a formidable concern."

"Do you believe in it?" asked Johannes.

Van Lieverlee shrugged his shoulders.

"I shall have to think it over a while longer. If I think it agreeable

to believe in it, then I shall do so. But it will be in the genuine old

Church, with Adam and Eve, and the sun which circles around the earth;

not in that modernized, up-to-date Church, altered according to the

advancement of science--with electric light and the doctrine of

heredity. How disgusting! No, I must have the church of Dante, with a

real hell full of fire and brimstone, right here under our earth, and

Galileo inside of it."

"But I did not come to inquire about that," said Johannes, sticking to

his point. "I am not content, and you ought to help me. What I have

heard in the Pleiades, and from Father Canisius does not satisfy me. I

am sure, also, that it is not in this way I shall find my friend again;

and now I am determined to find him."

"Where, then, do you wish to look for him?"

"I believe," said Johannes, "that if he is to be found anywhere, it is

among the poor--the laborers."

"Ah! Would you take part in the labor agitation? Well, you can do so,

but I do not agree to go with you. You know what I think about that.

Socialism has got to come, but I am not going to concern myself with it.

It smells too much of the proletariat. I am very glad of the birth of a

new society, but a birth is always an unsavory incident. I leave that to

the midwife. I'll wait until the infant is thoroughly washed and tidy

before making its acquaintance."

"But I wish to look for my friend."

Van Lieverlee stood up and stretched himself.

"You bore me," said he, "with that eternal chatter about your friend."

"Act!" thought Johannes, and he went on:

"You promised to show me the way to what I am seeking, and to give an

explanation of my experiences. But I know no more than I knew before."

"Your own fault, my friend. Result of pride and self-seeking. Why have

you had so little to do with me? You kept yourself with those two little

girls. Did they enlighten you?"

"Quite as much as you did," replied Johannes.

Van Lieverlee looked up in surprise. That was insubordination--open

resistance. However, he thought it better to take no notice, so he said:

"But since you will join the labor movement, then you must find out for

yourself. I won't hold you back. Go, then, and look for your Mahatma!"

"But how am I to begin? You have so many friends--do you know some one

who can help me?"

Van Lieverlee thought about it while looking steadily at Johannes. Then

he said, deliberately:

"Very well. I know of one who is in the middle of it. Would you like to

go to him?"

"Yes, at once, if you please."

"Good," said Van Lieverlee. Together they set out. The friend referred

to was the editor of a journal--a Doctor of Laws. Felbeck was his name.

His office was far from luxurious in appearance. The steps were worn,

and the door-mat was trodden to shreds. It was a dreary and sombre

place. Large posters and caricatures were pasted on the walls, and on

the table, lay many pamphlets and papers. Also there were writing-desks,

letter-boxes, and rush-bottomed chairs. Two clerks sat there writing,

and a few men, with hats on and cigars in their mouths, were talking.

There was a continual running to and fro of people--printers' devils,

and men in slouch hats.

Dr. Felbeck himself had a pale, thin face, square jaws, bristling hair,

and a black goatee and moustache. His eyes were deep-set, and they

looked at Johannes keenly, in a manner not fitted to put him into a

restful and confiding state of mind.

"This young person," said Van Lieverlee, "wishes, as you express it, to

turn his back upon his bourgeois status, and to swell the ranks of the

struggling proletariat. Is that what you call it?"

"Well!" said Dr. Felbeck. "He need not be ashamed of it, and you might

follow his example, Van Lieverlee."

"Who knows what I may yet do," said Van Lieverlee, "when the proletariat

shall have learned to wash itself?"

"What!" said Felbeck. "Would you, a poet, have washed and combed

proletarians, with collars and silk hats? No, my friend; with their vile

and callous fists they will smash your refined and coddled civilization,

like an _etagère_ of bric-à-brac in a parlor!" Dr. Felbeck vented his

feelings in a blow at the imaginary _etagère_. The attention of a clerk

on the other side of the room was arrested, and he stopped his work. Van

Lieverlee, too, looked somewhat interested.

"A revolution appeals to me," said Van Lieverlee. "With barricades, and

fellows on them with red flags, straggling hair, and bloodshot eyes.

That isn't bad. But you people of the Society of the Future!--Heaven

preserve us from that tedious and kill-joy crowd! I would ten times over

prefer an obese, over-rich banker with his jeweled rings, who, waxing

fat through the misfortunes of simpletons, builds a villa in Corfu, to

your future citizen."

"You do not at all understand it yet," said Felbeck, with a slighting

laugh. "You are bound to have such notions because you belong to the

bourgeois class of which you are an efflorescence. You are obliged to

talk like a bourgeois, and versify like one. You cannot do otherwise.

You cannot possibly comprehend the proletarian civilization of the

future. It is to be evolved from the proletarian class to which we

belong, and with which your young friend wishes to connect himself, as I

perceive with pleasure."

