"Now, you must never again lower yourself for that rabble that doesn't

understand you, anyway, and isn't worth the trouble," said Marjon, with

the pride of one who knows what takes place in high circles, and esteems

one's self of better origin.

"Tell me, Johannes, what you would do," said Markus, kindly, while he

warmed Keesje's little hand in his own.

"I do not know, Markus," replied Johannes. "It was a wretched evening,

for I could not endure that it should cost you so dearly. But if they

had done it to me I would not have cared."

"That is right," said Markus. "And now, my dear Johannes, do not think

that I am less submissive than yourself. Did you indeed fancy it?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Well, then, it is not scorn which humiliates, but the doing of unworthy

deeds. And those people are not less worthy of my help than they were

before. Evil inclinations are good inclinations gone astray."

"Then are there not any wicked people?" asked Marjon.

"Ay, ay! Because there is not a black light, is there therefore no

night? Calmly call a villain a villain, but take care that you are not

one yourself, Marjon."

"But are there not, for the Father, any evil-doers?" asked Johannes.

"Why should there not be for the Father what there is for us? But He

knows--what we do _not_ know--the why and the wherefore."

"But, Markus, I saw what you endured that wretched evening. And it must

not be. Must you, then, let what is high and noble be so misunderstood

and defiled?"

Markus bowed his head in silence over the coughing monkey. Then he said

gently:

"I have suffered, my two dear ones, because my Father has not given me

strength enough. Did you not see how they listened to me, and trusted,

for an instant? But then my Father, in His own way, which is beyond our

comprehension, gave power again to the Evil One. Had I more wisdom I

should have been able so to speak that they would have understood me.

Thus I suffered doubly: on account of their dulness and wickedness, and

from shame, not of them, but because of my own weakness. And this I say,

Johannes, that you may know what weakness also there is in one who is

stronger than you yourself will ever be."

Johannes, his chin upon his clasped hands, looked at him long and

thoughtfully, and then whispered:

"Dear Brother, I believe I understand."

In this way they lived together for some time, and saw one another

frequently. Johannes and Marjon performed their daily tasks in the

boarding-house, and Markus went out every day to look for work. But

Johannes was sad and troubled to see that Markus looked more pale and

weary than formerly; and as Johannes lay awake in the night, he heard

his brother, who slept beside him, sigh often, and softly moan.

One morning Markus did not go out, for Keesje lay still, looking, and

could neither get up nor eat. When Markus took away his hand Keesje

began to whine; and this brought on a paroxysm of coughing. Markus set

him in a patch of sunshine that fell upon the counter from an upper

window. There he brightened up a bit, and looked at the flies that,

chilled with the cold, crept over the counter near his head. But toward

night, when Marjon came, it was all over with Keesje.

He was all shriveled up, and as light as a handful of straw. They put

him into a cigar box, and the trio buried him at night, by the light of

a lantern, in the bit of soggy, black ground between the foul fences

that had to represent a garden, and where shavings and papers supplied

the place of flowers and trees.

Marjon and Johannes tried to control themselves, but did not succeed.

First one and then the other began to cry.

"Truly, it is silly," said Johannes, "sobbing over such a creature, when

so many thousands of people are starving every day."

Said Markus, "There are thousands starving here, and infinitely many

more in all parts of my Father's world, but yet none cry a tear too much

who cry as you do now. The tears that the angels will shed for Johannes,

he will need as much as Keesje needs these tears of his."

XXI

At last they had had enough of smiling, of dining, and of bowing, and

the King and Queen were actually to be married in the Cathedral, at

eleven o'clock in the morning. Furthermore, it was to be a great feast

day, with brilliant illuminations at night, in all the towns of the good

Netherlands.

* * * * *

What Hakkema had said of Markus--that he had escaped from an asylum--was

not true. He had simply been released because he was not considered

dangerous, and because, nowadays, the asylums, especially those of the

working-class, are already too crowded.

But he had been warned sternly that a watch would be kept over him, and

that he would be rearrested at the slightest disturbance of the peace.

Since the indignation meeting, the police had been a number of times to

see Roodhuis, to inquire after Markus. It was further said that he had

been advised not to speak in public, because such speaking might furnish

a pretext for his immediate arrest.

Markus had not again spoken in public, but had been seeking work.

Sometimes he went afoot to neighboring towns, many hours' distant--but

always fruitlessly. He did not always lodge with Roodhuis, but sometimes

with a kind-hearted and trusted friend, at another place. Johannes

noticed that Markus was very poor, for he was obliged to live upon what

his friends gave him, and they could spare but little.

"Why do we not travel together, we three," asked Johannes, "just as we

used to? We could surely earn our living."

"Yes, those were good times," said Marjon. "And if Markus would go with

us, we would have still better ones. He makes even better music than

ours. We shall earn money."

But Markus shook his head.

"No, dear children, for us three those good times will not come again.

My singing-time is passed, and I must remain here, for my task is not

yet done. But it soon will be."

"And then shall we go together?" asked Marjon.

"No; then I shall go alone," replied Markus, briefly.

"Why alone?" asked Johannes and Marjon, almost in the same breath. And

there followed a silence of some moments' duration.

Then said Markus: "You will be faithful and remember me and my words,

and act as if I were with you, will you not?"

They sighed, and thereafter their words were few and brief; nor did they

sing.

* * * * *

But on the morning of that festal day, when the bells of all the

Netherlands were ringing, Markus came into the little tavern with a face

more joyful than Johannes had ever seen him wear. His eyes shone, and a

smile was on his lips.

"Do you hear the bells, Johannes?" asked he. "It is a holiday."

Johannes had entirely forgotten about the holiday.

"How splendid, Markus, to have you so glad. Has something good

happened?"

"Have you struck it?" asked Juffrouw Roodhuis. "Happy man!"

"The worst is over," said Markus. "Yes, Juffrouw, to-day I'll 'strike

it', and it is well."

After eating some bread, said he: "Johannes, go to the Van Tijns and ask

if Marjon may go with us. If you would like to, we will go to see the

King and Queen."

"Where?" asked Johannes.

"In the church, Johannes. The sexton is a good friend of mine, and has

promised me a place for you both, near the singers."

I shall not tell you in detail of the ceremony, for you may read all

about it in the papers: how the church was crammed with the stateliest

and most distinguished citizens of the Netherlands, all of them

beautifully dressed; how the floral decorations were furnished by a

certain firm; how people stood at the door all night that they might be

the first to enter in the morning; how the bridal pair came in to the

music of Mendelssohn's wedding march; how charming the bride looked,

although a little pale; how an impressive train of brilliantly decorated

military men and magistrates followed the royal pair, and grouped

themselves about them, till the church interior seemed truly

magnificent; how respectfully the people stood, and how stirred they all

were; how the Minister made a brief but touching speech, that affected

all profoundly; how finely, during the customary formalities, the King

carried himself, and how winsomely the Queen; how the Queen, moreover,

said "Yes" in a voice that thrilled all present; how the King then spoke

a few words, in which he promised to consecrate all his powers to the

good of his beloved people, and invoked the blessing-of God upon his

difficult but exalted task; and how, finally, a thundering "Long live

the King!" and "Long live the Queen!" burst forth, making the whole vast

edifice resound.

With all of this the papers have accurately acquainted you. But you

might perhaps recall that a number of journals had something to say of a

slight disturbance caused by the appearance of one who probably was not

quite right in his head. The incident, however--so the papers

averred--had no significance whatever, and was speedily forgotten; such

instances often occurring at ceremonies attended by great crowds.

The disturber of the peace--so the papers stated--was one whom the

police had long held under surveillance, on account of his peculiar

behavior. He was, therefore, promptly taken into custody, the police,

indeed, having had no little difficulty in protecting him from the fury

of the populace. The royal pair, not in the least agitated by the

occurrence, drove home through the enthusiastic rejoicings of the

people, greeting all with friendly smiles.

