"There he goes," said Olga, pointing with her little white finger after

Van Lieverlee. And Frieda, too, stretched out her little hand in his

direction.

"Fie, children! Do not point," said Mevrouw.

And Johannes began to comprehend--much as one does who has fallen out of

a window, or has been struck on the head with a stone. As in the latter

case, his first thought was astonishment at the cause of the blow, and

that he could possibly survive it.

The blue air, the sea, the sand, the series of light-green dunes, the

houses, the white figures--everything reeled and whirled, and then grew

altogether black. He could not think, but only felt that he was

extremely uncomfortable and qualmish. He was obliged to go.

As he stood up, he heard the words: "How pale you are!" That was the

last. Then he walked away, beside the sea, hearing nothing save the

washing of the waves upon the sand and the rushing of the blood in his

ears.

He staggered a little back and forth, as if he had been drinking too

much, and he wondered how that could be.

At last he could no longer see the people or houses--only water, sky,

and sand.

It seemed to have been his intention; for, weak and limp, he went and

lay down in the loose sand, and fell into a drowse.

XIII

Such drowsing is not real sleep, neither does it refresh. When Johannes

awoke after a quarter of an hour, his throat was parched, and he felt as

if his heart were shriveled in his breast. He essayed to think over what

had happened, but it was too bitter and too frightful. He looked at the

imprinted sand where he had been lying, as if he would go to sleep

again. But now he could not sleep, and must stay awake.

He sat up and stared at the sea, and then again at the dunes. What was

it that had befallen him? A very long time--he knew not himself how

long--he sat looking. Then he stood up, feeling stiff and sluggish, as

if dead tired from a long journey. Slowly and aimlessly he dragged

himself into the dunes, and tried to take an interest in the beetles and

the flowers. Sometimes, from force of habit, he succeeded; but

immediately there returned the shudderings which that cruel blow had

caused.

It had never entered his head that he himself would marry his friend.

Why, then, should it go to his heart as if he were flung aside and

trampled upon, now that another was about to take the place of her

husband?

"It must not--_must_ not be!" was all he could say. He very well knew

that the world did not always concern itself with his thoughts, and that

his day-life was conducted quite differently from his night-life where

everything proceeded from his will and wish. But this was so squarely

against his desires and ideas that it seemed to him as if the world

_must_ care about it.

Naturally, the world continued not to mind anything about it, because

the world is a far greater and stronger thought than that of Little

Johannes.

And if he had been sensible he would have modestly admitted it, because

it is true. Then, at the most, that truth would only have saddened him.

But he was not yet very wise, and he did not wish to admit that his mind

and thought were still weak and small compared with the great

world-thought. And therefore he was not only sad, but angry as well.

Do not judge him too harshly, for he was still more boy than man. And

how few _men_ even there are with such clear good sense that they impute

the variance solely to their own weakness and stupidity, and do not

become dismayed and embittered when the world differs from them.

Johannes, then, was angry--furiously angry. That surely was not

sensible, but yet it proved that he had more stamina than had Labbekak

and Goedzak.

And all his anger was directed against that person who had thrust him

aside from the place which he had so long, without being aware of it,

considered his own. He thought Van Lieverlee not only a tiresome fool,

but also an odious, abominable monster that ought to be exterminated.

And as his fancy pictured other figures, and he thought of that other

hated being, Marjon's sister, and then again of Van Lieverlee, and his

dear, beautiful, winsome friend, he found himself closely and

frightfully besieged by insupportable thoughts--as if in a fire-begirt

city, all aglow and scorching, with ever narrowing streets.

It was impossible to cry. At other times, as you surely must have

observed, his tears came quickly enough. But now his eyes seemed to have

been cauterized. Eyes, heart, brains, and ideas--all were equally hot

and dry, and strained and distressed.

He went home at night with no idea of the hour. He had eaten nothing,

but felt neither hunger nor thirst. Where he had been for so long, he

was unable to tell. He went to his room and began trifling with his

knickknacks--his souvenirs, books, and little treasures--for he was a

collector.

His hostess came to rap at his door and to ask what was the

matter--where he had been, and why he had been absent from his afternoon

lessons. But Johannes did not invite her in, and said that he wished to

be alone. And she, half surmising the truth, and distressed about it,

did not insist.

Then, among his treasures, Johannes found a pair of compasses--a large

pair, one arm of which could be loosened for the attachment of a

tracing-pen. And that single, loosened compass-arm was a shining,

three-cornered bit of steel, about a finger long, and as sharp as a

lancet.

With some wood and leather he contrived a handle for that bit of steel,

and then he had a dagger--a real, wicked, dangerous dagger.

Apparently he did this merely to pass away the time, but after it was

finished he began to think what could be done with it. Then what he

_wished_ to do with it. And at last _how_ he should do it, _if_, indeed,

he was to do it.

Thus, he was already a good bit on in an ugly way.

The octopus that he had defied so bravely had laid for him a trap of

which he was not aware; for it has many more than eight arms, and there

are many more demons than those whose acquaintance Johannes had already

made.

He was going to step up to Van Lieverlee and say to him, "You or I." And

if Van Lieverlee should then laugh at him, as he most likely would, he

would stab him to death.

Such thoughts as that actually took possession of Little Johannes' head;

for, I have told you, indeed, that Love is nothing to be ridiculed.

Fortunately, a wide gulf yawns between thought and deed, otherwise there

would be a great many more accidents upon this earth.

It was already past midnight, and he still sat pottering and burnishing

and sharpening, when he heard again the creaking of the stair, that he

now instantly recognized, and Marjon's step at the door.

She opened the door, and Johannes looked into her distended, anguished

eyes. Her blonde hair fell straight and free over her shoulders, and her

long white night-dress reached down to her bare feet.

"What are you doing, Jo?" she asked. "You make me so anxious! What has

happened? Where have you been the whole long day? Why do you eat

nothing? And why are you still sitting up, with a light, till after

midnight?"

Startled and distressed, Johannes made no reply. The dagger was still in

his hand. He tried to hide it, without being observed, under his

handkerchief. But Marjon saw it, and asked excitedly:

"What is that?"

"Nothing," said Johannes, in shame and confusion, like a detected child.

Marjon snatched away the handkerchief, and looked from the shining

little object to Johannes with an expression of mingled pain and fright.

In silence they looked into each other's eyes a long time--Marjon with a

searching, beseeching gaze, until Johannes lowered his lids and let his

head droop.

"Who is it for?" she whispered. "Yourself?"

Without speaking or looking up, Johannes shook his head. Marjon sighed

deeply, as if relieved.

"For whom, then?" again she asked. "For ... him?"

Johannes nodded. Then she said:

"Poor Jo!"

That sounded strangely to him, for when irritated one is not apt to be

compassionate toward others nor toward one's self. He thought, rather,

to find abhorrence of his blood-thirsty plan. But she said it so

sincerely and fervently that he began to weaken, although not to the

point of crying.

"You will not do it, will you? It would not help at all. And you would

... you would make me so frightfully unhappy."

"I cannot endure it, Marjon--I _cannot_ endure it!"

Marjon kneeled down by the table, and rested her chin in her hands. Her

clear, true eyes were now looking steadily at Johannes, and as she spoke

they grew more tranquil. Johannes continued to look at her with the

irresolute expression of one in despair who yet hoped for deliverance.

"Poor Jo!" repeated Marjon. And then, slowly, with frequent pauses, she

said: "Do you know why I can speak so?... I know exactly how you feel. I

have felt that way, too. I did not think that this would be the way of

it--the way it now is. I only thought, 'She is going to have him, not

I.' And then I too said, 'It cannot--_cannot_ be!' But yet it might have

been. And now _you_ say, 'It cannot be.' But it can, just the same."

Here she waited a while, and Johannes looked at her more attentively,

and with less irresolution.

"And now listen, Jo. You want to stab that prig, don't you? And you well

know that I never had any liking for him. But now let me tell you that I

myself, for days and for weeks, have wanted to do the same thing."

"What!" exclaimed Johannes, in astonishment.

Marjon hid her face and said: "It is the truth, Jo. Not him, of course,

but ... but her."

"You do not mean it, Marjon," said Johannes, indignantly.

"I am in earnest, Jo. I am not even sure whether I came into her service

for that very reason, or for a better one."

"My God! How frightful!" exclaimed Johannes, deeply moved.

"There you are--alarmed and probably angry. Naturally you think her

lovely, and are fond of her. And I am ashamed of myself--heartily

ashamed."

Again they were silent, and in both those young heads were many

turbulent thoughts.

"And do you know what helped me most to give it up? Not fear of

punishment, nor of judgment, for I dreaded nothing so much as, worst of

all, that she might succeed in getting you. But it helped me when I

thought how much you loved her, and how you would cry and suffer if you

should see her lying dead."

Again they looked at each other, steadily and frankly, and their eyes

were dimmed with tears. Then said Marjon:

"And now, Jo, think of this. I care nothing about that man, nor do you;

and doubtless he would not be a great loss. But to her he would be, and

indeed if you should kill him, you would bring it about that she would

see him dead, and would have to cry. Do you wish to do that?"

Johannes' eyes opened wide, and he looked into the lamplight.

"Yes," said he, deliberately. "He deceives her and she deceives herself.

He is altogether different from what she fancies."

Then Marjon, taking both hands from the table, and resting them upon

Johannes' arm, said with rising voice:

"But Jo, Jo--indeed everything is different from what we think! Who can

see just how and what people and things are? I thought that woman

hateful, and you thought her lovely. You think that fellow odious, while

she thinks him charming. Really, only the Father, knows how things are.

Believe me, the Father only. We are poor, poor creatures. We know

nothing--nothing."

Then, resting her head, with its fair, fine hair, upon his arm, she

sobbed bitterly; and Johannes, now completely broken down and mollified,

wept with her.

Then they heard a door open in the hall. Probably, in their agitation,

they had been talking too loudly.

Marjon took flight. In a moment of less excitement she would have been

too shrewd for that. Johannes did indeed quickly put out the light, but

he saw, through the crack of the door, that some one with a candle was

standing in the hall. There was a meeting, and Johannes overheard a

brief exchange of angry words, in vehement, suppressed tones.

The last he understood was: "To-morrow morning you leave."

XIV

About the time all this was taking place, something else occurred which

most of you will readily recall. It happened at the time the King and

Queen were married.

That was a time of many processions, when arches of honor were erected

in all the squares, and when there arose, everywhere, the peculiar odor

of spruce-boughs and of burning illuminants.

And the life of the King and Queen was far different from that of Little

Johannes. They had to be decked often with beautiful clothes, and then

as often to be undressed, to parade, to sit in state, to listen to

wearisome harangues, to live through long dinners, and to be forever

bowing and smiling. Such was their life.