The clerk across the room came nearer, to listen to the speech of his

chief. He was an under-sized young man whose pomaded black hair was

parted in the middle. He had a crooked nose straddled by eye-glasses,

and thick lips from between which dangled a cigar--even while he spoke.

He wore a well-fitting suit, and pointed shoes with gaiters.

"May I introduce myself," said he. "I am Kaas--fellow-partner Isadore

Kaas."

"Pleased to meet you," said Van Lieverlee. And Johannes also received a

handshake.

"Have you come to register yourself?" the partner asked.

"In what?" asked Johannes, who had not yet exactly gotten the idea of

things. "In the proletarian class?"

"As a member of the party," said Kaas.

"What does that imply?" asked Johannes, hesitating.

"It implies," said Felbeck, "that you renounce the privileges of the

class to which you are native, and that you range yourself, under the

red flag, in the ranks of the International Workingmen's Party--with the

struggling proletariat--the party of the future."

"Then what have I to do?"

"Sign your name, make a small contribution, attend the meetings, read

our paper, spread our doctrines, and vote for our candidates in the

elections."

"Nothing else?" asked Johannes.

"Well, is not that enough?"

"Did you not speak of privileges I must renounce?"

"There, there!" said partner Kaas, "do not make too much of that, to

begin with. Don't be frightened. For the present, nothing further is

required of you."

"Oh, I was not afraid," said Johannes, a trifle vexed that he should

have been misunderstood. "I was even hoping that I might be able to do

more."

"So much the better! So much the better!" said Kaas, stepping hurriedly

over to his desk again, and eagerly hunting for a pen. "That settles it.

Your name, if you please."

But Johannes was not, for the time being, in a very compliant mood.

Since he had dared the octopus he had found that he had more than one

string to his bow.

"No, I came for something else. I have a dear friend who lives and works

for the poor and oppressed. I am looking for him. I saw him last, at the

great strike of the miners, in Germany. Since that time I have heard

nothing from him, but I know, surely, that he is with the working

people. Mijnheer van Lieverlee has told me that you were in the midst of

the labor movement. Could you not help me?"

"What's his name?" asked Dr. Felbeck.

"They know him as Markus," replied Johannes, although it cost him an

effort to speak the dear name in that place.

"Markus?" repeated the gentleman, considering. "Markus only?"

"Markus Vis," said Johannes, with yet more reluctance.

"Oh! He!" exclaimed partner Kaas.

"Markus Vis?" said Felbeck, turning round to the others in the office.

"Is that--?"

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Kaas, "the very same who caused that row at the

Exchange."

"Gee! That confounded anarchist!" cried one of the soft-hatted smokers.

"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Dr. Felbeck, with a disdainful sniff.

"Yes, Mijnheer, my best friend," said Johannes, firmly.

"Well, young man, you consort with odd and dangerous friends.

"Do you know where he is?" asked Johannes, quite undisturbed.

"Not I," declared Felbeck, scornfully. "Do any of you happen to know?"

"I rather think somewhere in the neighborhood of Bedlam," said another

man.

"Trommel," called Felbeck to a clerk who had kept on writing, "where

does Vis hang out at present?"

"Markus Vis?" said partner Trommel. "Well, for the nonce, at the office

of an iron foundry. He has a job there."

"That's a neat berth for him," remarked one of the smokers. "You'll see

what a boot-licker he'll be after he puts on a collar."

"What foundry is that?" asked Van Lieverlee.

"In the 'de Ruiter,' of your uncle Mijnheer van Trigt," replied partner

Trommel.

"How long has he been there?" asked Van Lieverlee.

"For two or three weeks past."

"Is he a tall dark fellow with a beard, and curling hair, and a jumper?"

"That is it--exactly!" said various voices.

Van Lieverlee swung round, strode up to the window, threw back his head,

pulled out his handkerchief, and snorted into it. The bystanders could

hardly tell whether he was sneezing, or laughing, or indisposed.

"Excuse me!" he cried out. "Something comical occurred to me."

Then he snorted again, and one could plainly see that he was laughing.

"A Mahatma!" they heard him murmur, in the middle of his laughing. "Oh!

Oh! but that is good! A Mahatma!"

Those present looked rather perplexed at this outburst, as if waiting

for further explanation.

"If I only had had that description earlier, Johannes," said Van

Lieverlee, recovering from his fit of laughter, "we need not have

annoyed these gentlemen. Your friend is in my uncle's office. I have

seen him several times."

"Then will you go there with me?" asked Johannes. His voice was still

firm, but I assure you his eyes were full of tears. However, he

controlled himself in the presence of those men and partners.

"Of course, of course! Sometime!" said Van Lieverlee, in high glee; and

he actually began laughing again. He made a pretense of trying to

control this outburst, but such was his manner that Johannes would have

liked to strike him straight in the face.