This, then, was the information imparted by some few of the

newspapers--not all of them. But now I will tell you what actually took

place. I know well, because Johannes and Marjon--for whom the sexton had

secured a fine place with the singers in the church choir, and who,

therefore, witnessed everything--told me all about it.

* * * * *

In the nave of the cathedral, above the arches of the aisles, and

running beneath the high windows, is a very narrow gallery having a

stone balustrade. The only way to this gallery is through small doorways

called "Monks' Holes." They are so named because from them, in olden

times, the friars could witness the church rites below.

When the King had ended his brief speech, and all present, being deeply

impressed, held respectful silence, there appeared up above, through one

of these openings, a man in a spacious, dun-grey mantle, with a white

cloth about his neck. And suddenly, in the deep silence, the voice of

this man--much fuller and more powerful than that of the King--cried

out, so that they echoed and re-echoed from every corner of the great

temple, these words:

"King of men!"

At once everybody looked up, including the King and Queen, who were

directly opposite.

But the man was not looking at them. He held his head a little backward,

and his dark hair fell down in curls over the white linen. His eyes,

beneath their half-closed lids, were gazing into the light of the arched

windows opposite him as if to screen the inner vision from the too

fierce outer light. His figure was tall and erect. One hand rested on

the white balustrade, the other was raised to the height of his head, in

a strange and majestic posture of authority.

Again he cried:

"Hail to thee, King of men!"

The master of ceremonies with his white staff, the generals, stiff with

gold, the diplomats and magistrates, all looked with something of

wonder, by turns at the speaker, at one another, and at the royal pair,

not knowing but that it was a special addition to the program, of which

there was no official mention. But since it had made an impression, and

seemed to befit the temper and spirit of the assembly, all continued to

listen. And the conductor of the choir of children, whose turn it now

was to take part, waited and listened as well. And quite without

hindrance, Markus spoke the following:

"Hail to him who should be called the King of men!-Blessed is he who

merits that name.

"For he is crowned by the grace of God, which is wisdom. His sceptre is

love, and his seat is righteousness.

"Among the millions who wander and complain, he is the strong and wise

one, who goes before and lights the way.

"Blessed is his progress, for without effort he leads the multitude.

"Blessed are his thoughts, for beyond all others he fore-sees the

marvels of the Father.

"Blessed is his word, for he is the poet who fashions worlds after the

pattern of the Father. God's mouthpiece he is.

"Joyful is he in the midst of sadness and happy in all adversity; for

wherever he goes he dwells in the shadow of the Eternal, and hears His

wings above him.

"Among the countless lame and maimed, in the multitude of the defective

and infirm, he is the only perfect one, showing what it is possible for

man to be.

"Strong is he, and beautiful in person; proud and unpretentious; daring

and patient; wise in great, and sagacious in lesser, things; stern in

deed, yet tender-hearted; unlimited in love; gentle, but never weak.

"For he is the only hale flower of perfect bloom in a full field of the

pale and the deformed. Honor be to him! Elect him, and encompass him

with care and with homage; for in him exists the future and the entire

race.

"He is the director of the ways of men, and bears with ease the burden

of their sorrow and their care, for he knows the issue and the solution.

"He is the maker and maintainer of order in human relations, because he

knows and comprehends, and beholds in his mind, like an accurate map,

the longings and emotions of men.

"He operates not through pressure of fear or force, but through the

superiority of his mind, which must be perceptible to all.

"He is the regulator of the labor of men, teaching them how to bring

forth and to distribute in such manner that none may have overflow while

others suffer scarcity; and also that none may be idle while others

overwork. He plans and confirms the bond through which each finds his

place in the great family, so that life becomes fine and orderly and

easy, like the figures of a well-drilled dance.

"Such is the King of men. His power is given him, not through the

unreasoning, capricious fancy of the undeveloped who are the slaves of

custom and of idle, impressionable fear, but through the reasonable

views of the multitude who follow and honor, in him, their own best

self.

"He moves not in the splendor of external pomp, neither wears he a

golden crown; but around his head streams, visible to all, the grace of

God, which is wisdom, love, and beauty."

* * * * *

When Markus had said this, people here and there began to be restless.

The master of ceremonies indicated that enough had been said, and sent

one lackey to the choir-conductor to ask why, according to regulations,

there was no singing, and another lackey to the door to see if the

carriages were in waiting.

But the carriages were not yet there, and the children who were to sing

the chorus now in order, remained, with perplexed faces and open mouths,

gazing at that strange figure speaking as if out of the sky in such a

marvelous voice. The conductor failed to attract their attention, and

realized that all his painstaking, studious preparations for the song

were useless.

Markus paid not the slightest heed to the increasing unrest and

nervousness, nor to the commanding gestures of the irritated master of

ceremonies that he cease speaking; instead, he now raised his voice

until it reverberated from the high vaultings:

"Where is he, that King of men?

"Where is the people's King? Where is the people's Queen--his peer--who

supports and supplements him?

"Seek them, ye unhappy ones! Never so much as now have you had need of

them.

"Seek them in every land; for misery and ugliness and barrenness and

confusion are not much longer to be endured.

"Seek them in the city and in the country. Seek them also in the alleys

and in the hovels. Yes, seek them in the prisons and in the places of

execution. For even so great is your confusion."

Then, bending his head toward the royal pair below, and fastening upon

them and the surrounding group of splendid notables his flashing glance,

Markus shouted in vehement, resounding tones:

"But seek them not here. Has the light of the grace of God pointed

hither?

"Has the grace of God become here evident to all, like a shining aureole

of wisdom and love and beauty?

"What children and mischief-makers you are--you there, with your robes

of state, and your badges of dignity,--that you think to create a king

without the manifestation of the grace of God!

"Deluded by an empty sound, by a dynastic name, you in your ignorance

would proclaim, 'Here is a king, and here therefore must God's grace be

manifested, for even so we wish it to be.'

"Would you, like mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, dictate to

your God, and show Him where to bestow His grace?

"Who has beheld in this pair of wretched human beings the wisdom,

beauty, love, and power which are the visible tokens of God's elect?

"Do you not tremble, then, at the fearful responsibility you take upon

yourselves, and put also upon these two pitiable people, by this

blasphemous child's-play?"

* * * * *

The excitement now became more serious. That the King and Queen, counts

and barons, generals, court marshals, state counselors and ministers

should be called mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, was not to

be tolerated.

The King grew red, coughed in his glove, and looked angrily at the

master of ceremonies. The Queen, on the contrary, grew pale, and

nervously fingered the folds of her heavy, white-satin train. Half

turning round, a quick-witted courtier beckoned to the organist, and

shouted: "Music!" A general--Johannes recognized him as one of the

"Pleiades"--in an attempt at guarding his Rulers, cried out with all

the dramatic importance and bluffness of a war-charge:

"Silence, miscreant!"

But it had to be admitted that this sounded more ridiculous than

impressive. And not one of the courtiers, officers, or magistrates felt

individually powerful enough to set himself by voice and bearing against

that forceful speaker. Each felt that he would appear theatrical. And

the man in the grey cloak, up above there, was not that. Besides, the

assembly gave no countenance to such effort, and was, like every great

gathering of people, under the influence of the most powerful

personality.

At last, the organist comprehended what was desired of him in this

critical situation, and drawing out all the stops he sent forth a heavy

peal of trembling sound. In the meantime, two policemen were despatched

aloft to silence the undesirable speaker.

But the majestic music rang out upon the words of Markus as if in solemn

confirmation. So at least it seemed to Johannes, and to many others in

the church. Markus ceased speaking, and appeared to be listening,

pensively.

The policemen returned without having attained their object. The gallery

could only be reached by climbing over a great beam, having broken and

decayed supports, one hundred feet above the floor. The officers,

becoming dizzy, lost their zest for the affair, and the firemen had to

be sent for.