To Johannes all this excitement and these joyful festivities seemed but

a motley background against which his own sombre trouble was all the

more sharply in relief. Although everybody was concerned about the King

and Queen, and no one at all about Little Johannes, he yet found himself

and his own sorrow none the less important.

You are aware that these festivities lasted for several weeks, and took

place in every town in the land. In the evening of the day about which I

last told you, there was a great display of fireworks on the beach, and

Johannes, with the entire household, went to see it.

And there, in the midst of all that crowding and shouting, he had, for

the first time, a chance to speak with the beloved friend who had caused

him so much suffering. Marjon he had not seen, and he knew not if she

was gone; but the countess seemed as friendly and as cheerful as ever,

and she had not questioned him.

On the terrace from which they watched the golden columns rush skyward

with a hiss, and the "pin-wheels" sizzle and fizz, accompanied by the

"a-a-a-ahs!" of admiration from the dark, moving mass of people--there,

he ventured in an undertone to speak to her.

"What did you really think of me yesterday, Mevrouw?"

"Well," replied the countess, rather coldly, continuing to look at the

fireworks, "you have not come up to my expectations, Johannes."

"What do you mean? Why not?" asked Johannes, sick at heart.

"Oh, you know very well. I was aware that you had plain connections, and

were not descended from a distinguished family; but I hoped to make that

good, in some degree, through my own influence. Yet I had not thought

you so ordinary as that."

"But what do you mean?"

The lady cast a disdainful glance upon him.

"Would you care to hear it spoken, word for word? Liaisons, then--with

inferiors. And at your age, too. How could you?"

In a flash Johannes comprehended.

"Oh, Mevrouw--but you mistake--completely. I am not in the least

enamored of that girl, but formerly she was my little comrade, and she

thinks a great deal of me. She saw that I was unhappy yesterday, and

then she came to sympathize with me."

"Sympathize?" asked the countess, hesitatingly, and not without irony,

of which Johannes, however, was unconscious.

"Yes, Mevrouw. But for her, I should have done desperate things. She

prevented me. She is a brave girl."

Then he told her still more of Marjon.

Countess Dolores believed him, and became more friendly. In that

caressing voice which had caused Johannes so much unhappiness, and which

even now completely fascinated him, she asked:

"And why were you so desperate, my boy?"

"Do you not understand? It was because of what you told me yesterday."

She understood well enough, and Johannes thought it charming in her to

be willing to listen so kindly. But although she felt flattered she

pretended not to know what he meant--as if such an idea were

unthinkable.

"But how can that make you feel so desperate, my boy? I have not said,

however, that you must leave my house on account of it."

"If that should take place, Mevrouw, do you fancy that I could remain

with you? Did you think I could endure that? But it is not going to be,

is it? It was only a jest. Tell me that it was! You were only teasing

me! Tell me that you were only teasing me!"

It was all too clear now, and she could dissemble no longer. Half in

kindness, half in compassion, she said:

"But, my boy, my boy, what has got into your head?"

Johannes rested his hand on her arm, and asked, imploringly:

"You were not in earnest, were you?"

But she freed her arm gently, saying:

"Yes, Johannes, I was in earnest."

And now he knew that he was hoping against hope.

"Is there no hope for me?"

The countess smilingly shook her head.

"No, dear boy, not the least. Put the thought quite away from you."

* * * * *

The last of the rockets rushed up with a startling hiss, to burst in the

black sky with a soft puff, and expire in a shower of brilliant sparks.

Then it was all over. The band played "Wilhelmus of Nassau," and the

dark throng surged and pressed more vehemently, while on all sides the

street-boys whistled shrilly and shouted to one another: "J-a-a-a-n!"

and "Gerrèt!"

Johannes, stunned by renewed pain, passed on through the cheering like

one deafened and stupefied.

His hostess, now full of sympathy, said:

"Do you remember, Johannes, what we promised Father Canisius? He was to

teach you who Jesus is, was he not? Will you go to church with me

to-morrow? That will best console you."

A wicked thought passed through Johannes' head. He wished to ask a

question, but he could not utter the hated name.

"Is any one else going?"

"Yes, the man to whom I am engaged. He also is now convinced that peace

is only to be found in the Holy Church. He is Catholic, as are myself

and my children."

Johannes said not another word that evening; but he slept more

peacefully than the night before.

XV

The church was full when Johannes, with the entire family, entered it.

He and the others were in their best attire, and Van Lieverlee had on a

very long black coat and a high hat. As he passed in he removed his hat

respectfully, and his white face, now smoothly shaven, wore a serious,

even stern, expression.

It was cool and dark and solemn in the building. The rays of the sun, in

passing through the window-glass, were tinged with yellow and blue, and

cast queer fleckings over the faces and forms of those who stood waiting

or were securing seats. The fragrance of incense floated about the

altar, and the organ was playing. It was not really an old church, but,

with its paintings and floral adornments, was beautiful enough to move

Johannes to tenderness; for he felt so sad and disheartened, listening

to the solemn music in that richly-colored twilight, that he had to make

an effort to keep from sobbing.

Father Canisius, smiling kindly, and with priestly seriousness in face

and tread, although not yet in his robes, stopped on his way to the

sacristy to speak with them. Johannes could feel his sharp, penetrating

look through the thick glasses of his spectacles.

"You see, Father," said the countess, "we have come to seek Jesus.

Johannes, also."

"He is waiting for you," replied the priest, solemnly, pointing out the

great crucifix above the altar. Then he disappeared in the sacristy.

Johannes immediately fastened his eyes upon that figure, and continued

to contemplate it while the people were taking their places.

It hung in the strongest light of the shadowy church. Apparently it was

of wood stained a pale rose, with peculiar blue and brown shadows. The

wounds in the side and under the thorns on the forehead were distinct

to exaggeration--all purple and swollen, with great streaks of blood

like dark-red sealing-wax. The face, with its closed eyes, wore a look

of distress, and a large circle of gold and precious stones waggishly

adorned the usual russet-colored, cork-screwy, woodeny locks. The cross

itself was of shining gold, and each of its four extremities was

ornamented, while a nice, wavy paper above the head bore the letters

I.N.R.I. One could see that it was all brand-new, and freshly gilded and

painted. Wreaths and bouquets of paper flowers embellished the altar.

For a long time--perhaps a quarter of an hour--Johannes continued to

look at the image. "That is Jesus," he muttered to himself, "He of whom

I have so often heard. Now I am going to learn about Him, and He is to

comfort me. He it is who has redeemed the world."

And however often he might repeat this, trying seriously to convince

himself--because he would have been glad to be convinced and also to be

redeemed--he could nevertheless see nothing except a repulsive, ugly,

bloody, prinked-up wooden doll. And this made him feel doubly sorrowful

and disheartened. Fully fifteen minutes had he sat there, looking and

musing, hearing the people around him chatting--about the price they had

paid for their places, about the keeping on or taking off of women's

hats, and about the reserved seats for the first families. Then the door

of the sacristy opened, and the choir-boys with their swinging censers,

and the sacristan, and the priests in their beautiful, gold-bordered

garments, came slowly and majestically in. And as the congregation

kneeled, Johannes kneeled with them.

And when Johannes, as well as all the others, looked at the incoming

procession, and then again turned his eyes to the high altar, behold!

there, to his amazement, kneeling before the white altar, he saw a dark

form. It was in plain sight, bending forward in the twilight, the arms

upon the altar, and the face hidden in the arms. A man it was, in the

customary dark clothes of a laborer. No one--neither Johannes nor

probably any one else in the church--had seen whence he came. But he was

now in the full sight of all, and one could hear whisperings and a

subdued excitement run along the rows of people and pass on to the rear,

like a gust of wind over a grain-field.

As soon as the procession of choir-boys and priests came within sight of

the altar, the sacristan stepped hastily out of line and went forward to

the stranger, to assure him that, possibly from too deep absorption in

devotion, or from lack of familiarity with ecclesiastical ceremony, he

was guilty of intrusion.

He touched the man's shoulder, but the man did not stir. In the

breathless stillness that followed, while every one expectantly awaited

the outcome, a deep, heart-rending sob was heard.

"A penitent!" "A drunken man!" "A convert!" were some of the whispered

comments of the people.

The perplexed sacristan turned round, and beckoned Father Canisius, who,

with impressive bearing, stepped up in his white, gold-threaded garb, as

imposingly as a full-sailed frigate moves.

"Your place is not here," said the priest, in his deep voice. He spoke

kindly, and not particularly loudly. "Go to the back of the church."

There was no reply, and the man did not move; yet, in the still more

profound silence, his weeping was so audible that many people shuddered.

"Do you not hear me?" said the priest, raising his voice a little, and

speaking with some impatience. "It is well that you are repentant, but

only the consecrated belong here--not penitents."

So saying, he grasped the shoulder of the stranger with his large,

strong hand.

Then, slowly, very slowly, the kneeling man raised his head from his

arms, and turned his face toward the priest.

What followed, perhaps each one of the hundreds of witnesses would tell

differently; and of those who heard about it later, each had a different

idea. But I am going to tell you what Johannes saw and heard--heard

quite as clearly as you have seen and heard the members of your own

household, to-day.

He saw his Brother's face, pale and illumined, as if his head were shone

upon by beams of clearest sunlight. And the sadness of that face was so

deep and unutterable, so bitter and yet so gentle, that Johannes felt

forced, through pain, to press both hands upon his heart, and to set his

teeth, while he gazed with wide, tear-filled eyes, forgetting everything

save that shining face so full of grief.

For a time it was as still as death, while man and priest regarded each

other. At last the man spoke, and said:

"Who are you, and in whose name are you here?"

When two men stand thus, face to face, and address each other with all

earnestness in the hearing of many others, one of them is always

immediately recognized to be the superior--even if the listeners are

unable to gauge the force of the argument. Every one feels that

superiority, although later many forget or deny it. If that dominance is

not very great, it arouses spitefulness and fury; but if it is indeed

great, it brings, betimes, repose and submissiveness.

In this case the ascendancy was so great that the priest lost even the

air of authority and assurance with which he had come forward, and did

that for which, later, he reproached himself--he stopped to explain:

"I am a consecrated priest of the Triune God, and I speak in the name of

our Lord Jesus Christ--our Saviour and Redeemer."

There ensued a long silence, and Johannes saw nothing but the shining,

human face and the eyes, which, full of sorrow and compassion, continued

to regard the richly robed priest with a bitter smile. The priest stood

motionless, with hanging hands and staring eves, as if uncertain what

next to say or do; but he listened silently for what was coming, as did

Johannes and all the others in the church--as if under an overpowering

spell.