He did not do it, however, but went down the steps with Van Lieverlee

without having enrolled in the proletarian class.

"Well, good-by!" said Van Lieverlee, when they were in the street,

giving Johannes' hand an immoderate shake. "I must go to the Soos.[1]

Sometime we will go to the foundry. I'll make some inquiries, first.

We'll go sometime--of course--of course!"

With his mouth still twisted in irony, and humming a song, he passed on,

in affected indifference. That evening--alone--Johannes hunted for the

foundry. But the office was closed and dark, and there was no one about

to give him information.

He found in his own little room a small bit of cheer--a vase of

forget-me-nots, from Marjon.

[1] Soos = Abbreviation of _Societeit_, or Club.

XI

"Wistik, dear," said Johannes, "let me hold your hand. You are such a

good and true friend. I am not sorry any more that I slipped from under

Windekind's mantle to listen to you."

"One must not admire oneself--I have always said that," replied Wistik,

"but it is very true that I am good, and do not deserve all those mean

things said of me. And what is the truth may be acknowledged, even if it

be called boasting. Neither bragging nor decrying, but the truth--that

is my idea."

Thereupon the little fellow nodded proudly, and set his cap on more

firmly.

They were sitting on a rocky coast. To the left the sun was shining

brightly upon a steep wall of rose-red rocks. To the right was a gentle

upward slope, where trees were growing, with delicate silver-grey

foliage. In front of them lay the wide waters of the sea--almost

motionless, but slightly stirring with the fresh wind, and sparkling in

the light. There was nothing to be seen save red rocks, blue sky, and

water. The blue, crystal-clear water lapped and gurgled and splashed

about the hollows and chinks in the stone at their feet, and then

disappeared in the clefts and caves, where the sea-weed and the coral

were. How bright it was! How fresh and spacious!

"I never see Windekind, now," said Johannes. "It is truly sad, for

Father Pan's kingdom was most beautiful. But I am resigned, and I

believe you when you say that still more beautiful things are to be

found. Did I not once think the dunes the most beautiful of all, and

fear I never should feel at home anywhere else? But now this strange

land seems to me even greater, and I feel at home here also. Where are

we, dear Wistik?"

"What difference does it make?" said Wistik, who never willingly

admitted he did not know a thing.

"It does not matter," replied Johannes. "The main thing is that I know

that I am I--Johannes, and that I see things good and clear; that

yesterday I was at that office, and that I sought for Markus at the

foundry. And I know too that I might now be seen lying asleep. But yet I

am not dreaming, for I am wide awake--quite wide awake, and I remember

everything."

"Exactly," agreed Wistik. "Do you recollect what Markus said about

remembering?"

He paused a moment, and then went on in a tone that grew softer and more

solemn.

"Remembrance, Johannes, is truly a holy thing; for it makes the

past--_present_. Now the future to it ... and then we should be...."

"Where, Wistik?"

"In that still autumn day, where the gold on the tree-tops never fades,

and a branch never breaks. Do you remember?" asked Wistik, hardly above

a whisper.

Johannes nodded, in silence. After a while he said:

"It is splendid, Wistik, that I still remember, even in the night, and

stay awake and knowing things, even although my body is asleep in bed. I

will not be dead and lie down like a log, forgetting everything, as some

do in sleep. Neither will I dream all sorts of nonsense, as if every

night I grew foolish. That is shameful. I will not do so."

"Right, Johannes! No one wishes to be dead, and no one wishes to be

foolish. And when human beings sleep they are dead, and when they dream

they are foolish. None of that for me!"

"I shall try to live in my sleep, and to be wise in my dreams," said

Johannes. "But it is hard, and time flies so fast!"

He gazed at his hands, his limbs, and his whole body. He had on his

handsomest suit. In amazement, he asked:

"What body is this I have on, Wistik? And how silly to wear clothes.

What clothes are these?"

"Do you not see? They are your own clothes."

So it was. Johannes recalled them precisely. And he held in his hand one

of Marjon's blue forget-me-nots.

"I do not understand it, Wistik! That I have a dream-life--that I

travel with you in the night, that I do understand. But how did my

clothes get here? Do my clothes dream, too?"

"Why not?" asked Wistik.

Astonished, Johannes continued to meditate. The water swirled and

splashed all about the hollows in the rocks. The exquisite warbling of a

yellow-finch rang sweet and plaintive from between the clefts.

"But if everything can dream, then everything must be alive--my

trousers too, and my shoes."

"Why not?" said Wistik again. "Just prove to me that they are not."

The way to do that was not clear to Johannes.

"Or perhaps," he resumed, "perhaps I make everything--rocks, sea, light,

and clothing. One or the other; _I_ dream it and make it, or it dreams

everything itself and makes itself."