The music stopped again, and yet there was no continuance of the

ceremonies. Markus still stood calmly in his elevated place, looking

down upon the throng below with that sad expression of countenance which

Johannes knew so well. And yet again, softer, but with keen and cutting

penetration:

"Oh, ye poor, poor people! Slaves of the devil, called custom!

"You know no better, and cannot do otherwise. You mean to perform your

duty, and to reach that which is good and holy.

"How would you possibly find your King? And how would you maintain

order--holy order--without these two people; without him whom you happen

to have named your king, as you might have named some foundling?

"But notwithstanding you have felt, every one of you, that I spoke the

truth just now, you yet will continue this unblushing lie because you

dare not do otherwise, and because you know no other way.

"But bethink yourselves, unhappy beings! Cowardice and weakness shall

not excuse you, if, knowing the lie, you adhere to it, and, seeing the

truth, you accept it not.

"What you endure is indeed terrible. I esteem you still more worthy of

pity than the neglected people out of whose misery you have extracted

your splendor.

"You have burdened this poor pair of human beings with royalty--a power

befitting only the strongest and the wisest among men.

"Thus do you crush their weak spirits under a weight which only the

strongest can bear. You desecrate the name of King--you blaspheme

against God, whose grace is not subject to your command.

"You dazzle your bewildered people with a blinding glare, as if they

truly had a king. But it is an idle puppet-show, to comply with a hollow

peace and a defective method. There is none among you who has the wisdom

and the might to lead this people into righteousness; and yet you bear

all the responsibility for their confusion, their ignorance, their

crudeness, and their misery.

"And they are the least guilty, because, in working for your luxury,

they miss the opportunity to learn.

"But you pride yourselves upon your knowledge and your refinement. You

know how the industrious lack food, and the rich have the privilege of

idleness. You know how an over-abundance flows to you from the

deprivations of the neglected. You know the injustice of all this, and

yet permit it. And on these two unfortunates you impose the

responsibility and the lie.

"But you know--and you shall not be justified!

"And you, two unfortunates, corrupted by the burden of your imposed

greatness--poor man, poor, poor little woman! The superhuman power to

break the spell of lies round about you will not be yours. May the Good

Father, who hath not poured out His grace upon you, encompass you with

His compassion."

* * * * *

Just then an excited young adjutant drew out a revolver, and cried, "He

insults the Queen!"

A more moderate diplomat, fearing a panic, held back his hand. The cry

"He insults the Queen!" was repeated at the entrance to the church. And

an uproar was heard outside, for, at the coming of the firemen, the

waiting crowds had overheard something about a murderer, or a madman,

who was in the upper part of the church.

The helmeted men now appeared in the small gallery, and dragged Markus

aside. They immediately bound him with strong cords, fearing he might

throw them down below. Then one of them first made his way over the big

beam, and ordered Markus to come to him. After that, the other

cautiously followed.

The assembly could not see this, because it took place in the dark ridge

of the aisle; but all breathed freely once more, now that the powerful

voice up above was silent. Again the organ pealed forth, and the royal

pair, ceremoniously preceded by the court official, at last proceeded

toward the exit, for the carriages were now ready. The singing by the

children was omitted. Everything else went just as the daily papers have

recorded it for you.

* * * * *

Markus, tightly bound, was led out through a side door, yet not so

secretly but that the crowd became aware thereof, and a riotous mob soon

encircled the firemen and their prisoner.

"The Queen insulted!" they shrieked. "Kill him! Orange forever!" And

they pressed closer and closer.

When Johannes and Marjon, hurried and breathless, had forced their way

out through the disorderly throng, they saw, in the distance, above the

encircling crowds, the shining helmets, swaying and undulating as they

gradually moved farther and farther away. Hands, hats, walking-sticks,

and umbrellas could be seen, now uplifted and then lowered.

The two followed on, in extreme anxiety, but they were not so fortunate

as to get close by. They saw the red, angry faces of men and women, and

heard the shouts of, "Orange forever!" and "Kill him!" At last, to their

relief, they saw approaching a long file of policemen, who forced their

way through the crowd. The people now pressed closely about the entrance

to a narrow alley in which was the police-station. Then Johannes saw a

man take up a large iron ash-can that stood on a stoop at the corner of

the alley, and toss it so that it came down in the middle of the

clamoring crowd where Markus was. A great cloud of yellow-white ashes

flew from it, and the rabble laughed and cheered. The police cleared the

alley, and the mob slowly scattered, with the triumphant shout: "Orange

forever!"

When Johannes peered into the alley, between the policemen who would not

let him through, he saw Markus--no longer walking, but only an inert

body under the weight of which the firemen were moving with shuffling

feet.

Marjon and Johannes waited patiently during what seemed an hour. It

might have been only fifteen minutes. Then they obtained permission to

pass through, and to see their brother in the station-house.

When questioned, an officer, who was sitting at the entrance, pointed

over his shoulder with his pipe-stem to a dark corner.

There, upon the wooden floor, unconscious, lay Markus. His clothing was

torn to rags; his hair, his beard, his eyebrows and lashes, were white

with ashes; and over all were dark red clots and streaks of coagulated

blood. He breathed heavily and painfully. There was no one close beside

him, and he lay unwashed and uncared for, with the rope still around his

wrists.

Johannes and Marjon asked for water, but were not permitted to do

anything. They had to wait until the municipal doctor came. Tightly

clasping each other's hand, they waited, watching their friend. At last

the doctor came, and cut away the rope. It was not a mortal hurt, he

said.

They saw the ambulance, with its white awning come, and saw Markus laid

therein. Then, hand in hand, they walked behind to the door of the

hospital, without speaking a word.

* * * * *

That evening there were great rejoicings and brilliant illuminations in

all the towns and villages of the dear Netherlands. Everywhere there

were flaming torches and exploding fireworks, and on all sides rang

strains of "Wilhelmus!" and "Orange forever!"

The King and Queen were glad when at last the day was ended.

XXII

Johannes and Marjon both held out bravely until night, doing their daily

work as well as they could, and telling briefly, to the few faithful

friends of Markus, what had occurred.

But when the lonesome night was come, and they were about to part for

several hours, Johannes said:

"No, do not go away from me! How can I endure it--alone with my

thoughts--without you!"

They were in the little kitchen where Marjon slept. A small lamp,

without a shade, stood burning on the table beside an untidy coffee-set.

When Johannes said this, Marjon looked at him with puzzled, half-closed

eyes, as if she did not understand and was trying to think it out. Then

she threw herself forward upon her pillow, her face in her hands, and

began to cry piteously.

At that Johannes also broke down, and kneeling beside her poor, rickety

little iron bed, he cried with her like one in desperation.

Then said Johannes: "What shall we do without him, Marjon?"

Marjon made no reply.

"Do you remember that he said he should soon go away from us?"

"If only I could nurse him," she said.

"Is he going to die?" asked Johannes.

"He can die as well as we. Is he not flesh and blood?"

"He will never really die, though."

"Nor will we, Jo. But what does that avail us? I can't do without him."

And she sobbed again, hopelessly.

"Perhaps it is not so had," said Johannes. "We will call in the morning,

and they surely will let us see him."

And so they talked on for a time. Then Johannes said:

"Let me stay with you, Marjon. It really seems as if I never again could

go away from you."

Marjon looked at him through her tears, and even smiled.

"But, Jo, we cannot do as we used to. We are no longer children. I am

already eighteen, and are you not that also?"

"Then let us become husband and wife, so that we can remain together,"

said Johannes.

"Then you no longer love that other one more than me?"

"I think not, Marjon; for she would understand nothing of this, and

certainly would not join us in our sorrow."

"But, dear boy, we are far too young to become husband and wife."

"I do not understand, Marjon. First you find us too old to stay

together, and then you find us too young. And yet I want to remain with

you. How can it be done?"

"Listen, Jo. Formerly you said to me, 'No foolishness,' and that hurt me

for I cared much more for you than you did for me. Why were you never

more kind to me then?"