Then came the following words, and so long as they sounded no one could

think of anything else--neither of the humble garb of him who spoke, nor

of the incomprehensible subjection of his gorgeously arrayed listener:

"But you are not yet a man! Would you be a priest of the Most High?

"You are not yet redeemed, nor are these others with you redeemed,

although you make bold to say so in the name of the Redeemer.

"Did your Saviour when upon earth wear cloth of silver and of gold?

"There is no redemption yet--neither for you nor for any of yours. The

time is not come for the wearing of garments of gold.

"Mock not, nor slander. Your ostentation is a travesty of the Most High,

and a defamation of your Saviour.

"Do you esteem the kingdom of God a trifle, that you array yourself and

rejoice, while the world still lies in despair and in shackles?

"So plays a little girl with a doll, and calls herself a mother. She

tosses and pets and prinks her little one, but it is all wood and paint

and bran. And the real mother smiles--she who knows the anguish and the

gladness.

"But you abandon the naked, living child for the bedizened doll. And the

mother sheds tears of blood.

"Like peacocks, you strut through your marble churches, glittering in

tinsel; but you let the kingdom of God lie like an uncleansed babe upon

unclean linen--naked and languishing.

"And the Devil delights in your churches, your masses, and prayers and

psalms--your treasure and fine linen; for the child lies naked at your

back door, with the dogs, and it wails for its mother.

"Weep--as do I! Weep bitter tears--for that child is two thousand years

old. And still it lies, unwashed and uncherished.

"Why do you vaunt your consecration, and prate of your Redeemer? Your

Holy One still toils beneath His grievous cross, yet all your splendid

churches have you built upon that heavy cross.

"You bear the mitre of Persians, and Egyptians, and the tabard of the

Jews. And you also make use of the scourge wherewith the Jews did

scourge Him.

"They bound and spat upon--they scourged and crucified and speared Him;

but for two thousand years you have been roasting Him before a slow

fire--before the fire of your lies and misrepresentations; of your

treachery and arrogance; of your cruelties and perversions; of your pomp

and oblations; of your transgressions, and of your attacks upon and

strivings against the God who is Truth.

"You are commanded to serve your Father in spirit and in truth, and you

have served Him with the letter and with lies.

"His prophets, who loved the truth better than their lives, you have

burned at the stake, and have made them martyrs.

"Yet you have bent your proud neck to the world which you affect to

despise. In the name of the Father you have burned and imprisoned sages;

but at last you were forced to eat the bread of their wisdom, for the

knife of the scornful was at your throat.

"The world you have disdained and denounced is wiser than you--more

beautiful and even more holy.

"Black as the raven--black as the beetles, the moles, the creatures that

live in the slime--black and vile, you burrow your secret way through

the clear, bright world. But in your churches you enthrone yourselves

and parade like kings--in violet and yellow and purple, and gold

brocade.

"You were not commanded to found a kingdom solely for yourselves--a

kingdom of the sacred and the elect in a world of the unholy and

immature.

"You were commanded to spread abroad the kingdom of God over the whole

earth--over all that weep and are oppressed.

"You were not commanded to despise the world and to forsake it, but you

were commanded to hallow the world.

"You rend the world in twain, speaking of the sanctified and the

unsanctified. Your Saviour lived among thieves, and died between

murderers, nevertheless he promised them Paradise.

"Not until every man is sanctified, until every day is a holy day, and

every house a House of God---not until then may you speak of redemption,

and array yourself in white and gold.

"Woe unto you, forsakers of the world! Was not the world bestowed upon

you by the Father as the noblest and most precious gift of the dearest

of friends?

"How dare you despise it?

"Will you openly preserve the penny of your enemy, and reject the

noblest gift of the Most High?

"Do you speak in the name of the Triune God? But you have smitten the

Father's face--you have martyred the Son, and the Holy Ghost have you

violated.

"You have been told that God is Truth. Yet you have striven against the

truth with torture-tongs, with dungeons, and with burnings at the stake.

"You have made the Son of man an object of ridicule--a shield for lying

and violence, a pretext for strife and bloodshed, a monstrous idol.

"And of all sins, the worst is the sin against the Holy Ghost--which is

the bread that you eat, and the water wherein you swim.

"You shackle and restrain the Spirit. This is of all sins the worst, and

this you know.

"Where God alone may reign--in the free human heart--there you establish

yourselves with your laws and dogmas, your writings and your imageries.

"Think you, madman, that the wisdom of the Eternal can be comprised

within the limits of written or printed pages?

"To Him your sacred books are as cobwebs and sweepings; for He lives and

moves eternally, and book nor brain can compass Him. Like to flowing

water, you are told, is the wisdom of God. Forever changing, forever the

same, no finite word can picture His progressive wisdom.

"There is more of the Father's wisdom in the shy, faltering whisper of a

poor heathen child, than in all your bulls and councils and decretals.

"Would you put a tube to the lips of the Father, that He may speak at

your pleasure? Yet will He speak as seems best to Himself.

"Would you point with the finger and say to Him: 'Here! These shall

speak in thy name, and to these shalt thou give wisdom, and these shalt

thou inspire with understanding, and these shalt thou save, and these

condemn!'

"But He will reply: 'There!' and will regard your pointings even as the

lava of a volcano regards the guide-posts and little crosses on the

slopes.

"But your opinions and your pride are avenged, for the world commands

you as the hunter his hound, as the show-man his monkey. You pull the

carriage of prince and monied man, and make grimaces before the

powerful.

"They build you churches, and you say masses for them, although they be

Satan himself.

"The world is sanctified without you, and you sanctify yourselves

because of the world.

"That your Popes are not more dissolute, your prelates more prodigal,

and your friars more slothful, is because the world has constrained you.

But you have constrained the world to no purpose.

"You have set yourself against the usurer, but the world will practise

usury, and you practise usury with the world. Thus are you the ape and

the servant of the world.

"Where you have rivals, you show yourself discreet; but where you are

without competitors, there as ever you corrupt the land.

"You follow after the world, as a captive shark follows a sailing ship.

You turn and twist, but the world points out the way--not you.

"Like a kettle tied by mischievous boys to the tail of a dog, so do you

rattle with hollow menaces behind the course of the world. You scare,

but do not guide.

"Yes, you strive against the sanctifying of the world, for with your

hands you would conceal the godlike fire of knowledge; but the flame

bursts through your fingers, and consumes you.

"What have you done for the sheep committed to your care--for the poor

and bereaved--for the oppressed and the disinherited?

"Submission you have taught them--ay--submission to Mammon. You have

taught them to bow meekly to Satan.

"God's light--the light of knowledge--you have withheld from them. Woe

be to you!

"You have taught them to beg, and to kiss the rod that smote them. You

have cloaked the shame of alms-receiving, and have prated of honor in

servitude.

"Thus have you humbled man, and disfigured the human soul.

"With the fruit of their hands you have decorated your churches and

adorned your unworthy bodies.

"You have aroused the devil in the heart--the devil of fear--fear of

hell and everlasting punishment. The aspiration of the free heart toward

God you have deadened; and with indulgences and the confessional have

you lulled the waking conscience.

"Of the love of the Father you have made commerce--a sinful merchandise.

Not because you love virtue do you preach it, but because of the sweet

profit. You promise deliverance to all who follow your counsel; but as

well can you make a present of moon and stars.

"Are you not told to recompense evil with good? And is God less than man

that He should do otherwise?

"It is well for you that He does not do otherwise, for where then were

your salvation?

"For you, and you only, are the brood of vipers against whom is kindled

the wrath of Him who was gentle with adulterers and murderers."

* * * * *

While speaking, the man had risen to his full height, and he now

appeared, to all there assembled, impressively tall.

When he had spoken, reaching his right hand backward he grasped the foot

of the great golden crucifix. It snapped off like glass, and he threw it

on the marble floor at the feet of the priest. The fragment broke into

many bits. It was apparently not wood, but plaster.

"Sacrilege!" cried the priest, in a stifled voice, as if the sound were

wrung from his throat. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his great

purple face.

The man quietly replied:

"No, but my right; for you are the sacrilegist and the blasphemer who

makes of the Son of man a hideous caricature."

Then the priest stepped forward, and gripped Markus by the wrist. The

latter made no resistance, but cried in a loud voice that reverberated

through the church:

"Do your work, Caiaphas!"

After that he suffered himself to be led away to the sacristy.

While the congregation still sat, spellbound and motionless, Johannes

hastily writhed his way out between the benches and the throngs of

people.

Father Canisius returned, now quite calm and far less red. And while the

sacristan with broom and dust-pan swept up the fragments and put them

into a basket, the priest turned toward the audience and said:

"Have sympathy with the poor maniac. We will pray for him."

After that, the service proceeded without further disturbance.

XVI

In a dreary district of the city, at the end of a long, lonely street,

stands a long, gloomy building. The windows--all of the same form--are

of ground glass, and the house itself is lengthened by a high wall. What

lies behind this wall the neighbors do not know; but sometimes strange

noises are borne over it--loud singing, yelling, dismal laughter, and

monotonous mutterings.

On the steps of this house, silent, and with earnest faces, stood

Johannes and Marjon. The latter had on a simple, dark gown, and she

carried Keesje on her arm.

The door was opened by a porter wearing a uniform-cap. The man gave

them, especially the monkey, a critical, hesitating look.

"That will not do," said he, drily. "You must leave your little ones at

home when you come here to make visits."

"Come," said Marjon, without a smile at his jest, "ask the

superintendent. My brother is so fond of him, and I do not dare leave

him at home."

They had to wait awhile in the vestibule. At first they said not a word,

and Keesje was very still.

Then, scratching Keesje's head, Johannes quietly remarked, "He has grown

thin."

"He has a cough," said Marjon.

At length the doorkeeper came back, with the superintendent. Johannes

instantly recognized in the tall, spare gentleman, the slovenly black

suit, the gold spectacles, and the bushy white hair, his old friend Dr.

Cijfer.

"Whom have they come to see?" he asked.

"The new one who was brought in yesterday--working-class," said the

doorkeeper.

"Violent?" asked the doctor.

"No, quiet, Doctor. But they want to take their monkey with them."

"Why so, young people?" asked Dr. Cijfer, frowning at the monkey over

the top of his spectacles in a most objectionable manner, to the

discomfiture of Keesje.

"Doctor Cijfer, have you forgotten me?" asked Johannes.

"Wait," said the doctor, giving him a sharp look, "are you the boy who

assisted me some time ago, and then ran away? Your name, indeed, was

Johannes, was it not?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Ah, yes," said the doctor, reflecting. "A rather queer boy, with some

talent. And there is a brother of yours here? I always thought there

were hereditary _moments_ in your family. You were a queer boy."