"It cannot be any other way," assented Wistik.

"But then, I could make something else if I wished to."

"I think so, too," said Wistik.

"A violin? Could I make a violin, and then play on it?"

"Just try it," said Wistik.

Behold! There was the violin--all ready for him. Johannes took it, and

passed the bow over the strings as if he had handled it all his life.

The most glorious music came from it--as fine as any he had ever heard.

"Oh, Wistik! Do you hear? Who would ever have thought that I could make

such music!"

"'Vraagal can do all that Vraagal wills,' said Pan."

"Yes," said Johannes, musing an instant, and forgetting his violin,

which forthwith vanished. "Pan also spoke of the real Devil, you

remember. He said that I must ask you to show him to me."

Wistik had drawn up his little knees and placed his arms about them, his

long beard hanging down in front to his shins. Sitting thus, he threw a

sidelong glance at Johannes, to see if he intended to do it. Then his

entire little body began to tremble. "Shall we not take a little fly out

over the ocean?" he asked.

But Johannes was not to be diverted.

"No, I want to see the real Devil."

"Are you sure, Johannes?"

"Yes," replied the latter. He felt himself a hero, now, after having

defied the octopus.

"Think well about it," said Wistik.

"What does he look like?"

"What do you think?"

"I think," said Johannes, beginning to look stern and angry, "I think he

looks like Marjon's sister."

"Why?" asked Wistik.

"Because I hate her! Because whatever I think beautiful she always

spoils for me, and spoils it through the remembrance alone. She looks

like Marjon, and she also looks like that dear friend about whom I am

always thinking; and yet she is not the same--she is ugly and common.

She kissed me once, and it has spoiled my life."

"Wrong, Johannes! He does not look in the least like that," said Wistik.

Suddenly, Johannes noticed that the bright light was growing dimmer, and

that the great firm rocks began to quiver and shake as if seen through

heated air, uneven glass, or flowing water.

Then, all at once, he knew, without descrying it, through an inner

feeling of nameless distress, that _It_ was sitting behind him.

It! You know well, do you not, what it was? It--the same that sat by

the pool when that poor young girl was drowned--It was sitting behind

him, huge and deathly still. Sunlight, sea, and rocks--the whole

beautiful land, grew hazy and vague.

"He is here," whispered Wistik, "behind us. Bear up, Johannes! You

yourself wanted it."

"What shall I do?" asked Johannes, now very nervous and terrified.

"Do not be afraid! For God's sake, do not be afraid! If you do you are

lost."

"Shall I cry to God, or to Jesus? Or cross myself?"

"He cares not a bit for such things; he laughs at them; he knows all

about them. He makes fun of prayers and the sign of the cross. The main

thing is to keep on the alert, and not to be afraid. He will be very

friendly, and show you all kinds of pretty and interesting sights, and

he will try to make you sleepy and afraid. But you must not fear and

must not forget. Above all, keep fast hold of Marjon's flower. And here

... look!"

With his nervously trembling little fingers Wistik fumbled in the small

satchel that always hung by a strap over his shoulder, and took from the

jumbled lot of pebbles, scissors, lead-pencils, and dried plants, a

little mirror on the frame of which his name was neatly engraved. Then

in a voice shaken and nearly speechless with emotion, he said: "Hold

that good and fast! It is your salvation. Go now, dear boy. Go!"

And the good little fellow wept.

"Are you not going with me?" asked Johannes, in agitation.

"I am his greatest enemy," said Wistik; "he cannot endure the sight of

me. But I will stay in the neighborhood. Call me once in a while, and I

will answer you. Then you will know that you are safe...."

"Welcome, Johannes!" said a gentle, friendly voice, and a soft warm hand

clasped his own. "You are not embarrassed in my presence, I hope."

Could that be the Evil One? A nice, polite person like that, with such

taking manners, and such a caressing voice? Johannes looked round, in

amazement, to the place where _It_ was. He could not distinguish

clearly, nor look straight at the speaker, but he seemed to be an

ordinary, modish gentleman, with a frank, smiling face--well dressed in

a brown suit and a straw hat.

"Would you not like to make acquaintance with me and my Museum?"

continued the speaker. "It is an excellent collection--sure to please

you. But what have you in your hand? Not a mirror, is it? Fie! You must

throw it away. I have no patience with such mirrors. I abhor them! They

foster only conceit."

The soft hand essayed to take away the mirror, but Johannes held it

fast, and said firmly: "I will keep the mirror."

He had scarcely said this when there flitted across that smiling,

honest-looking face a shade of indescribable malice. It was very brief,

but plain enough to cause Johannes a shudder, and to convince him that

truly the Evil One stood before him.

But instantly the face became again most frank and winning, and he

heard:

"Very well, then, as you please. We will begin by making the

acquaintance of my subjects--all of them friends, comrades, or

relatives."