"Because I was forced to remember that ugly, dark woman, your sister. I

cannot bear the thought of her."

Marjon reflected a while, and then said:

"But that is no reason for you to be hard toward me, Jo. I am not low,

like her."

Johannes was silent. Then she resumed:

"But then I know what, Jo: you may stay here. But now _I_ shall say 'No

foolishness,' and remain unyielding until you shall have forgotten that

ugly woman. Will that do?"

"Yes, Marjon," replied Johannes. Then a pillow and some covering were

given him, and he lay on the hard floor of the little kitchen the entire

night. And now and then, as one of them became aware that the other was

still awake, they would talk together, softly, about their poor friend,

each trying to comfort the other.

And thus it happened, as I told you it would, that, before the ending of

the book, they became husband and wife.

But when Johannes forgot the ugly, dark woman Marjon's sister I do not

tell you; for that does not concern others.

XXIII

The humble little kitchen, in the first pale, glimmering light that

passed through the unwashed, uncurtained window; two rush-bottomed

chairs; the unpainted table with the oil-lamp and the untidy coffee-set;

Marjon's narrow iron bed, which quaked if she merely stirred; her

breathing, now deep and regular, for at last she slept; the first

chirping of the sparrows out-of-doors; continually before Johannes'

mental vision the pale face of his kind Brother, befouled with blood and

ashes; in his ears the powerful voice resounding through the arches of

the church; the howling of the mob; and then--his own body, stiff and

sore, on the hard, wooden boards....

Then, all at once, light! Bright, golden sunlight, a mild, refreshingly

fragrant air, all pain away, an elastic, feather-light body--and the

majestic sound of the sea.

Where was he? Where--where!

Oh, he knew; he felt in himself where he was.

He recognized the feeling of self-consciousness, although he had not

recalled his surroundings.

But he heard the ocean--heard it roaring grandly as only it roars on a

level, sandy coast; and he heard the whistling of wind in the rushes.

And he watched the play of the grey-green waves as they came rolling

in--their long lines of shining breakers crested with combing white,

dashing and splashing and foaming over the flat stretches of sand.

He had seen it all for years, and every day it was the same, from age to

age.

And when he glanced round to see if his little friend Wistik, whom he

hoped to find, was also here, he saw, close beside him, a bright little

figure sitting quite still and gazing out over the sea.

It was not Wistik. No, for this one had the large, gauzy wings of a

dragon-fly, and a little mantle of delicate blue waving gently in the

sea-breeze.

"Windekind!" exclaimed Johannes.

Then the bright being looked at him, and he recognized the dear,

enigmatical eyes, and the exquisite hair--a bloom-like blonde like the

mere sheen of gold--with its flower-crown of green and white.

"Here we are again," said Windekind.

"Then did you not die with Father Pan?" asked Johannes, in astonishment.

"I live forever," said Windekind.

Johannes thought this over. He was tranquil again, as he always was

here. Life, so rude and painful, seemed now very far away. He felt only

calmness and contentment, although he well knew that his body still lay

on the hard floor.

Then he asked, "Does not that bore you?"

Windekind laughed, and held out in front of him his flower, which he

used as a staff. It was not an iris, but a strange, splendid blossom--a

lily or an orchid--blue, striped with white and gold.

"Silly boy!" said he. "To be bored is to be no longer able to enjoy

anything. I am not a human being, that gets bored after a few years. I

am not weary of happiness."

"Never?" asked Johannes.

"That I do not know," answered Windekind; "but not yet. If life were to

bore me, then I should die and return to my Father. He can never grow

weary."

"And have you grown still wiser?"

Windekind looked tenderly and very seriously at Johannes.

"Do you see my flower?" he asked. "This is not my old iris. This is much

more beautiful. Oh, Mother Earth is greatly changed; and so am I."

Johannes looked about him. But everything appeared as before: the long

lines of delicate green dunes; the sky, all mottled with white clouds;

the graceful sea-gulls rocking in the wind, with their cry of grand and

lonely liberty. But on the water not a sail was to be seen, nor on the

strand a person.

"How good it is to see you again," said Johannes. "I have been so sorry

about Father Pan. And now I am very anxious about my poor Brother."

But as Johannes said this he felt quite calm and peaceful; and this

puzzled him.

Windekind looked at him, and smiled mysteriously.

"That was a long time ago," he said.

And when Johannes gazed at him in amazement, he repeated:

"Long ago--quite a thousand years."

"A thousand years?" murmured Johannes, mistrustfully.

"Yes, truly a thousand years," said Windekind, positively. "I have grown

old, although you cannot see it in me. But the longer those of my race

live, the younger they grow, in nature and appearance. Learn that

yourself, Johannes--it is well to. I have grown stronger with the

centuries, and more elastic--wiser and more loving. That's the way. I

have not now an enemy upon earth. I have made up with that small goblin

Wistik. He is a right good fellow, after all."

"Is he not?" exclaimed Johannes, delighted. "I too have noticed that."

"Yes," said Windekind, "when he has a leader. I have also become

reconciled to human beings."

"Oh, splendid, splendid!" cried Johannes. "I know who has done that!"

"Right!" said Windekind, nodding. "Your good Brother did it."

Then Johannes saw great numbers of sea-gulls flocking together from all

sides, wheeling and screaming because of something in the distance that

was drawing nearer from out over the sea. It was like a large bird

soaring on vast, silently outspread wings. The fierce sunlight fell upon

it, making it flash like burnished gold, or like some shining metal. As

it came nearer Johannes saw that it had the pretty colors of a swallow,

steel-blue, brown and white, but with gilded beak and claws, and that

long, variegated feathers, or ribbons, were streaming out behind,

because of its rapid flight. The exquisite white of the circling,

screaming sea-gulls was in sharp contrast with the huge, dark-colored

hulk. A soft, clear sound came from above, as of clinking glass attuned

like bells.

"What is that immense creature?" asked Johannes; for the shadow of it

moved over the sea like that of a cloud.

"That is not a creature," replied Windekind. "There are human beings in

it, but they are not at all ugly now, nor ridiculous. Only look!"

And Johannes saw, from its immobility, that it was not a bird, but a

colossal air-ship in the form of a bird. And also he could see, clearly,

that lightly dressed figures were moving to and fro along the decks,

tossing crumbs to the sea-gulls that, fluttering, and crying caught them

up.

Then the great shining wings altered their course, and with a graceful

movement the colossus dipped gently downward, skimming the level sandy

beach for the distance of a hundred yards.

At last it was still, and Johannes could admire the splendid structure:

the glittering gold, the gleaming steel-blue decorations, and the

bright-hued banners and pennants with gold-lettered mottoes that

fluttered in the breeze.

"Climb up," cried Windekind, "it is going away again. It will not stay a

great while."

"Are you going along?" asked Johannes.

"Yes," replied Windekind. "I am at home with these people. But remember

they cannot see us yet, any more than could those a thousand years ago.

They are still only human beings."

Johannes, his hand in Windekind's, floated up to the air-ship, and

nestled in the golden crown upon the head of the bird. Secluded there,

they could see what the people were doing.

The people were strong and handsome, like those in the realms of Father

Pan; but their hair was darker, and their faces, with thoughtful eyes,

were more earnest. And they all resembled Johannes' Brother--as if they

were all one large family, and akin to him.

The garments of all of them were much alike--exceedingly simple. They

were of unfigured material, similar to linen, with the pretty, sober

coloring of some birds--the wood-dove and the peregrine; and all were

bordered with fine, bright-colored embroidery. Almost without exception

the passengers carried flowers. And festoons of flowers hung in every

part of the ship; but these were wilted, and diffused the sweet, keen

fragrance of roses.

All went with heads uncovered, and their waving hair was thick, but not

long. There was little to distinguish the dress of the men from that of

the women; but the men all wore full beards, and the women braids of

hair wound about their heads.