"But it can't do any harm if our monkey goes with us, Doctor," said

Marjon. "He is quite still and obedient."

Slowly shaking his head, the doctor made a prolonged "m-m-m" with his

compressed lips, as if to say that he did not himself think it so

hazardous.

"I have not yet seen the patient. We will ask the junior physician if he

may receive callers. But only ten minutes--not longer, mind."

Dr. Cijfer vanished with the doorkeeper, and again the trio waited a

considerable time.

Then the doorkeeper returned with a man-nurse in white jacket and apron.

The latter led them down long halls, three times unlocking different

doors and gratings with the key that he carried in his hand, until it

seemed to Johannes as if they were pressing deeper and deeper into

realms of error and constraint.

But it was still there--sadly still--not, as Johannes had expected it to

be, noisy with ravings. Now and then a patient in a dark blue uniform

came toward them, carrying a pail or a basket. He would look back at

them suspiciously, and then go farther on, softly muttering.

At last they came to a dismal reception-room with a little wooden table

and four rush-seated chairs. It was lighted from above, and there was no

outlook. There they were left by themselves in painful suspense.

After what again seemed to be a very long time a different door of the

same little room was opened by another nurse; and then, at last, Little

Johannes could rest again on the bosom of his beloved brother.

But even before Johannes could reach him, Keesje had sprung to his

shoulder and received the first greeting.

"Hey, Markus, do you greet Kees before you do us?" said Marjon, laughing

through her tears.

"Are you jealous?" asked Markus. "He has become such a good comrade of

mine."

Drawing Keesje up to him, he sat down, while Johannes and Marjon

kneeled, one on each side. The two young people regarded him a long

while without saying anything; yet it did them good.

"Only ten minutes," sighed Johannes, "and I have so much to ask and to

say."

"Do not be uneasy," said Markus. "I shall not be here long.

"Is it not frightful here?" asked Marjon.

"It is the most sorrowful place on earth. But it is without deceit; and

I am happy here, for I can do much to comfort."

"But it is fearfully unjust to put you here, with crazy folks," said

Marjon. "Those miserable creatures!" and she clenched her slender little

hand.

"It is only a small part of the great wrong. They act according to their

understanding."

"Markus," said Johannes, "I want to ask you this: I saw poor Heléne in

the kingdom of the Evil One. Do you know whom I mean? You do? What does

that signify? And will she be saved?"

"I know whom you mean, Johannes; but do not forget that we are all in

the kingdom of the Evil One. Only in the heart of the Father are we

free. The Father allows Waan to have power over all who are away from

Him--even over me.

"But not for ever, Markus."

"How can that which is evil avail for ever? The melancholy seem to be

the chosen ones. The burden they bear is a precious one, but only if

they realize that it is of the Father. Then it sanctifies; otherwise it

crushes. Some learn this first through death, as did Heléne."

"Markus," said Marjon then, "we both have had such wicked things in our

heads. Shall we ever be forgiven them?"

"Tell me about them," said Markus. "I know indeed, but yet tell me."

"We have wanted to murder, out of jealousy--he and ... and I."

"That is the way with stags and buffaloes and cocks," said Markus. "They

kill one another on account of their love. The strongest survives, and

feels not the least remorse. And he is forgiven."

"But we are human, Markus," said Johannes.

"That is fine, dear Johannes, that you should say it of yourself. And

yet you have not murdered anybody, have you?"

"No, but I have wanted to."

"Truly and with all your heart?"

"Not that way," said Johannes.

"No, for in that case you would not now be asking forgiveness.

Forgiveness is already there, because insight is forgiveness."

The two disciples were silent, and looked at him thoughtfully through

half-closed eyes. At last Marjon said:

"But then if we had done it we would have been forgiven all the sooner;

for then we should have perceived the sooner that it was wrong."

"You would then have experienced the desire for, and the satisfaction

in, the deed, and have lost the fear of it. That would have been two

more fetters for you, with the power to understand reduced."

"But yet there are things which we have to do in order to know that they

are wicked," said Johannes.

"Are there such things?" asked Markus. "Well, then, do them; but do not

complain if the lesson is a hard one. There are children, also, who do

not believe their parents when they tell them that fire will burn, and

that burns are painful. And yet such children cry if they burn

themselves."

"But why is it so intolerable to think that another will obtain that

which we hold dear? Is that wicked?" asked Marjon.

"It is not wicked to long for love or power or honor, when those things

are our due because of our being wise and good. But that which he covets

comes not to the jealous one, nor power to him who thirsts for it, nor

honor to the over-ambitious. The things longed for will not satisfy

them. Nor are eating and drinking bad in themselves, but they are only

for those who have need of them."

At that moment the door was unlocked. As it swung open the nurse said

that the time was up, adding:

"Perhaps you may come again to-morrow."

"Will he have to stay here?" asked Marjon, as they were on their way

down the long hall.

"Well," replied the nurse, "they may indeed shut up quite a lot more. He

can deal with the violent ones better than the professor can. There was

one here who gave us a lot of trouble, because he wouldn't eat. He'd

thrown his plate at me head. Look here! What a cut! But your brother had

him eating inside of ten minutes."

"Will he soon be free?" asked Johannes.

"They ought to make him a professor," was the reply. "I've heard they're

to examine him to-morrow."

* * * * *

Little was said while Johannes was accompanying Marjon to the

boarding-house in which she now lived. It was kept by one of Markus's

friends, a workman in the iron foundry. The man was called Jan van Tijn,

and was foreman of the hammer-works. He earned sixteen guldens a week,

and had nine children. His dwelling had three small rooms and a kitchen,

and there twelve persons had to sleep--father, mother, nine children,

and the boarder. But Juffrouw van Tijn was still young, with a fresh

face and a pair of strong arms, and she made light of her work.

"If there are to be still more of us," said Jan, "we must begin to lie

in a row--spoon-fashion."

Jan had a long blonde moustache and a pair of shrewd eyes, and his

manner of speech was coarse--terribly so. Marjon slept in the little

kitchen, and, as Jan's eldest girl was not yet sixteen, Marjon could be

of great service in the family.

"Did you get him out?" asked Jan, who had come in his working-blouse to

meet them. And when they shook their heads, he began cursing,

tremendously.

"Well-! Did ye ever see such scoundrels? I'd like to pitch into the

loons! Can't that perfesser see that Markus knows more in his little

finger than the whole scurvy lot of them--patients, doctors, perfessers,

and all? And because he's given the priest a dressing-down, and broken

an image worth a nickel, must he be shut up in a mad-house? Well-!!!"

Jan was furious, and proposed, with the aid of a sledge-hammer, to

convince the learned gentlemen that they had made a blunder.

"He is to be examined to-morrow," said Johannes, thinking to calm him.

But Jan retorted scornfully, "Examined! Examined! I'll examine their own

cocoanuts with a three-inch gimlet! If anything comes out but sawdust I

hope to drop dead."

He said much more that I will not repeat.

Johannes stayed away from the Villa Dolores the entire day, for it was

too dreary for him there. He would now far rather be in this poor

household with its many children. He noticed how the young mother

managed her uproarious little troop, how constantly and cheerfully busy

she was the whole day long--bearing, and getting the better of,

difficulties which would have dismayed and discouraged many another.

Johannes ate with them, and although not very hungry, because of his

anxiety, he enjoyed his food. And after they had had their late

afternoon coffee, and the younger children had gone to bed--when Van

Tijn had returned from his work, and with a certain solemn

thoughtfulness had filled his pipe and was silently smoking it--then

Johannes felt wonderfully at peace. He had not known such peace in a

long time. Very little was said. Outside, the twilight was falling;

indoors, the only light was from the little flame under the coffee-pot.

The women, too, were tired, and sat listening to the sounds in the

street. And Johannes knew that they were all thinking of the friend in

the asylum.

* * * * *

That evening, when he was again in the handsome, luxurious villa,

everything seemed strange and distasteful. In the brightly lighted

drawing-room, chatting in a low tone, Van Lieverlee sat close beside the

lady of the house, with an intolerable air of being the rightful lord of

the manor. Johannes merely wanted to bid them good-night.

"Have you found your poor friend?" asked Van Lieverlee, in his most

condescending manner.

"Yes, Mijnheer," replied Johannes. And then, after some hesitation: "Can

anything be done to get him out promptly?"

"My dear boy," said Van Lieverlee, "it is not to be desired, either for

his own sake or that of society. I am not a doctor, but that he belongs

where he is I can see at once, as could any layman. What do you think,

Dearest?"

Dolores nodded languidly, and said: "My heart was touched for the

man--he has a fine face. And have you noticed, Walter, what a splendid

baritone voice he has?"

"Yes," said Van Lieverlee; "it is a pity he is out of his head. What a

good singer of Wagner he might be! An excellent Parsifal! Do you not

think so, Dolores?"

"A splendid Parsifal! Perhaps he may get well yet," added the countess.

"Oh, no," said Van Lieverlee. "That sort of prophet-frenzy is incurable.

I know indeed of so many cases."

For an instant Johannes stood hesitating. Should he give vent to what

was boiling in his breast?

But he was older now, and he curbed himself. Before he went to sleep he

resolved: "This is my last night here."

XVII

Again they stood on the steps of the gloomy building--the

three--Johannes, Marjon, and Keesje. It was a bleak day, and Keesje's

thin little black face peeped out from under a thick shawl.

"Just go into the doctor's room, will you?" said the doorkeeper. "The

doctor wishes to speak with you. The professor is there, also," he

added, importantly. And when Marjon would have gone with them, he

extended his hand as if to stay her, saying, "Pardon, but the lady and

the little one weren't invited."

Without replying, Marjon turned round to Johannes and said, "Then I'll

wait for you at the house. Will you come soon?"

* * * * *

In the tiresome, pompous quarters of the doctor, with its bookcases

draped in green, its white gypsum busts of Galenus, Hippocrates, and

other old physicians, sat two dark-coated gentlemen. They were

vis-à-vis, each in an office-chair, and deep in conversation.

On the large writing-table lay several open books, and some shining

white metal instruments for measuring and examining.

"Sit down, my friend," said Professor Bommeldoos, in his loud voice and

brusque manner. "We all know one another, do we not? We have already

made an examination together."

Johannes silently took a seat.

"Let me explain to you, Johannes," said Dr. Cijfer, in more soft and

moderate tones. "We--Professor Bommeldoos and I--have been charged by

the judicial commission to make a medical investigation of the mental

condition of your brother. He has committed a crime--not a heavy one,

but yet not without significance, and one for which he ought to have

been placed under arrest. Yet the clergyman thought him irresponsible,

and summoned a physician from the asylum. Your brother simply would not

reply to the latter. He was stubbornly silent."