Just then Johannes heard again the well-remembered whispering and

giggling which he had heard while watching the little hands. On all

sides, amid much rustling and shuffling, he heard breathing, coughing,

and sniffling--all sorts of queer human sounds, as if the place was

thronged with people. But still he could see nothing.

"You fancied I was very different, did you not, Johannes? That I had

horns and a tail? That idea is out of date. No one believes it now.

Thank God we are forever above that foolish separation of good and evil.

That is untenable Dualism. My kingdom is as good as the other."

"What is your name?" asked Johannes.

"They call me King Waan.[1] Yes, indeed! I am a king, if I do appear so

humble. Besides, external pomp is out of fashion. I am a constitutional,

bourgeois, democratic king. Here, Bangeling![2] Come here! This is my

most trusty helper--my right hand, in fact."

Johannes shuddered at the sight of Bangeling--a shrinking, stooping,

pale, and loathsome youngster. His eyes were red-rimmed, and glanced

shiftingly right and left--never straight in front. His lean knees

knocked against each other, and every moment his rag-covered body

twitched with terror, and he cried: "Oh, Heaven! Oh, God! Now you will

catch it! It is too late! Too la-a-ate!"

To hear and see this repeatedly, without becoming frightened oneself,

was not easy; but Johannes pressed his flower close to his breast and

cried:

"Wistik!"

"Ay, ay!" he heard his good little friend shout.

But the voice sounded from above, and far away. And suddenly Johannes

had a very distinct sensation of falling, fast as lightning, down

fathomless depths, although everything around him remained the same.

"Are we falling down below?" he asked.

King Waan gave Johannes a falsely-sweet smile. "One should not ask such

impolite questions when making a visit," said he.

"Get away!" cried Johannes to Bangeling, who was now standing close

beside them, twitching and whining. Then a throng of frightful figures

pushed forward, trying to approach him, grinning, twisted, misformed

faces--some with big purple noses, others with drooling lips--still

others pale, and passive, with closed eyes, but with scornful muttering

mouths.

Johannes knew these figures well; he had often when a child seen them in

his dreams. And doubtless you also have seen many of them in the

night--just before the measles broke out, or after you have eaten too

much pie for dinner.

And you were very much afraid of them, were you not? Perhaps as much as

formerly Johannes was. But this time he was not in the least afraid.

When they came too near, he called out in a fierce voice: "Back!" Then

they grew pale, and crumpled up like withered toadstools.

"This one is Ginnegap!"[3] said the Devil, pointing out a girl-like

being with open mouth, dull eyes, and a finger in each nasty nostril,

who was constantly tittering. "Another excellent assistant of mine. Here

are Labbekak[4] and Goedzak;[5] charming twins, compact of goodness and

charity. Just look! They quiver and quake like jelly. They have no

bones, and they never did any wrong. If they do not belong in heaven,

who does?"

"Of course they have no sense," said Johannes.

"But here, then--this one--an old acquaintance of yours. Maybe you think

he has no wits, either?"

Who was it Johannes saw there? Pluizer, in truth--his old enemy Pluizer!

But he lacked a good deal of looking so pert and fierce as formerly.

Upon seeing Johannes he hid himself behind the back of a stout, dumpy

demon.

"A little to one side, Sleur!" said the king to the bulky devil. "Give

Johannes a peep at his old friend."

But Sleur did not budge. He was very sluggish. Pluizer called out:

"Does Death know about it, Johannes--that you are already here?"

"What is this place, really?" asked Johannes. "Hell? Is it here that

Dante was?"

"Dante?" asked the Devil. And all his retainers whispered and tittered

and chattered: "Dante? Dante? Dante?"

"Surely," resumed the king, "you must mean that nice place full of light

where it is so hot and smells so bad; where sand melts; where rivers of

blood are seething, and the boiling pitch is ever bubbling; where they

scream and yell and curse and lament, and swear at one another."

"Yes," said Johannes. "Dante told about that."

"But, my little friend!" said the Devil, affably, "that is not here, as

you can very well see. That is not my kingdom. That is the kingdom of

another who, they say, is called Love. With me, no one suffers. I am not

so cruel as that. I cause no one pain."

"I know that well," said Johannes, "for so long as I have pain I am

alive and am warned. Is it not so, Wistik?"

"Yes!" cried the little fellow, his voice now sounding as if far in the

distance--up above.

"We are falling all the time!" said Johannes, in great alarm.

"Do not think about it. Does it make you dizzy? I thought you were so

level-headed. Just give this a look. This is my cabinet of curiosities."

And before Johannes knew that he had entered anything he found himself

in a very small, close room. It was exactly like a bathroom with low

ceilings, and was brightly lighted.

"You did not think to find it so well lighted here, _did_ you?"

"Trick-light!" shouted Wistik, his voice coming faintly from above.