Now, leaving their vessel for a short time, they raced along the beach,

laughing merrily, and glad of the exercise. Johannes saw that they wore

sandals--just like the man in brown at Roodhuis'; and he had to laugh at

the recollection. The younger ones were barefooted.

After they had bathed and played, they climbed into the ship again; and,

taking their places, all facing the sea, they sang a song. Although

Johannes did not understand the words, he knew the meaning of them. It

sounded like a psalm, but was more fine and earnest than any he had ever

heard.

"That is the song of thanks they always sing after a safe passage over

the great water," said Windekind. "Yes, they mean it, for they all know

the Father. See how they mean it."

And Johannes saw the deep emotion in their earnest faces, and the tears

that glistened beneath the eyes of the younger women. And he heard the

quiver of feeling in their full, pure voices.

Then the magnificent great bird, with a strange clatter of unfolding

wings, with the whirring of unseen wheels, and the klink-klank of glass

bells, rose slowly, and pointed its golden beak and its fixed, crystal

eyes toward the land.

"But how does it move?" asked Johannes.

"Could you have explained to your forefathers how an electric vehicle of

your own time was propelled?" asked Windekind. "Then do not ask that

question, but rather, take a look at your native country, and see how

beautiful it has become."

The long line of coast was visible as they ascended, and Johannes could

see extending into the ocean at regular distances great dikes of

dark-grey stone, over which the white foam of the waves was splashing.

"They are not handsome, but necessary," said Windekind. "But here are

our dunes."

And behold! They were as fair and free as in the olden days--a wide,

open wilderness without hedge or fence, without shavings or paper. The

hollows were full of little green groves; and there the white hawthorn

blossomed, and the singing of hundreds of nightingales ascended to their

high position. Johannes saw, as of old, the little white tails of

thousands of rabbits, flipping over the grey-green stretches of moss.

And also he saw people--sometimes by twos or threes, then in large

groups. But they did not disturb the harmony of the peaceful scene, and

their delicate grey, soft brown, and subdued green clothing was quite in

keeping with the tender tints of the landscape.

After that came the verdant country. And how excited Johannes was when,

in his flight, he saw it looking like one great, flowery, tree-filled

park!

The bright green fields were there, the straight ditches and canals; but

everywhere were trees. Sometimes they stood alone--mighty giants casting

broad shadows; sometimes in great forests, each one vast expanse of

foliage, cool and rustling, where the wood-doves cooed, and golden

thrushes whistled. Gorgeous blossoms and thickly flowered shrubs, such

as Johannes had seen only in gardens, were everywhere--growing wild in

such masses that, from above, they sometimes looked like carpets of

glowing red or deepest blue.

And the small white houses of the people, looking as if some giant had

sawed them out with supple hand, were dotted about in the midst of the

verdure and flowers. But on the borders of the water, by lakes and

rivers and canals, were they strewn most thickly. The shining blue

waters appeared to be the magnet which had attracted the little square

blocks.

"You see, indeed, Johannes," said Windekind, "it was their own fault

that human beings seemed out of place in Nature. They had no reverence

for her, and harmed her in their stupidity. They have now learned from

Nature how beautiful and like unto her they themselves may be, and they

have made friends with her. They have taught their children, from their

earliest infancy, to do no needless damage to flower or leaf, and to

kill no creature ruthlessly; taught them also to desire to be worthy of

their place in the midst of all those beautiful and charming objects.

Sacred reverence for all that is beautiful, and for everything that has

life, is now strictly enjoined. Thus is peace preserved between man and

Nature, and they live in intimate relations, neither annoying the

other."

"But, Windekind, where are the cities? I see only scattered houses and

churches. And where are the iron railways and their sooty stations? And

where are the factories, with their tall chimneys and dirty smoke?"

"My dear Johannes, ought ugly things to be retained any longer than

extreme need for them demands?"

"Are not, then, railroads and cities and factories necessities?"

"There are still factories, but they do not have to be ugly. There they

are--finer than many palaces of a thousand years ago. And why tracks of

iron, when the broad ways of the air are open and free to all? And why

swarm in cramped quarters, high over one another, so long as there is

dwelling-room amid the flowers and the verdure? Men were not so stupid

but that they found a way to dispense with all that ugliness, and to

drive their engines without the burning of dusty, deeply buried coal.

But still some roads remain. Look!"

And Johannes saw that all the dwellings were connected by roads--some of

them fourfold and broad, of a dark russet color; others like narrow

white ribbons winding through the grass from house to house. And people

were passing over them, afoot, or in small, swiftly moving vehicles.

"It is a holiday," said Windekind. "Such days are now really happy and

holy days, without the deadly dreariness of the former ones."

Everywhere Johannes saw little churches having pointed spires in the old

Dutch style; but now they were full of statuary and ornament. The doors

stood open, and people were passing through. And now Johannes heard the

sound of music coming out of those little churches--as pure and as fine

as the best he had ever heard.

"Oh, Windekind, how I should love to go in and listen to that splendid

music! I do so want to," said Johannes.

But Windekind put his finger to his lips, and said:

"Hush! We are going to hear still better. Our voyagers are going to a

much larger church, where most beautiful music can be heard. They are

pilgrims, such as go from all countries every year, at this time, to

celebrate the great festival."

"Do I not see another air-ship, Windekind? And there--still another?"

asked Johannes.

"Yes; perhaps, indeed, one may be going along with us," said Windekind.

"That will make it lively."

And very soon there actually came a second air-ship--a big brother-bird,

that flew up to them. Then the flags dipped, and wide dark-blue banners,

bearing silver-lettered mottoes, were unfurled to the breeze. The people

waved, and shouted aloud. And when the twin birds were so close together

that the tips of their great bright wings nearly touched, the people on

Johannes' ship struck up an anthem--a full and powerful song--that was

immediately responded to by an antistrophe from the other ship. And thus

they took turns, first one, then the other, for quite a time.

Johannes' heart was warmed by this sweet understanding among peoples

wholly unknown to one another.

"Do all men now speak the same language?" he asked his friend.

"Do you not hear what they are singing? All people have chosen that

language as the most beautiful and the most natural. It is Greek."

"I do not know Greek," said Johannes, regretfully.

"But just look at that pennant, then, on the other ship. What does it

say?"

"That is Dutch, Windekind--ordinary Dutch," cried Johannes. And he read:

"_There is no Death_," and "_Gladness only endures_." And he also read

the name of the ship, "_he Heron_."

Then his own ship dropped down again, upon a level meadow close beside

some large buildings of grey freestone, charmingly sculptured, and

there, for some mysterious reason, the vessel lay a long while--to get

up power, thought Johannes. And the pilgrims took advantage of the delay

to dance over the meadows with graceful steps, and also to replace with

fresh flowers the wilted festoons.

Then they rose again, and whizzed through the still, summer air toward

the south. Johannes noticed that not much more than half the land was

devoted to field and orchard and vegetable-garden, and that all the rest

was forest and park and flower-garden; that there were no hedges nor

fences, nor any walls, except those against which grapes and peaches

were growing. He did indeed still see brown and white sails on lake and

river--that beautiful and ever charming spectacle--but there were no

more of the tall four-armed windmills. And that was a pity.

"One cannot demand everything," said Windekind.

Johannes saw colossal wheels, like anchored paddle-wheels, glistening in

the sunlight--turning constantly, and moved by some mysterious force.

That certainly was better than smoking chimneys.

And nowhere was it dirty, nowhere was there wan poverty, nowhere the

deathly ugliness and monotonous melancholy of the cities. He saw no

ragged nor wretched people, no unsightly regions of refuse and lumber.

In the places where he knew the cities to have been, there were now

verdant tracts vocal with the songs of birds, and fruitful, well-tilled

fields and gardens.

"The housekeeping of the world is revolutionized, dear Johannes," said

Windekind. "It lasted quite a while, and cost considerable bickering;

but that is all over now, and everything is according to method. I

myself take real pleasure in it."