Johannes nodded. He knew it already.

"That was the reason for his being temporarily secluded here. Now I have

seen the patient myself once, but I am sorry to have to say that I can

get no further than the other physician. When I interrogate him he looks

at me in a very peculiar way, and remains silent."

"I do not understand, Colleague," said Bommeldoos, "why you did not

instantly diagnose this as a symptom of megalomania."

"But, worthy Colleague," replied Dr. Cijfer, "he does talk with the

nurses and his fellow patients, and he is obliging and ready to help.

They all wish him well--yes, they are even singularly fond of him."

"All of which comports very well with my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos.

"Does he often have those whims, Johannes," asked Dr. Cijfer, "when he

will not speak?"

"He has no whims," said Johannes, stoutly.

"Why, then, will he not reply?"

"I think you would not answer me," returned Johannes, "if I were to ask

you if you were mad."

The two learned men exchanged smiles.

"That is a somewhat different situation," said Bommeldoos, haughtily.

"He was not questioned in such a blunt manner as that," explained Doctor

Cijfer. "I asked about his extraction, his age, the health of his father

and mother, about his own youth, and so forth--the usual memory

promptings. Will you not give us some further information concerning

him? Remember, it is of real importance to your brother."

"Mijnheer," said Johannes, "I know as little as yourself about all

that. And even if I knew more I would not tell you what he himself

thought best not to tell."

"Come, come, my boy," said the professor, "are you trying to make sport

of us? Do you not know whence you came? Nothing of your parents, nor of

your youth?"

Johannes hesitatingly considered whether or not he should do as Markus

had done, and answer no questions whatever. But still he might reply to

those that concerned only himself.

"I do, indeed, know all that about myself, but not about him," said he.

"Then you are not brothers?" asked the doctor.

"No, not in the sense you mean."

Dr. Cijfer looked at Bommeldoos as if to see what he thought of this

reply. Then he touched a bell-button, saying:

"It seems to me, Colleague, that we might better see him face to face.

We can then, perhaps, get on better than when apart."

Bommeldoos nodded solemnly, and passed his hand over his mighty

forehead. A servant came in.

"Will you bring the patient Vis from the ward of the calm patients,

working-class?"

"Very well, Doctor."

The servant vanished, and for several minutes afterward it was as still

as death in the study. The two learned men stared at the carpet quite

absorbed in thought--not minding delay--after the manner of deep

thinkers. Johannes heard the clock ticking on the mantel, the faint

music from an out-of-doors band playing a merry march, the sound of

hurrahs, and the clatter of horses' hoofs on the cobblestone pavement.

The royal wedding-festivities were still in progress, and Johannes could

mentally see the two people who at that moment were bowing and waving as

they sat in their carriage. There was a knock at the door. The nurse

came and said, "Here is the patient." Then he let Markus in, remaining

himself to look on.

"I will ring for you," said Dr. Cijfer, with a gesture. The nurse

disappeared.

Markus had on a dark-blue linen blouse, such as all the patients of the

working-class wear. He stood tall and erect, and Johannes observed that

his face was less pale and sad than usual. The blue became his dark

curling hair, and Johannes felt happy and confident as he looked at

him--standing there so proud and calm and handsome.

"Take a seat," said Dr. Cijfer.

But Markus seemed not to have heard, and remained standing, while he

nodded kindly and reassuringly to Johannes.

"Observe his pride," said Professor Bommeldoos, in Latin, to Dr. Cijfer.

"The proud find pride, and the gloomy, gloom; but the glad find

gladness, and the lowly, humility," said Markus.

Dr. Cijfer stood up, and took his measuring instrument from the table.

Then, in a quiet, courteous tone, he said:

"Will you not permit us, Mijnheer, to take your head measure? It is for

a scientific purpose."

"It gives no pain," added Bommeldoos.

"Not to the body," said Markus.

"There is nothing in it to offend one," said Dr. Cijfer. "I have had it

done to myself many a time."

"There is a kind of opinionativeness and denseness that offend."

Bommeldoos flushed. "Opinionativeness and denseness! Mine, perchance? Am

I such an ignoramus? Opinionated and stupid!"

"Colleague!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer, in gentle expostulation. And then, as

he enclosed Markus's head with the shining craniometer, he gave the

measurement figures. A considerable time passed, nothing being heard

save the low voice of the doctor dictating the figures. Then, as if

proceeding with his present occupation, taking advantage of what he

considered a compliant mood of the patient, the crafty doctor fancied he

saw his opportunity, and said:

"Your parents certainly dwelt in another country--one more southerly and

more mountainous."

But Markus removed the doctor's hand, with the instrument, from his

head, and looked at him piercingly.

"Why are you not sincere?" asked he then, with gentle stress. "How can

truth be found through untruth?"

Dr. Cijfer hesitated, and then did exactly what Father Canisius had

done--something which, later, he was of the opinion he ought not to have

done: he argued with him.

"But if you will not give me a direct reply I am obliged to get the

truth circuitously."

Said Markus, "A curved sword will not go far into a straight scabbard."

Professor Bommeldoos grew impatient, and snapped at the doctor aside in

a smothered voice: "Do not argue, Colleague, do not argue! Megalomaniacs

are smarter, and sometimes have subtler dialectic faculties, than you

have. Just let _me_ conduct the examination."

And then, after a loud "h'm! h'm!" he said to Markus:

"Well, my friend, then I will talk straight out to you. It is better so,

is it not? Then will you give me a direct reply?"

Markus looked at him for some time, and said: "You cannot."

"I cannot! Cannot what?"

"Talk," replied Markus.

"I cannot talk! Well, well! I cannot talk! Colleague, you will perhaps

take note of that. You say I cannot talk. What am I now doing?"

"Stammering," said Markus.

"Exactly--exactly! All men stammer. The doctor stammers, and I stammer,

and Hegel stammers, and Kant stammers...."

"They do," said Markus.

"Mijnheer Vis, then, is the only one who can talk. Is it not so?"

"Not with you," replied Markus. "In order to talk one must have a hearer

who can understand."

Dr. Cijfer smiled, and whispered, not without a shade of irony, "Take

care, Colleague! You also err in dialectics." But Bommeldoos angrily

shook his round head with its bulbous cheeks, and continued:

"That is to say that you consider yourself wiser than all other men?

Note the reply, Colleague."

"I think myself wiser than you," said Markus. "Decide yourself whether

this means wiser than all other men."

"I have made a note of the reply," said Dr. Cijfer, while a sound of

satisfaction came from his pursed-up lips.

Yet the professor took no notice of these ironical remarks, and

proceeded:

"Now just tell me, frankly, my friend, are you a prophet? An apostle?

Are you perhaps the King? Or are you God himself?"

Markus was silent.

"Why do you not answer now?"

"Because I am not being questioned."

"Not being questioned! What, then, am I now doing?"

"Raving," said Markus.

Again Bommeldoos flushed, and lost his composure.

"Be careful, my friend. You must not be impertinent. Remember that we

may decide your fate here."

Markus lifted his head, with a questioning air, so earnest that the

professor held his peace.

"With whom rests the decision of our fate?" asked Markus. Then, pointing

with his finger: "Do you consider yourself the one to decide?"

Both of the learned ones were silent, being impressed for the moment.

Markus continued:

"Why do not _you_ now reply? And would you have decided otherwise had I

not been what you term impertinent?"

Here Dr. Cijfer interposed:

"No, no, Mijnheer, you mistake. But it is not nice of you to offend a

learned man like the professor here. We are performing a scientific

task. You impress us as being a person of refinement and advancement,

aside from the question of your being ill or not. For all that, it

behooves you to have respect for science, and for those who are devoting

all their efforts and even their lives to its development."

"Do you know," asked Bommeldoos, in a voice now near to breaking, "do

you know what the man whom you have scoffed at as opinionated, stupid,

and a ranter--what that man has written and accomplished?"

Then Markus's stern features relaxed, assuming a softer, more

companionable expression, and he took a chair and sat down close beside

his two examiners.

"Look," said he, showing both of his open palms, "your naked

sensibilities protrude on all sides--from under the cloak of your

wisdom. How otherwise could I have touched you?"

"Your wisdom--so much greater--does not, however, make you invulnerable

to our opinion and stupidity," said Professor Bommeldoos, still tartly,

indeed, but yet with far more courtesy.

"The most high wisdom of God does not make Him invulnerable to our

sorrows and sins," returned Markus. "Wisdom is a covering which makes

its wearer not insensible to suffering, but able to support it."

"Forever that speaking in metaphor!" exclaimed Bommeldoos. "Figures of

speech do not instruct. A weak and childish mind always makes use of

metaphors. Science demands pure speech and logical argument."

"Forgive me if I offend still further," said Markus, gently now and

kindly, as he laid his hand on the black cloth enveloping the arm of the

professor, "but it is exactly your own weakness that you cannot

question. Science is the light of the Father. Why should not I respect

it? And I know also what you have written and accomplished. But the most

you did was to question imperfectly, and then to assume the complete

reply. That one should find it so difficult and unsatisfactory to reply

amazes you, because you do not realize the imperfection of your

questions. But the finest and clearest responses--those that are most

satisfying and intelligible to all--await those who have learned better

how to question. If I esteem myself wiser than you, it is solely because

I realize that we have nothing but metaphors, and that we must patiently

and unpretendingly decipher as a communication from the Father the

meaning of all these metaphors. While you imagine that, from your words

and documents, one may comprehend His living Being."

"With your permission," interrupted the professor. "You seem not to have

read what I have written concerning the logical necessity of an

incomprehensible basis for reality. Did you consider me such a dunce as

not to have perceived that?"

"To speak of things is not necessarily to understand them," replied

Markus. "And so to speak of them is proof of not understanding."

"I know very well what the human mind can compass, and what not; and in

my last work, 'On the Essence of Matter,' I think I have defined the

utmost to which the human mind can attain," said Professor Bommeldoos.

"So did the Egyptians place the farthest reaches of the earth at the

first falls of the Nile, to which the river was said to have flowed from

heaven. And thousands and thousands of years passed away before they

ventured to step beyond that boundary. And now the world is beginning to

fraternize, and men to co-operate--now the barriers of the world are

being removed to infinite distance. Who then shall term that which the

human intellect can grasp, the extreme limit?"

"There remains a barrier, constituted by our material structure, just as

there is a barrier because of our confinement to this terrestrial ball

which we cannot leave," declared Professor Bommeldoos, loudly and

oracularly, encircling his chin with his hand, as was his habit when in

learned discussions. He seemed to have quite forgotten that he had

before him a patient for examination.

"You read the book of life from the end toward the beginning," said

Markus, "and see the world upside down. Why do you babble of a dead dust

which would establish a limit to the life of the soul? But all matter is

made of living thought, and nothing is lifeless, or formed without life.