"Look! Here lies an acquaintance of yours."

And King Waan pointed to a straight white form that lay on the stone

floor. It was Heléne; and Johannes saw that she was calmly sleeping.

Two imps stood looking at her; one was Bangeling; the other, equally

small and dirty, stood gnawing his nails. His head, with its misshapen

ears, was much too big for him. He had on a barret-cap of aniline blue

velvet, with russet ribbons, a pale-green blouse of Scotch plaid, and

short trousers, as purple as spoiled berry-juice.

"That is Degeneracy," said Waan. "These two brought her here; a

deserving deed. We hope to keep her. Look! See how peacefully she

sleeps."

The sight of the pale, still sleeper, with her outspread black hair,

made Johannes also feel drowsy. But he looked in his little mirror,

holding his eyes open, hard, and called: "Heléne!"

The long dark lashes were lifted just a little.

"Pst! Not a word!" said the king. "Here we come to number two--a pretty

and clever piece of work."

By a little door, so low and narrow that Johannes had to wriggle his way

through it, they entered the next place. They were in an extremely smart

little church--a dolls' church. The walls were bare and white, and

little candles were burning. In the pulpit stood a tiny little dominie,

preaching fervidly, gesticulating with hand and head.

"Dominie Kraalboom!" cried Johannes, in astonishment. "Who is he raving

at?"

"Look at him, Johannes!" said Waan. "Only do not think he is dead. In

order to come here one does not have to wait till death. And do you not

see at whom he is raving? Take a good look."

"Reflectors!" exclaimed Johannes. In reality the little church was

empty, but it was everywhere furnished with pretty little mirrors, and

in each one of them was reflected the dominie's little face surrounded

by a halo.

"Those mirrors are of peculiar manufacture. I make much use of them. The

imported article alone I cannot endure. Look! here is the counterpart."

Another little church--just as smart and neat and light. But here there

were many more candles, also flowers and images. The walls were gaudily

painted with pictures, and Father Canisius stood in glittering,

gold-embroidered garments, praying and mumbling before the altar.

Johannes looked up at the stained-glass windows. It was as dark as pitch

behind them.

"What is outside there?" he asked. "Just let me look out." And he

thought he could hear the snickering and giggling of the imps who were

peering through the windows.

"Keep away! Silence!" cried the king, sternly.

"Wistik!" called Johannes.

"Ay!" sounded the voice, now very fine, and far away. And they kept

falling, falling.

Through a long, narrow passage they went to the next number. It did not

smell very fresh there, and Johannes soon noticed that this

stale-smelling apartment corresponded with what they usually called at

home "the best room."

In the middle of the white-wood floor stood an overturned waste-water

pail. A puddle of thick, offensive fluid lay trickling around it.

"Under this," said King Waan, "sits one of the most remarkable specimens

in my collection. It is a little creature having the habit of describing

precisely everything it sees. His watchword is: '_Truth Above

Everything_!' He could not have a finer one. I make very interesting

experiments with him. Sometimes I put him here, sometimes there. Just

now he is under this pail. Listen to him!"

A light little voice came monotonously out from under the pail:

"A rich, soft greyish violet shading off through brown into cream-white,

clot-curdling stripe coagulations; long flittery-fluttery down-trickling

welter-whirls filtering through pale-yellow toned-down dully shining

topazy vaults; faint phlegmy greyish-green dozing off...."

And thus the voice went on until Johannes began to get quite qualmish

and drowsy.

"Is not that nice? Lately, I had him in a cuspidor. You should have

heard him then. Here is his label."

And he pointed to a trim little tag on which was marked: _Division, Fine

Arts. Naturalist, var. Word-Artist. Locality: Terra Firma of Europe.

Rather rare._

"Is Van Lieverlee here, also?" asked Johannes.

"To be sure! I have him a few centuries farther on, composing sonnets,"

said the Wicked One. "This is a very large place although you might not

think so. I can show you only a small part of it."

Then they came to a division called "Sciences," and the Devil said:

"Look! That concerns you, Wisdom-Seeker!"

And he had Johannes look through the crack of the door, into a little

room brightly lighted, cram-full of books. Professor Bommeldoos was

there, standing on his head.

"Pluizer taught him that," said the Devil. "And do you see that clever

contrivance he has made of mirrors and copper tubes? That is to look

into his own brains with. He thinks to become still wiser."

The professor was utterly absorbed in his intricate apparatus, and gazed

and gazed, with all his might, into an odd sort of twisted tubing, the

end of which was attached to the back part of his head.

Johannes heard a low rushing and roaring, as if made by a gust of wind.

"Silence!" cried the Devil, testily.

But the roaring sound continued and grew louder.

"What is that?" asked Johannes.

"That is Death," said the Devil, spitefully. "He is called an ally of

mine, but he often muddles up my affairs here, and he steals by the

thousand the choicest specimens in my collection--especially the

crack-brained."