And from his golden seat he gazed over the country, like a tiny pretty

king, who, proud and well-satisfied, rules his domain with a floral

sceptre.

"Watch, now: we are going higher. We have to fly over the mountains."

And the ship rose until the people below were no longer visible, and at

last even the houses disappeared. It grew chilly as they cut through the

white mists of the great clouds; and, as of old, Windekind threw his

little blue mantle about Johannes. Thus they went on for hours, in fog

and mist, and the mighty vessel quivered with the speed of its flight.

The voyagers were still, and stayed, snug and safe, inside. On they

rushed, through rain and through snow, catching occasional glimpses of

wide tempestuous landscapes, with green fields, foaming rivers,

snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and lakes of gleaming blue.

"Is the whole world as beautiful now, and as well cared for, as my own

country?" asked Johannes.

"The work of men is never complete," replied Windekind, "and that is

good for them, else they would become too proud. Asia and Africa are a

long way yet from being in trim, possibly they never will be. But then

it is all very well as it is--very well. A thousand years ago one could

not have said that."

How long they had been speeding thus, Johannes could not say. It seemed

to him many hours. Then the great billows of cloud grew more and more

transparent, and again the green land beneath them became visible, and

also a deep, deep blue sea.

"Is it Italy?" asked Johannes. Windekind nodded, and Johannes hoped they

would stay still a while so that he might see the beautiful country of

which the priest had told him. Then the ship descended until people and

houses could again be distinguished, and Johannes saw a scene so grand,

so rich, so overwhelming, that he was startled and almost speechless. He

could only say, thinking of Marjon, "Oh, how shall I describe all this?"

For the scene was exhibited with a fulness and variety that left no time

for close observation. It was a landscape and a world-city in one--an

extraordinary valley, down which the vessel now drifted, full of trees,

verdure, flowers, buildings, statues, and people. Just before him he saw

a gigantic azalea-tree covered with red flowers; farther on, a long

arcade, overgrown with ivy, extending down to the foot of the vale. Then

a temple with tall, slender, white pillars, also overgrown with ivy. In

the middle of the valley stood a colossal piece of sculpture--simply a

head. Johannes saw the sun shining upon it. And farther on there were

structures unending, and thousands and thousands of people. Altogether,

it gave him an impression of happiness and of beauty indescribable.

Johannes could only cry, "How splendid! How splendid!" doing his utmost

to take in everything, that he might remember and describe it to Marjon.

But he felt that it would be beyond his powers, and so deeply moved was

he by the beauty of the scene that he cried out, "It is too glorious! I

cannot bear it!" And he wondered if the ship was going to stop there.

It did not stop, but floated farther on--not far now from the

ground--and followed the rocky coast. Johannes remembered the red rocks

and the coast where he and Wistik had sat when the Devil appeared. This

country, also, looked well-tilled and inhabited, after the manner of his

own country.

Then they put out again, over the blue, deep sea, and observed how it

was navigated by large, swift vessels, without either sail or steam.

They seemed to glide over the water as sledges over the snow, and the

white foam flew high up over the bows.

* * * * *

Then after a long voyage there loomed from the sea, like a violet

shadow, a large island; and, although it was broad daylight, it seemed

as if above that island a bright yellow-white star were sparkling.

"That is our goal," said Windekind. "Take heed, now, you are going to

see something fine."

And when they came nearer, Johannes could not tell what it was: whether

the island was Nature's work, or some marvel wrought by the hand of man.

For that whole great island, that from a distance had looked like a

mountain, appeared, when approached, to be entirely covered with

buildings--a piling up of pillars and roofs that soared one above

another, and converged to an awe-inspiring dome. That crowning dome

sparkled in the clear, sunlit air like an arrested cloud--with the

silvery, light green, and dark blue splendor of a glacier covered with

thousands of beautifully sculptured, inverted icicles; and upon the top

shone the yellow-white light which, even in broad daylight, seemed to be

a star.

So immense and so numerous were the structures, that one could not tell

what the natural form of the island had been, nor what had been made by

human hands.

Coming still nearer, one could see green masses of foliage filling all

the spaces between the buildings, up to the very top. The whole island

seemed a miracle of art and nature; of columns of pure white, of silver

and silver-blue; of cupolas, bronze-green or golden; while amidst them

all was the dark green of the dense groves and the shrubbery, above

which rose the tufted palms on their slender, slightly curved stems.

"Oh, Windekind," cried Johannes, "is this a story?"

"This is a story," said Windekind, "as fine as any I ever told you. But

this one is true. Human beings first heard of it through me, and then

they resolved to build it as soon as they could find time, and

housekeeping was systematized. It could have been somewhat finer, but

still it came out very nicely, especially when you reflect that they

have had merely a hundred years in which to work out the plan;

considering, also, that, when half completed, an earthquake destroyed

it."

"What is it that glitters on that high dome at the summit of the island?

It looks like a distant star. Is it fire?"

"That is not fire, Johannes, but metal--a golden flame. It is a piece of

gilded metal, that always glow's in the sunlight as if it were burning.

By means of that flame the people wish to indicate their ardent love."

"Love for whom, Windekind--for one another, or for God?"

"They know no difference, Johannes," said Windekind.

With radiant faces the pilgrims stood gazing at the spectacle; and,

shouting their joy, they sang again. Only a few of the older ones

appeared to have seen the island before.

The sea was now covered with large white vessels speeding to and fro,

and one could also see air-ships flying thither from all points of the

compass, like herons to their nesting-place.

Then Johannes vessel settled down upon a great grassy plain close to the

shore, and the pilgrims alighted. They were embarrassed and bewildered

now by all that surrounded them--by the multitude of air-ships, and also

by the people, among whom they felt shy and strange.

Hundreds of these ships were now at rest--a brilliant spectacle, all

differently rigged and adorned, and patterned after various birds. There

were hawks and eagles, and giant beetles, entirely of bronze, looking

like gold. There were moths of green-reflecting metal; and dragon-flies

with wings of iridescent glass; wasps with bodies ringed with black and

yellow; butterflies having enormous yellow wings, marked with

peacock-eyes of blue, from which long pennants, black and red, streamed

out behind.

There was now considerable commotion throughout the grassy plain, among

those who, just arrived, were trying to find their way.

On the coast, around the whole island, was an almost unbroken series of

cool terraces beneath white colonnades shaded by the light lavender

flowers of the _glycine_; and behind them were small, white-stuccoed

recesses overlooking the sea. There the hundreds of thousands of

pilgrims who annually came to the feast were lodged and fed.

Johannes saw them sitting at long tables on which were bread, fruit, and

flowers. And above the sound of the foaming surf, as the crystalline

blue water broke in white spray over the dull red rocks, cheerful

talking and laughing could be heard, and also the music of guitars.

Higher up, the island was clear and open. Here were sunny parks with low

flowering shrubs, and now and then a tall palm, and everywhere temples

and buildings for various purposes.

With his hand in Windekind's, Johannes glided over this, unable to note

all of the many things that met his gaze. He saw, beneath him, close to

the shore, large arenas for the games and the races; also long

buildings, with thousands of columns, for the display of useful and

ingenious articles and implements.

A little higher were gardens with plants and animals, museums,

observatories, immense libraries, and covered colonnades and

assembly-rooms for scholars. After that came theatres, in Hellenic

form--semicircular--with white marble seats. And every place was

thronged with people, in their tasteful, charming dress. The brown and

the yellow races were represented; also the very dark-colored ones, with

their flashing eyes, haughty bearing, and vigorous frames. These wore

brightly-colored silken garments, green and red, embroidered with gold;

but all who were white or fair were soberly clad in soft, refined

colors.

Still higher were collections of statues, marble and gilded--many of

them outside in the park, among the flowers, the aloes, and the plashing

fountains; others, beneath long porticoes; and in large, low buildings

there were sketches and paintings, or statuettes wrought in metal or

carved in wood.