Mountains and seas are thoughts of the earth; and planets and suns, and

all life, are the thoughts of God. The stone at your feet seems to you

dead; but neither does the ant that creeps over your hand perceive the

life of it. You have built up your own body--"

"Out of existent material," cried the professor.

"There is nothing existent as the effect of other life, that you cannot

search into. And the operations of your life meet on all sides the

counter-influences of other lives. But all is spirit and life. Shall,

then, a builder say that the house he has built defines the boundary

outside of which he cannot go?"

"But a race like the human race preserves its permanent

characteristics," interpolated Dr. Cijfer.

"Why do we term permanent the creatures of one day? There is nothing

permanent, and there are no persistent races. Life is a flowing water, a

flaming fire--never the same from one second to another. But in your

ignorance you make fixed definitions, write dead words and dead books,

and imagine that you understand the things that live."

There was an instant of silence. Then Markus added:

"You have yourselves created death, and placed the barriers. Your words

are diseased and rotten; and with those words you would analyze life.

Would you perform an operation with unclean knives? But with your dead

words you cut into life, and thus spread death."

Another silence, and then:

"Purify your thoughts and your words. Put away that which is

impure--that is, the superfluous. Make a science of words, as you have

made a science of the stars--as exact and as sacred.

"Through co-operation and fellowship among scholars you have created a

system of relations called mathematics. Make also such a system of

significations, for you miss your mark with words, and fail to find that

life which is the most beautiful and exquisite, as children miss the

moths they would catch with their caps and with bags. And through

co-operation and fellowship you shall create a demand, the response to

which shall ring out like a revelation and an evangel--full, joyous,

marvelous."

Markus ceased speaking, and gazed as though into the far distance. For a

while they all waited, respectfully, to see if he was going to say more,

for they had been listening eagerly.

Then Dr. Cijfer said, in a gentle tone: "Your views are surely worthy of

consideration. Neither did I make a mistake when I thought you a person

of advancement and refinement. But let me remind you that we are here

for the purpose of making a medical examination. Without doubt you will

now indeed reply to the simple questions that I shall put to you."

Markus, throwing a glance and a smile to Johannes, who had been

listening with breathless attention, said to the learned men:

"I spoke not for you; that were fruitless. I spoke for him."

After that he uttered not a word. Dr. Cijfer questioned with gentle

stress, Professor Bommeldoos with vehement energy; but Markus was

silent, and seemed not to notice that there were others in the room.

"I adhere to my diagnosis, Colleague," said Bommeldoos.

Dr. Cijfer rang, and ordered the nurse to come.

"Take the patient to his ward again. He will remain, for the present,

under observation."

Markus went, after making a short but kindly inclination of the head to

Johannes.

"Will you not tell us now, Johannes, what you know of this person?"

asked Dr. Cijfer.

"Mijnheer," replied Johannes, "I know but little more of him than you do

yourself. I met him two years ago, and he is my dearest friend; but I

have seen him rarely, and have never inquired about his life nor his

origin."

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer.

"Once again, Colleague, I stand by my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos.

"Initial paranoia, with megalomaniacal symptoms, on the basis of

hereditary inferiority, with vicarious genius."

XVIII

In all this time the King and Queen were not yet married. That was the

way of things in such lofty circles. They were still to attend many more

banquets, to listen to many more speeches, and to make a great many more

bows. I should judge, indeed, that they were just about half-way

through.

And while most of the people acted as if they thought the ceremonies

proper and pleasant, and took their part in the celebrations, there were

others, who met to say that they were not altogether pleased. Such

gatherings are called "indignation meetings." Of course they do not

protest against the marriage of those two people--they have nothing to

say against that--but only against the prolonged ceremonials. They

consider the banquets, the fine array, the wine-drinking and the

feasting occasioned thereby, both costly and unnecessary. They also

consider the maintenance of a king and queen costly and unnecessary.

Such an opinion is, indeed, very uncommon, if not unheard of; for you

remember that even the creatures of the pond into which Johannes dived

with Windekind had found the need of a king who could eat a great deal.

So, when Jan van Tijn and his wife got ready to attend that indignation

meeting, Johannes wished to accompany them; for he was curious to hear

what would be said there.

Like Marjon, Johannes was now in a boarding-house. He was with some

friends of Jan--a worthy couple without children--who kept a

total-abstinence coffee-house. The man was named Roodhuis, and he was

tall and stout. He had a large, forceful face, light-colored eyes, and a

small, fair moustache. He said little, and had a great dislike of

alcohol and of soldiers. His wife, too, seldom spoke, but was very

kindly and industrious. Through their little business they made a

livelihood, and no more. They were interested in everything that

concerned the labor movement, and received in their small assembly-place

all of the leaders and speakers prominent in the struggle. In that

little hall, too, choir rehearsals were held, and little plays were

given--as often as possible, adverse to war and to alcohol, and in favor

of the so ardently desired Freedom and Fraternity.

Here Johannes found board and lodging, for which he did not need to pay,

because he lent a helping hand in the work of the place.

He had just been having a hard experience: he had bidden his little

friends good-by. Although they had grown larger and stronger, and were

therefore no longer so tender and delicate as when he first saw them,

yet the parting was full of sadness.

"Why do you go away, Johnny, and where are you going to live?" they

asked.

"I am poor, and must work to earn my bread," replied Johannes.

"Oh, but Mama will give you money--will you not, Mama? And you can

always eat and live here. Then you will not need to work," said Olga.

"You can have half of my share of oatmeal every time," said Frieda; "I

get more than I want, though."

"No, children," said the mother, "it is not nice nor well to live upon

what one gets from another, without working one's self. That is

parasitism, and sinful before God. Johannes knows this, and being poor

he is good to wish to work."

"Well, then, dear Johnny," said Olga, "I shall pray that God will make

you rich quickly--as rich as we are; and then you will not need to work,

and will come back again."

"I don't think it nice of God to make Johnny poor and us rich," said

Frieda, pouting.

"Fie, Frieda, you must not say that," said Mevrouw. And then Johannes

went away swiftly and bravely before the tears came.

Later, he heard that Van Lieverlee, whom he had not bidden good-by, had

told everybody that Johannes had left in a pet to live with some

proletarians because of his having been repeatedly rebuked by himself on

account of his excessive vanity.

* * * * *

In the little public room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house, "The

Future," a large circle of congenial spirits sat waiting. Jan van Tijn

was there, his wife, an infant, and the oldest girl. Marjon was there

also, a neighbor having volunteered to care for the other Van Tijn

children. Besides those named, there were about twenty other men and

women in the little hall with its dirty, dingy hangings. On small tables

in front of the visitors were cups of tea and chocolate. Many mothers

had brought their infants. There was a dearth of talking and a deal of

smoking; for it would have been too much, at the outset, to put a ban

upon both alcohol and tobacco.

"Well, what did they find with their examination?" asked Jan van Tijn,

as Johannes entered the smoky hall.

"He is not free yet," replied Johannes, "but he talked with them so

finely and sanely they are bound to let him go."

"Good!" said Jan.

"Come here, Jo. Here's a cup of comfort for you, then," said Vrouw

Roodhuis.

"But all the same," cried a man with a hoarse voice, a sallow face, and

black beard, dressed in a brown Manchester suit, with a loose scarf

around his sweater, and a pair of sandals on his bare feet, "you needn't

think he will be set free. As soon as you begin to oppose that pest of

hypocrites, you'll have the whole crew at your throat. That sort knows

it all, every time--whether it be the pastor, or the dominie, or the

general, or the professor--always the same pack; and if they once get

you into their clutches you never get out again, whether in jail or in

the madhouse or in the hospital; you never get out till they've given

you a good start toward kingdom-come."

"Are they goin' to poison 'im?" asked a woman, in alarm. "What with?

Ratsbane?"

"They'll poison him, for sure," answered the man in brown, "or they'll

nag him to death, or starve him. They have methods and tricks

enough--the villains!"

It was scarcely half-past eight o'clock yet, and the indignation meeting

was to begin at nine. So it was proposed to shorten the time with

recitations and singing. And this was done. First some one sang

alone--the song of a poor conscript who was forced to go to war, and had

conscientious scruples about it. Then they all sang a song of freedom.

After that, a very young typographer recited, with great fervor, a poem

describing the way the Jews made merry at the crucifixion of Jesus on

Golgotha; how they even took their little children with them, and hoped

the anguish would be prolonged, that they might have the more pleasure.

The description of that cruelty, vehemently expressed, made a deep

impression, and they sat listening with open mouths notwithstanding that

they had heard it many times before. When it was over they all stamped

uproariously on the floor.

At that moment the door opened, and Markus stood at the threshold of the

little hall.

"Hurrah!" cried Johannes; and the others, who had just before been

shouting; "Hurrah for Golgotha!" now shouted "Hurrah for Markus!" They

were all greatly excited and glad to see him free.

"Good-evening," said Markus, without giving token, himself, of being

particularly glad. He wore again his customary workman's suit. From all

sides hands were held out to him.

"I hadn't thought it," said Jan, "that they'd let you out of their

clutches again. How did you manage it?"

"Let 'im have something to eat, first," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "Aren't you

hungry, man? You couldn't have been in clover there."

"I shouldn't have had any appetite with all those mad folks about,"

remarked another woman. "And then, too, when they wanted to poison you!"

"Yes, I am hungry," said Markus. And then bread and milk were given him.

"Why did you come here again?" asked Marjon.

Markus replied simply, "I had something more to say."

After he had eaten, he asked, "Is there a meeting to-night? Who called

it?"

"The politicians," replied the young typographer.

"Felbeck wants to be President of the Republic," said the man in brown.

"Is there to be a debate?" asked Markus.

"Listen! Hakkema is coming, too. Oh, there'll be a racket!" said Jan.

"You might say a little something, too, Markus," said Roodhuis. "You

must give that confounded military set a good thrashing, just such as

you give the pious."

"I never have given the pious a 'thrashing,'" said Markus.

"That's a damn shame!" said the man with the sandals. "Religion is the

root of all evil."

"No, it's militarism," said Roodhuis.

"No, alcohol," said the young typographer.

"Neither of them! It's eating meat that does it," said a pale, slim

little woman, not yet twenty. "First you slaughter animals, then you eat

them, then you drink, and then you murder and steal. One thing leads to

another."

"So long, I say, as the people let themselves be taxed and fleeced by

kings and priests, so long as they bow to a boss--whether they call him

patron or God makes no difference--so long shall we remain in misery."

"Now, Markus," said Jan, "put in an oar yourself. You know better how to

pull than the rest of 'em, I should say."