"Here they are all crack-brained," said Johannes.

"Yes; but those you in the awake-life call that, he snatches away from

me. Here we come to the division, "Happiness." This is the richest man

in the world. Would you like a magnifying glass?"

The pen wherein sat the richest man in the world was all of gold, but so

small that Johannes could not possibly enter it. The richest man in the

world had a large head, quite bare and bald, above a very small

insignificant body. He moved slowly back and forth, like a caterpillar

incasing himself; and out of his little lips there driveled golden

threads with which he made a cocoon of himself.

"Poor fellow!" said Johannes, shuddering.

"Nonsense! Nonsense!" returned the Devil. "Here they are all happy. They

know no better. I never torment as does the Other with his Love

eternal. I have also here the classification 'War.' You would naturally

think that these must be unhappy. But quite the contrary. In general, I

am an enemy of war. I prefer peace, as you will presently see. But this

is a pleasant 'War.' In fact, the people enjoy it. For that reason it

belongs here."

And now they came to a long row of very small pens in which was just

such a bustle as one hears at night in a chicken-coop when the fowls are

going to sleep. Over each little pen was: "_Religious War," "Party

Strife," "Class Strife_," and as Johannes looked in through a small

window, he saw a solitary little fellow, much excited and red in the

face, who stood skirmishing in front of a mirror. The reflection of his

own figure was so queer that it looked like someone's else.

In the third pen Johannes saw Dr. Felbeck. With furious fists, the

little fellow rushed up to the mirror again and again, and stamped and

scolded and raved until the foam flew from his mouth.

Then they came to a very long and diminishing little room that bore the

words Love and Peace.

"There!" said the Devil. "Now we can talk aloud. They are not easily

wakened here. Snug and cozy, is it not? A section of it also is _Pure

Living_, and _Piety_, and _Benevolence_."

In the little ward stood many tiny beds, as in a hospital; and Johannes

saw Labbekak and Goedzak in slovenly felt slippers, shuffling back and

forth, distributing cups of warm tea and spoonfuls of a syrupy mixture.

The beings in the little beds licked off the spoons, and fell asleep

again.

Outside, the demons yelled and screeched still louder, and the downward

motion was so apparent that Johannes grew dizzy.

"Here, also," said the Devil, "Death does me much harm."

Johannes looked at him. He now appeared wholly different. His brown suit

had disappeared, and his smooth supple body--as shiny as a

snakeskin--was as iridescent as water stirred by dripping tar. His

face, too, was far less affable. Hollow and grinning, it began to look

like a death's head.

"You are the real Death!" exclaimed Johannes. "The other is a good

friend of mine. I have no more fear of him."

The Devil laughed and reached out his hand toward Johannes' little

flower. But Johannes caught it up close to his breast. The flower hung

limp and seemed to be perishing. The little mirror shook like a leaf in

his hand, so that he could scarcely hold it.

"Wistik!" he cried.

He listened, but could hear nothing. And now he seemed to be falling

with whizzing speed. Johannes was greatly alarmed. The long ward with

its rows of little beds grew ever longer, ever narrower.

"Wistik! Marjon! Let me out! Let me out! Set me free!"

"I have also a classification 'Freedom'," remarked the Devil, pointing

out a mannikin who, busy with a long ribbon inscribed with the words

"_Freedom and 'Justice_," kept winding it around his head, arms, and

legs until he could not move a muscle.

"No!" cried Johannes, banging with both hands--in which were still

clutched his flower and mirror--at a hard, spotted door. This door was

marked "_Sin and Crime_."

"Look out!" said the Devil. "Do you not see what it says over it?"

"I do not care what it says!" cried Johannes, pounding away.

"Take care! For God's sake, take care!" shouted Bangeling.

"Help! Wistik! Marjon! Markus! help!" cried Johannes, crashing through

the door.

Before him he saw a black and bottomless night; but it was more

spacious, and he felt his distress diminishing.

And now he saw the imps all racing after him, and they were playing

with something. It glittered as they threw it, one to another, and they

tugged and pulled and spit on it, and did things still worse--such as

only very vile and impudent beings could do.

It was a book, and Johannes saw his name upon it--his own and his family

name. Johannes was called the "Traveler" of his family.

At last one of the imps caught hold of it by a leaf, and flung it high

up in air to tear it to pieces. The leaves fluttered and glittered, but

held together. And the book, ceasing to fall, went higher and higher up

into the dark night until it seemed in the far distance to be a little

star.

Johannes kept looking at it with all his might, and it seemed to him as

if he were a light bit of wood, or a bubble, rising swifter and swifter

to the surface--from out the awful depths of the sea. Then, slowly, the

heavens grew blue and bright.