Finally, still higher up the incline, close beside the great middle

temple which was the crown of the island, surrounded by the serious

silences of dark laurel and myrtle groves, were the temples of music.

There was a variety of them. Some were lighter and more ornamental--of

brighter stone, and with steep, golden roofs; others, massive and

strong, of quiet grey limestone, with green and red granite pillars, and

arched roofs of bronze.

Windekind pointed out that each temple was dedicated exclusively to one

composer; and Johannes heard with joy names that were well known to him

in his own day.

"Which one shall we choose?" asked Windekind. "Nowhere else upon earth

can their works be heard as in any one of these temples."

While he hesitated, with the name Beethoven on his lips, Johannes saw

coming over the grassy path between the rose-colored flowering

oleanders, a group of five majestic persons. They were tall, powerful

figures--four men and a woman. The men were all elderly, one of them

having silver-white, the others thick grey hair. The woman was younger,

and indescribably noble and beautiful. They each wore a mantle of the

same amaranthine red, and upon the head a small wreath of green myrtle,

and each one held a flower.

They walked slowly and with dignity, and wherever they went the people

all greeted them. Those who had been chatting were respectfully silent;

those sitting or lying down stood up; and those who were in their path

hastily stepped aside.

"Who are those five people, Windekind?"

"They are the five kings. Do you not see that they carry my flower in

their hands? It is the blue, white, and gold Lily of the Kings, which

the people have evolved. Formerly it did not exist. These are the

noblest, wisest, strongest, the purest and most worthy among human

beings. In them are united, in most perfect harmony, all of the human

faculties. They are poets, masters of speech, and sages, that purify and

elevate morals. They are regulators of labor, directors in business, in

taste, and in science. Not all are equally excellent, nor are there

always so many. The best are sought for and elevated. But they bear no

rank--they have no court, no palace, no army, no realm. Their throne is

where they seat themselves; their kingdom is the whole world. Their

power consists in the beauty of their words, in their wisdom, and in the

love of their fellowmen. See how they are revered! Look at those adoring

women--doing obeisance as ever. There are still the very same foolish

ones among the young women."

And Windekind called Johannes' attention to the fair enthusiasts who

attempted not only to kiss the hands of the Five, but also to touch them

with their flowers, which, thereby made sacred as relics, were later to

be cherished as mementoes. But the sages smilingly motioned these aside,

and entered the largest of the music-temples--a mighty structure of

smooth, cream-white marble, without ornament, but pure in line, and

nobly harmonious in its proportions. It was round in form, having a

bronze roof without side-windows, and lighted only from above. Over the

entrance, in large gold letters, was the name "Bach."[1] When the Five

came in all the people stood up, and waited until they were seated in

the chairs reserved for them.

And then Johannes heard exceedingly fine music. And Windekind said,

"This fountain is not yet exhausted, nor will it be for ages to come."

When they were again out-of-doors, and Johannes saw the happiness of all

those beautiful people, and the mood of solemn devotion into which the

music had put them, he suddenly became depressed, and said: "Oh,

Windekind, now that I have seen all this, and know what it is possible

for people to be if only they are wise and good, what avails it all when

I have to return to that pitiful land of ugliness and folly and

injustice? And, alas, of what advantage is it to all those poor people

who are perhaps preparing for this lovely life, but who yet are never to

see it?"

Johannes looked imploringly at his friend, who was silently meditating

while they slowly drifted still higher along a dense grove of dark

laurel, through which the happy, high spirited people were proceeding to

the great, the loftiest temple.

Said Windekind: "You do not yet comprehend the unity of life, Johannes.

However beautiful all this appears to you, it is only a short step in

advance. These are yet, and will continue to be, human beings--subject

to illness and death, to quarrels and misunderstandings, to superstition

and injustice. All that now seems to you elevated and marvelous is but a

wisp of straw compared with the magnificence of the Father to whom we

all return. The victory is not here, but higher. And whoever has made

preparation, however humble, shall have his rightful part in the final

triumph."

Johannes did not fully understand, but eagerly drank in the comfort of

these mysterious words. Still musing upon them, he stepped out of the

dark, leafy woods upon an extraordinary plain, and saw before him the

great middle temple that formed the summit of the island.

The sight of it was overwhelming, for it was almost frightfully and

oppressively grand; and he saw all the oncoming people stop, as though

turned to stone. None ventured to speak unless in whispers.

The plain was so large that those who had just reached the border of the

woods could not distinguish the hands nor the heads of those who were

entering the temple. The plain was utterly bare--upon it was neither

plant nor statue. It was the leveled top of the natural rock--a

reddish-grey granite, smoothly polished, and rising gradually by low

flights of steps each twelve paces wide and one foot high.

The base of the temple was sombrely grand. Its shape was oblong, the

greatest length being from north to south, showing an endless series of

massive lotus-columns, close together, and all of the same reddish-grey

stone. The eye was bewildered by them, as if in a dark forest of

pillars. The steady stream of dot-like human forms appeared to be

engulfed in their shade.

These mighty columns, resting on straight and flat string-courses,

supported a broad terrace that surrounded the entire temple. Upon this

terrace was a layer of earth, whence sprang a luxuriant growth of trees

and shrubs, wide-spreading sycamores, towering cypresses, and slender

palms--all overgrown and bound together by a veil of flowers and leafy

vines.

Then succeeded, higher up, a second series of pillars, supporting

another terrace covered with smaller shrubs. And above that, still a

third, whose columns were of brighter stone--light-green and grey. The

topmost row was of pure white, against which the green of the plants was

in clear relief.

And above these, delicate and daring, soared a convergence of groinings,

with a maze of exquisite spires and pinnacles, resembling a forest of

stalagmites. Together they formed an oval whose chief colors--steel-blue,

dark and sparkling, light-grey, and silver--resembled a cloud or a

glacier; yet all harmoniously fashioned by human hands. Above, on a

colossal tripod, glowed the emblem of love and life--the Golden Flame!

Although thousands of people from every side were ceaselessly pouring

into the temple, and disappearing amid the dark columns, it was very

still there--so still that above the sound of moving feet one could

distinctly hear the babbling of the brooks that, coursing through the

verdant terraces, flowed thence to the four corners of the plain.

Johannes tried to follow the soft speech of the people, but he did not

understand the language. Then Windekind, calling his attention to a trio

of persons--a vigorous father about fifty years of age, and his two

sons, slender, fine fellows not far from twenty--said, "Listen to them!"

It was Dutch they were speaking--pure, mellifluous Dutch.

The father said: "Look, Gerbrand; the lowest columns are so large that

ten men could not encircle them. But within the temple, in the great

oval centre, there are a hundred columns, far larger, that reach to the

floor of the third terrace. On the groined arches resting upon those

columns stand twice as many smaller pillars, which, rising somewhat

higher than the gallery of the third terrace, are attached thereto by a

system of buttresses. On these two hundred smaller pillars rests the

enormous middle dome which over-arches the oval hall. The dome is

entirely of metal. The dark blue is steel; the grey, aluminium; the

bright green, bronze. The pinnacles, arches, and ornamentations are all

of silver or silver-plated steel. In the four corner-spaces, between

square and oval, stand four towers, having small gold-covered cupolas.

Within these, elevators move up and down, and through them the water

also is raised for the terraces.

"The tall tripod at the top of the dome is of bronze, and the flame is

gilded bronze. The flame itself is twelve metres long, and its tip is a

hundred and eighty metres above the plain."

Gerbrand, the younger son, knitting his brows as he regarded the

awe-inspiring spectacle, asked: "How many people have worked upon it,

father?"

"Oh, more than a hundred thousand, for nearly a century. But if the

temple should again collapse, as once it did, ten times as many more

would eagerly come, to rebuild it in less than half that time."