"Well, I will tell you a story," said Markus, "if you will promise to

remember it, and not ask an explanation."

"Why not an explanation?" asked the man in brown. "What does that mean?

Is it a riddle?"

"I would just as soon be silent," said Markus.

"Come, now, Markus, pitch in! We won't ask you any more than you want to

tell us."

"Listen, then," said Markus; and he began his story in a tone which

constrained them all to silence.

"Once there were some field-laborers who were very poor--so poor that

when they were asked how, with all their children, they could make both

ends meet, they replied, 'The churchyard helps us out.'

"They had a rich landlord, and there was an abundance of land. But they

were obliged to work so long every day, and so many days in succession,

that they had no time to learn anything--not even the best way to plow

and sow and reap. They did only the work they were bidden to do. So they

remained dull because they were poor, and poor because they were dull.

It seemed as if it would stay thus until eternity.

"But the landlord grew richer and richer, through the toil of his many

laborers, and according to the increase of his wealth did he become more

covetous and dissolute and indolent. And he demanded that his laborers

work still harder because his desires were greater.

"But that they could not do. And the help of the churchyard was so very

great that they were filled with fear.

"Then, through their great need, there came to one of them a little

spark of light, and he said to the others: 'Brothers, this is all wrong.

At this rate we shall very soon perish ourselves. We have hungered long

enough. Let us slay him and seize the treasure we have collected for

him.'

"That seemed to the others a good plan, and they wondered they had not

thought of it before. Thereupon they slew the rich landlord, and divided

his wealth. But, because he had lived a prodigal life, and since they

themselves knew not the best way to plow, to sow, and to reap, they were

in a short time still poorer than before.

"Then the son of the landlord, who had escaped, returned to them, and

said:

"'You see it was stupid of you to kill your master, for now you are

bound to starve, because you cannot manage for yourselves.'

"Then they replied: 'Be to us then a better master, and we will let you

live.'

"And the son of the landlord, who had the knowledge of his father,

directed their work. And he became rich, and they remained poor--so poor

that the churchyard had to help, although not to the former extent. Yet

was there land in abundance.

"But the spark of knowledge which that extreme need had awakened

continued to shine, and that one laborer said to his fellow-workers:

'Brothers, still is it not well, for, although we do not yet die

ourselves from want, our children die. And although it is not right to

slay one's lord, why should it be right to make him so rich that he

becomes idle and lewd and wanton? We labor hard, and our toil enriches

him. But he saves nothing. When we struck down his father we did not

find enough to feed us for a week. We must not suffer this, for our

wives and children can live upon what he wastes.'

"Then said another: 'We have no need of the landlord, but of his

knowledge. For when we had slain our lord we found ourselves no richer.

Nor had we the skill to create new wealth. Therefore are we even more

miserable than before.'

"At that, a third one said: 'Lacking our labor, must he die; but without

his knowledge we must starve. Let us go to him, and say that we will not

give him our labor unless he give us his knowledge. If he refuse, then

we shall die with him; if he assent, then we shall all live.'

"This the laborers did. And the young landlord, fearful lest he die,

taught all who asked him with what they must fertilize the land, and

what to sow, and how to irrigate, and all the secrets of tilling the

soil, so that they might live. And he also gave to every one that asked

it some land to cultivate, and a handful of grain. 'For my forefathers

also began with no more than this,' said he.

"Then some of them took the handful of grain and ate it up, because they

were so poor and so greedy. And they squandered away their piece of

land, and asked not for the knowledge wherewith to till it.

"But others, accepting the knowledge, cultivated their piece of land

with the mouthful of grain. But because they had for so long suffered a

scarcity they were overjoyed at the harvest. And those--the first--who

had again become poor, they pressed into their service. So each became a

landlord, and they each gave to the first landlord a share of what was

theirs. Thus the first landlord remained very rich, while the others

were even richer, and the very poorest remained as miserable as before.

All that resulted was the renewal of slothfulness, prodigality, and

killing. And the churchyard had to keep on helping.

"But the spark of knowledge, once lighted, continued to burn, and one

laborer said to the others: 'Brothers, still it is not well, for we

remain unhappy beings. The rich are unhappy through their

over-abundance, and the poor through their poverty. What, then, shall be

done that it be otherwise?'

"Then said another: 'Brothers, we have taken away from our landlord both

his power and his knowledge. We have no further need of him. But what

master is it then of whom we have need? For we are as miserable as

before.'

"Then said another: 'Brothers, we still need a master, but one who will

teach us wisdom and charity; for is it not ignorance through which some

have eaten up their seed-grain; and a lack of charity that has caused

others to waste all their harvest, and compelled the poorest to serve

them?'

"Then they chose a master who taught them wisdom and charity, and that

master said: 'You shall not give full possession of the land, for it is

lent to all; and of your harvest shall you not--you and your

household--consume more than is good for your health. And all the

surplus shall you sow again; for there is land enough. And no man shall

work for another who can himself work and yet does not.'

"And they did according to this command. And under that master they

founded a realm of plenty that was called 'Freedom.'"

Markus was silent, and so for a while were his listeners. At last, the

man in the brown suit said:

"Well, now, but they might have done that just as well without master or

mandate."

"Say, Markus," said Jan van Tijn, "if you happen to know of such a

gentleman, just quietly set me down on the waiting list. My word for it,

if he's boss, I'll not go on a strike."

"Well, heaven help us! Are you an anarchist?" asked the other. "You

throw the whole principle overboard."

Jan just glanced at him. "I don't hear anything fall yet," said he,

drily. And then, looking to right and left at his neighbors:

"D'ye hear anything?"

The company laughed. Markus, looking earnestly at him, said:

"You can at once enter that service, Jan, as can every one."

"What a silly gull!" said he in the brown suit.

XIX

On the way to the Assembly-room they passed the Royal Residence. The

windows were a blaze of light, for another banquet had just been held,

and the marriage was thus brought a step nearer. The lackeys looked down

at the thronging multitude, and smiled disdainfully. In front of the

palace, erect upon their horses, their carbines at their hips, sat the

hussars. The people shouted. They wanted to see the bridal pair do some

more bowing.

And, verily, after a while, open flew the balcony doors, and out came

the King and Queen--for all the world like the cuckoo of a clock at the

stroke of the hour; and there they bowed and bowed--many times more than

the hours that were struck by the clock. Thus the crowd had its will,

and shouted to hearts' content. At the same time Johannes also felt,

distinctly, a thrill of enthusiasm, although it was mingled with pity;

for it did seem as if the crowd found delight in keeping those two poor

people bowing, without asking if they had the least desire to do so, so

soon after dinner, and after a busy day.

* * * * *

At the indignation meeting it was very warm and crowded. People stood

packed at the entrance. Inside, above a haze of tobacco smoke, Dr.

Felbeck could be seen sitting at a table covered with green. In front of

him were a black hammer, a carafe, and glasses. The table stood on a

little stage between side-scenes that represented a forest by moonlight.

There was a great deal of bustle and noise in the hall. Above the clamor

rose the cries of the colporteurs reiterating the virtues of their

weeklies and pamphlets: "Buy the Pathfinder--three cents!" "Throne,

Exchange and Altar; or the Robber Conspiracy Unmasked--one cent!"

"Hypocrisy; or the Source of all Depravity--one cent!" "Who are the

Murderers?--two cents!"

Dr. Felbeck looked around the hall, casting piercing, frowning glances,

like a general surveying the field of battle. At times he chatted with

the associate chairman who sat beside him, apparently about this or that

advocate or opponent whom he observed in the hall. At times, also, he

nodded smilingly to some one in the audience.

The doors were closed, and no one else was permitted to enter. A few

helmeted policemen took their stand at the entrance.

The chairman--a spruce young gentleman--after straightening his

eye-glasses, grasped with his left hand the old speaker's hammer, rapped

upon the table with it, and spoke a few words. Gradually it grew more

still. Then Dr. Felbeck stood up, resting upon the table with both

hands--his head between his shoulders like a cat about to make a spring.

Then, rising to his full height, and glancing several times at his

audience--challenging, and certain of success--he began: "Comrades!"

* * * * *

The speech lasted an hour and a half. What he said accorded very well

with that which Johannes had heard him say when they first met. The

downtrodden proletarian must in the end gird himself against the

oppressor--against the rotten civic society, against the gentry of the

safety-box, who are supported by the soldiers, assisted by priests, and

represented by the Crown. The people must become conscious of their

power, for the people are the source of all wealth, and to the people

belongs the future. If only the laborers would act in unison, they would

be able to make the laws. They were by far the majority. They might

compose the Parliament, command the military, possess the collective

wealth. Then they could make better laws, and could take from the rich

their unmerited privileges. Then would come a time of real liberty and

fraternity.

Thereupon Dr. Felbeck made an estimate of the number of guldens a minute

that the King had to spend; adding the statement that whole families of

laboring men must live for a week upon no more. He showed how many

people must work hard, continually, to pay for all that festivity and

magnificence. He showed in detail how the rich live, and what splendor

was theirs; and he claimed that such beauty and pleasure were the right

of each and all. And with tears in his voice, he told them how, with his

meagre wages, the poor wage-earner must make both ends meet.

He said the laborer must learn to hate his enemy, and not let himself be

deluded by oily-tongued preachers of peace who were paid by the rich;

for then he would surely remain in his misery. And yet, in the end, they

must certainly have a share of the pleasure--they who had heretofore

always come out of the little end of the horn.

All that Dr. Felbeck said was listened to with avidity. The listeners

grew more and more attentive, and the speaker more and more vehement.

There were frequent outbursts of laughter from the audience, and the

hall trembled with the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands.

Sometimes there was cheering to the echo. And when the speaker

ended--with a fiery, well-turned clause in which all were urged to join

the International Social Democratic Labor-Party--Grand Army of

Laborers--there followed such an uproar that Johannes lost all sense of

sight and hearing.

His duty done, the speaker sat down, yet he looked around with some

anxiety at the succeeding speakers.

Again the hammer sounded: "Would any one like to add a few words?"

Three--four--hands went up.

"Hakkema has the Boor."

"Oh, indeed!" said Jan. "Now for a Punch-and-Judy session!"

Hakkema was a small, stocky man, with long hair combed straight back to

his neck. His voice was rough and harsh from much speaking, and as he

spoke he dropped his head back, in such a way that his shaggy beard

stuck out in front. He began very softly, almost hesitatingly--apparently

to flatter the former speaker. But very speedily the audience

observed--what every one had expected--that he was deriding him. His

deep voice grew steadily louder and rougher, and his jokes tarter and

tougher. Part of the audience, carried away, and agog for fresh taunts,

burst out in loud, insulting laughter, while another part enlivened

itself by hissing and whistling, and by shouts of derision.