At last he was drifting in the full light of day. His eyes were still

closed, but he felt that he had returned to his _day_ body, and he

rested--still a little longer--in the light, motionless, blissful

slumber of a convalescent, or of one come home again after a long and

weary journey.

[1] Waan = Error.

[2] Bangeling = Little coward.

[3] Ginnegap = Giggler.

[4] Labbekak = Duffer.

[5] Goedzak = Goody-goody.

XII

"Shall we go to the beach this morning?" asked Countess Dolores after

breakfast. "It will be fresh and cool there now."

It was a merry morning trip. Both of the little girls went with them,

and Johannes carried a small folding chair, and his friend's book. The

countess took a seat in a beach-chair, and Johannes sat at her feet and

read aloud to her, while the two children--their skirts tucked up, and

their little feet and legs bare and pink in the clear light--busied

themselves in the water and sand, with their pails and shovels.

Everything was flooded with sunshine, and clearly, beautifully

tinted:--the knotted blonde tresses of the little girls--beneath their

broad-brimmed white beach-hats--against the delicate blue of the

horizon; the still deeper blue of the sea wherein could be seen the

bright figures of the bathers in their red and blue bathing-dresses; and

right and left the pure white sand, and the snowy foam.

Johannes had indeed become quite accustomed to what had so pained him at

first--the profanation of the sea by human beings--so they were happy

hours.

He resolved this morning to resume his inquiries after Markus, as soon

as he was at liberty to do so.

They had not been sitting long on the beach when Van Lieverlee came

sauntering-up, arrayed in white flannel. He was without a waistcoat, but

wore a lilac shirt, and a wide, black-silk girdle, and had on a straw

hat.

He gave the countess a graceful cordial greeting, and immediately said

to Johannes, this time without irony:

"I sent to my uncle, this morning, for information. Your friend is not

there now. He received his discharge last Saturday on account of his

disorderly conduct."

"What had he done?" asked Johannes.

"He had delivered an address at the exchange when, mark you, he had gone

there on a matter of business. Now," said Van Lieverlee, looking at the

countess with a smile, "it is quite obvious that a man of affairs could

not retain such a clerk as that. It takes my uncle Van Trigt, who is so

jealous of his good name, to deal with such cases."

"Yes, I understand," said Dolores.

"It depends, though, upon what he said," ventured Johannes.

"No! One talks about business at the exchange--not about reason and

morality. There is a time and a place for everything. My uncle was well

satisfied with him in all else. He had taken him for a rather well-bred

person, he said. But the man has a remarkable propensity for discoursing

in public places."

"Where is he now?"

"Where is any idler who has received his discharge? Off looking for an

easy berth, L should say."

"Is your friend so very poor?" asked the countess, in a serious whisper,

as one would speak over the shame of a kinsman.

"Of course," replied Johannes, with a positiveness that was a challenge.

"Indeed, he would be ashamed not to be poor."

"I think such men insufferable!" exclaimed Van Lieverlee. "As Socrates

said, their conceit can be seen through the holes in their clothes.

Without even opening their mouths they--every one of them--seem to be

forever preaching morals and finding fault. I hate the tribe. They are

of all men the most turbulent and dangerous."

Johannes had never yet seen Van Lieverlee so angry, but he remained cool

throughout the tirade, and kept his temper.

The countess said in a languid voice:

"He certainly is very immoderate. I cannot say, either, that such

pronounced types are to my taste."

Johannes was silent, and the other two talked together a while longer.

The children came up nearer, and lying down in the clean, clear sand,

they listened to the conversation. It was a bright group, for they were

all dressed in white, except Johannes.

At last Van Lieverlee rose to go, and the countess, clinging to his

hand, with a certain warmth of manner said:

"Of course you are coming to dinner?"

"Most assuredly!" replied Van Lieverlee.

* * * * *

After he had gone, there were several moments of constrained silence--a

sort of suspense so obvious that even the children did not resume their

chatter as usual, but continued silently playing with the sand, as if

waiting for something to be said.

Johannes also began to comprehend that something was pending, but he had

no idea of what it could be.

At last the lady said, rather hesitatingly, while tracing all kinds of

curious figures in the sand, with her parasol:

"Have you not observed anything, Johannes?"

"Observed anything? I? No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, with some

discomposure. He surely had observed nothing.

"I have!" said Olga, decidedly, without looking up.

"I, too!" lisped Frieda after her.

"Hear the little smarties!" said Mevrouw, laughing in confusion, and

blushing. "Well, what have you observed?"

"A new papa!" replied Olga.

"A new papa!" repeated Frieda.

Johannes looked up in some surprise and perplexity, into the beautiful,

laughing eyes, and exquisite, blushing face of his friend.

Her laugh was a confirmation; and accompanying her question with a shake

of the head, she continued:

"Really, do you not understand yet?"

"No," replied Johannes, in all seriousness. "Who is the new papa?"