The irony chiefly concerned the fact that the former speaker termed

himself a proletarian, while at the same time he owned a villa at

Driebergen, and had a son preparing to be a lawyer. Of course, he

appeared to be quite disinterested and would fight for the people, if

only the people would be so good as to send him to the House of

Representatives, with a salary of forty guldens a week. Certainly, if

the King should make Dr. Felbeck Minister to-morrow, with a salary of

eight thousand guldens, Dr. Felbeck would accept it out of sheer

self-sacrificing devotion to the people. And then the laborer could

demand audience of Dr. Felbeck, and ask why the portion on the table of

the laborer should still remain so small, and also when the general

national distribution would begin.

After a half-hour of such talk, the speaker ended with a stimulating

appeal for a purified class struggle in which no little lords among the

proletarians should be tolerated, and in which--pointing at Dr. Felbeck,

who, smiling scornfully, sat sharpening a lead-pencil--the wolves in

sheeps' clothing should be restrained; a struggle in which war should be

declared, not only against all tyranny, all coercion, but also against

the despotism of party; a struggle in which there should be strife until

men had a free society where each might take what he pleased, without

lords, without bosses, without safety-boxes, without gods, and without

laws.

The applause for this speaker was none the less thundering, mingled,

however, with shrill whistlings, and cries of "Throw him out!"

But Felbeck was a match for the man. With furious gestures and banging

of his fists on the green-covered table, he called his opponent a

deceiver of the people, a man without judgment or conscience, an enemy

of the laborer, a sower of discord who would never bring anything to

pass save disorder and confusion.

The audience grew more and more excited. Ten, twenty speakers at once,

stood up in their places. Angry words were shouted back and forth.

Everybody thought it time to say something. The women grew nervous, and

the policemen looked at their chief as if only awaiting a signal to put

an end to the row.

All this time, Markus, without having made a sign either of approval or

of censure, had been sitting between Marjon and Johannes, with the

family of Van Tijn.

"Have you been listening, Markus?" asked Marjon, for it seemed to her as

if his thoughts were elsewhere. But he nodded "Yes."

"Say something, then," said Marjon.

"Yes, do," urged Johannes. "Tell them which one is right."

"Speak out, Markus. The one who knows ought to tell," said Van Tijn.

"That is not easy to do," said Markus. Then he stood up.

His figure now, as always, riveted attention, and the adroit leader of a

tumultuous meeting felt instantly to whom he must yield the floor in

order to re-establish calm.

Thus Markus' first words rang out, amid the lessening uproar, as in a

subsiding storm. And as he spoke it finally grew very still. But there

was no sign either of assent or of disagreement.

"There are fathers and mothers here," said Markus, "who know what

spoiled children are. The spoiled child that is always coaxed and

indulged, like the one that is always constrained, becomes at last

capricious, malicious, and sickly.

"Shall we then treat one another as we may not our children? People are

flattered by undue praise of their power and influence--are carried

away by the sweetness of fine words concerning the injustice they have

too long endured and concerning their right to property and to

happiness. You all listen to that eagerly, do you not?

"But that to which one listens most eagerly, it is not always best to

say. There are things hard to hear, which must, however, be said and be

listened to.

"I know that you are not going to applaud me, as yon did those two

others; but yet I am a better friend to you than they are.

"Among you there are those who suffer injustice. Yet you must not exalt

yourselves. You should be ashamed of it. For whoever continues to suffer

injustice is too weak, too stupid, or too indifferent to overcome it.

"You must not ask, 'Why is it done to me?' but, 'Why cannot I overcome

it?'

"The answer to that question is, Weakness, stupidity, and indifference.

"I do not blame you; but I say, blame not others, only yourselves. That

is the sole way to betterment.

"Is there one here--a single one--who dares assure me, solemnly, that if

an honorable place were offered him by his master, on account of his

good work and his good judgment, with higher pay than that of his

comrades--that he would, in such case, reply, 'No, my master, I will not

accept; for that would be treachery to my comrades, and desertion to

your party.' Is there one such? If so, let him stand up."

But no one stirred, and the silence remained unbroken.

"Well, then," continued Markus, "neither is there here a single one who

has the right to rail at the rich whom he would hate and supplant. For

each of you in their place would do what the rich do. The affairs of the

world would be no better conducted were you, not they, at the helm.

"How you delude and flatter and fawn upon one another! You continually

hear that you are the innocent, downtrodden ones who have so much to

suffer; who are worthy of so much better things; who are so good and so

powerful; who would rule the world so well; whose turn it now is to have

ease and luxury.

"Men, even if this were so, would it be well that you should always be

told it? Would it not make of you conceited fools? Would not the reality

revenge itself frightfully upon yourselves, and upon those fawners and

flatterers?

"It is, instead, falsehood and conceit.

"You would not rule the world better--you have neither the wisdom nor

the charity to do so. You are no more worthy of pity than are your

oppressors, for when they injure your bodies they injure also their own

souls. The rich are in paths more perilous than are the poor, and it is

always better to suffer wrong than to commit it.

"The good things of the earth do not yet belong to you, for you would

make the same misuse of them as do those against whom you are being

incited.

"Wage war, and desist not until death; but the war of the righteous

against the unrighteous, of the wise and charitable against the stupid

and sensual. And question not whence come your companions in arms, for

you are not the only unhappy ones, you are not alone merciful among men,

and good-will and uprightness are not the exclusive possessions of the

poor."

* * * * *

Although it seemed to Johannes that Markus' voice was not so wonderfully

impressive as at other times, the people had become very attentive. And

when he stopped, and sat down without having made a particularly

oratorical or cumulative close, they all were still for many seconds.

But not a foot stamped, not a hand stirred.

And this very silence made Dr. Felbeck angry.

"Comrades," he began, in his most scornful manner, with an envious,

nasal twang in his voice, "we do net need to ask whence the wind blows.

This is one more of that obsolete little band of old-fashioned,

bourgeois idealists who wish to reform the world with tracts and

sermons, and to keep the toilers content in subjection and resignation.

Laborers, have you not, I ask, practised patience long enough? Have you,

then, no right to the pleasures of life? Must you fill the hungry

stomachs of your little ones with palaver about wisdom and charity?"

"No, no!" roared the crowd, freed instantly from the spell of respect

under which for a moment they had been held.

"Do not let yourselves be befogged by those tedious maunderings that

would reason away the strife of the classes. Oh, true! To such the

gentlemen of the safety-box listen eagerly enough, for they are, oh, so

afraid of the War of the Classes! But if they were to hear this

gentleman talk, they would shout their approval. Take notice, this

gentleman will do much to further it. Of course, they have his medal all

ready for him."

"And a pension," said Hakkema, while the audience laughed.

"He is an unfrocked priest," said he in the Manchester suit.

"Damn ye, are ye a workman?" cried a voice at the back of the hall. "And

do ye mean to say it's my fault that my children perish with hunger, and

not the fault of those cursed blood-suckers? You 're a God-forsaken

hypocrite, no laborer!"

Markus sat very still, gazing straight before him into the flame of a

gas-jet. But Johannes saw that he was deathly pale, and that his eyes

seemed to sink deeper into their sockets. Beads of perspiration were

standing on his temples.

Hakkema stood up.

"Now I chance to know, fellow-laborers, that this man has escaped from a

madhouse. That is a mitigating circumstance. Otherwise," Hakkema went

on, drawing his clenched hand from his pocket, and thrusting it out in

front of him, "otherwise I would have my fist at his jaw, and ask him if

he had no feeling at all in his accursed carcass, that he begrudged the

laborer his pittance of the good things of life. It's an enormous

amount of pleasure, isn't it--glorious pleasure--you've been able to get

on two hundred cents a day!"

"You cad!" cried the young typographer, to Markus--the very same youth

who had recited the poem about Golgotha.

"I'll invite you sometime to my home--with my six children, and a

seventh one coming, and the clothes in the pawn-shop, and no warm food

for three days--then you can see what a fine time of it the laborer

has."

"Vile, hateful traitor!" "Hireling socialist!" "I'll ring yer neck for

ye!" "I'll guzzle yer blood, ye hateful cur!" Such cries as these rang

from various sides, and the uproar steadily increased.

The man in the brown suit shrieked invectives without cessation--"Cad!

Carrion! Thief!" and the worst ones he could think of; while, in his

excitement, the tears ran down his pale, drawn cheeks.

The din was deafening.

Johannes clenched his fists, and stared at the pale, passionate faces

with their evil, flashing glances, which threatened them on every side.

He saw Marjon beside him, her eyes distended with terror. Markus sat

immovable. The drops of moisture were so thick upon his forehead and

cheeks that Johannes took his handkerchief and wiped them away.

Jan van Tijn stood up, but he felt he could do nothing to stem that

tide. He began, "Say, are you people--" But he was shouted down, with

threats of a broken head; and already fists and chairs were upraised.

Then the chief gave the signal, for which the police had so long waited,

and declared in a hard, impartial voice that the place must be vacated.

And this work was expedited, with the calm satisfaction of officials who

had indeed hoped that matters would end thus--as usual.

The Roodhuis family and the Van Tijns remained with Markus, while

Johannes and Marjon were a little in the rear. Roodhuis and Van Tijn

wished, they said, to protect Markus if he should need their help.

Markus said, "No need."

"Please, Markus," pleaded Van Tijn, "don't think it means so much. I

know the workmen. They fly off the handle so easily, but by morning

they'll shriek something else. They're not so bad--only a bit rough, you

know--sort o' half wild yet. Will ye believe me, Markus, and not despise

'em for't, nor turn yer back on 'em for't, Markus?"

"No, Jan, surely not, if only I have the strength," said Markus, in a

hoarse, unsteady voice.

XX

One chilly autumn day, the three sat together in a gloomy bar-room, just

as formerly they had done in the small mining town. And, also, the

fourth one was there, but in a pitiable condition.

Keesje lay in Markus' lap, under a covering of faded, old red baize. His

little black face was as full of folds as an old shoe, his body wasted

away, and he was panting and gasping for breath. A hairy little arm came

out from under the red baize, and a long, slim black hand clasped

Markus' thumb; and whenever Markus had occasion to use his hand, one

could see the little black monkey-hand stretch out and feel around,

while the brown eyes looked restlessly backward, as if now all safety

were gone.

They were in the total-abstainers' coffee-house, for Roodhuis continued

to proffer hospitality to Markus, although this did not help his

business. After that indignation meeting Markus' stay with Roodhuis was

made an excuse by all his friends for their avoidance of the

coffee-house. Except Van Tijn and a few other independent ones, none of

the old customers returned; but Roodhuis would not permit Markus to go

away on that account.