Drawing nearer, Johannes discerned, on the stone band beneath the first

terrace, colossal silver letters, in plain Roman form. On the front a

portion of a proverb was legible. The rest of it probably ran around the

entire temple. Johannes retained the majestic tenor of it, although he

did not comprehend the full meaning. Facing him was:

REDEUNT SATURNIA REGNA

and on the eastern side he read the first words,

IAM NOVA PROGENIËS....

This was all he could distinguish.

They entered the forest of columns, and Johannes continued to follow the

trio closely. Through the solemn semi-darkness all pressed gently on

toward the steps that led to the higher terraces.

On the second terrace stood thousands of statues, representing the great

and famous of all the ages. Johannes was delighted to hear what the sons

and their father said about them. They seemed best acquainted with the

composers, then with the dramatic poets, the sculptors, the painters,

and the scholars. They were most at a loss concerning the statesmen.

Gerbrand said, "Here is a warrior, father--Bismarck is his name. When

did he live, and what did he do?"

Then the father said to his elder son, "Do you not know when Bismarck

lived, and what he did, Hugo?"

Hugo replied, "I think he lived in Bach's time, father; but what he did

I do not know."

"Yes, he lived about the time of Bach, or rather, that of Brahms. He

created the German Empire."

Said Gerbrand, "The German Empire, father! Where is that?"

"There is no longer a German Empire, Gerbrand, although there are

millions of Germans. Such empires do not now exist; but in that day they

were thought to be something very admirable."

And Hugo: "Was it as fine as the Chromatic Fantasie, father, or the

Pyramids?"

"It was something very different, my boy, but certainly not so fine, for

it was less lasting."

On the third and highest terrace, beneath the loftiest of the white

marble columns, and running around the entire temple, was a frieze,

sculptured in bas-relief. Upon it were groups of figures, cut with most

wonderful art, giving representative scenes from the whole history of

mankind. Among them, the spectacle of the battles held the youths the

longest.

"Look, father! Here again is a man being killed. Why was that? What harm

did he do?"

"That is Pertinax," replied the father, "a king of Rome, killed by his

soldiers because he was just."

"A man killed for being just! What strange people!" said Hugo, smiling.

"They killed Socrates also, because he was wise, did they not, father?

We saw that a little while ago," said Gerbrand.

"Yes, Gerbrand," said Hugo; "but indeed they also fought for good

reasons, did they not, father? Socrates himself fought, and Sophocles."

"And Æschylus," added the father. "He lost his hand at Marathon. And

Dante fought, and so did Byron."

"Shelley too, father?" asked Hugo.

"No, my boy."

"But, father," asked Gerbrand, "when is it right to fight, and when is

it not?"

"It is right, my boys, when that which is the dearest and most sacred

must be protected from attack--whatever is dearer to us than our lives.

That is what Æschylus and Socrates and Dante conceived to be their duty.

They fought for freedom--the greatest freedom of their time. And should

any beings come now and try to attack what we term our liberty and our

rights, we also would fight for them."

"I wish that would happen," said Gerbrand.--And the others laughed.

"Did Beethoven fight, father?" asked Hugo.

"No, although his life, as well as that of Shelley, was a struggle in

the cause of true liberty--at least for what he held to be true

liberty."

"But Beethoven wore a high, black hat, did he not, father? And Bach had

his hair cut off, and wore a wig," said Gerbrand.

"Mozart also," added Hugo. "I do not understand how kings could do such

queer things."

"How was it possible," exclaimed Gerbrand, "for these people in their

high hats and silly black clothes to look at one another and not burst

out laughing?"

"My dear boys," said the father, "there is not a thing so foolish, so

ugly, or so bad, but even the best of men will do it, or tolerate it, if

only many take part in it, and it is a common error of their time. But

that was a very queer age. At the time such great and wise kings as

Goethe, Shelley, and Beethoven lived, ninety out of every hundred men

lived like the very beasts. Some never bathed their entire bodies....

"_Think_ of it!" cried the youths.

"They wore soiled, hideous clothing, were rude and ill-mannered, and had

no conception of music nor of poetry."

"How could that be?" exclaimed the two young men.

"Because it was thought that the best human living was possible for only

an occasional exception--for one in a hundred, or one in a thousand. You

think that very stupid, do you not? But at that time everybody felt so,

even the kings."

"Not Shelley, though," exclaimed Hugo.

"No, not Shelley," said the father. "But it is now nearly noon. We must

not miss the Hall of the Hundred Pillars. We agreed to go there, you

remember, while we were still at home with mother and the children."

The halls were decorated with inscriptions in many languages--each with

its own ornate characters. Johannes recognized Sanskrit, Chinese,

Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. He could read only a few of the sentences;

but these he retained, without understanding them:

"IN LA SUA VOLONTADE E NOSTRA PACE," and "MITE ET COGNATUM EST HOMINI

DEUS."

The Hall of the Hundred Pillars had entrances from all sides, on the

same level, through the lowest and heaviest colonnades, and also along

stairways descending from all the terraces. The floor of the hall looked

like a vast, snow-covered plain, so white was the marble, and the

astronomical figures with which it was inlaid were all of silver. The

hundred pillars that gave the hall its name were of red granite, and

supported the central dome, which, spanning the imposing space by arch

on arch, stood like a miracle of art. There were no windows, but the

light streamed in through the open arches, and past the white and light

blue pillarets of the dome. Yet it was not possible, from below, to see

the sky.

The hall was already filled with people--thousands upon thousands.

Whispering softly, all pressed forward, and at last stood still in

silent expectation. Johannes followed his fellow-countrymen.

"Look, boys," whispered the father, "these pillars are of one piece--the

largest stone columns in the world. In remote antiquity, when, also, men

were able to build great structures, there were two like them in Rome;

and we found another one, half hewn, on the coast of Corsica. Then we

ourselves made ninety-seven others, and placed them all here, to the

honor of God."

"Father," whispered Gerbrand, "surely we are now the happiest and the

mightiest beings in the universe, are we not?"

But the father looked at him reprovingly, and said: "For shame, boy! We

are only poor blind earth-worms, and all our happiness is misery, and

all our magnificence is a sham, compared with the splendor of the

Truth. It is but a feeble glimmering of the reality. To express this, we

come hither yearly; and it was to teach you this that I brought you with

me. Look up, and read what is written there."

Johannes' eyes followed the direction of the upraised hand, and he saw a

Greek proverb that ran around the dome in colossal letters of gold. As

interpreted by the father of the two youths it read thus: "To the only

God, who alone is the Truth and the real Existence--our Father, whom we

love with all our hearts and all our understanding, and for whose sake

we love one another as we love ourselves."

Then the man showed his children a gold figure, at the northern end of

the hall, at which the eyes of all the people were now directed, and

said:

"Notice! There is the number of the hour; but beneath, it says: '_There

is neither hour nor time_.' Do you see? Remember that as long as you

live. And now consider why we have come here to-day. For a few moments

the sun stands at the summer solstice--its highest point. The temple is

so built that just at that instant the sun's light comes through the

opening in the dome and touches the golden figure of the hour. Then all

of us--thousands on thousands from every region of the world--will again

in song solemnly pledge ourselves to faithful love toward one another,

and toward the Father of us all."

After this the boys were silent, gazing with all the people at the

golden figure. And now that innumerable throng, in the whole, vast

space, became as still as death--as still as some great forest before a

storm, when not a leaf stirs.

Then, in mighty, resounding tones, a great bell began to strike the

hour; while the people, all in the utmost suspense, counted the strokes.

Before the last stroke fell, the golden figure burst into flame, in the

bright light of the sun.

Then, in unison, without any pause, all joined in one mighty chorus,

stately, solemn, and simple, that soared into the spacious vault like a

song of thanks and of promise in one--a renewal for the year to come of

the bond of love between God and man.

And so strong and deep was their emotion that some sank to their knees

as if overcome, while others rested head or hands upon the shoulders of

those standing in front of them. But the greater number stood erect, and

sang loudly and clearly, regarding the scene with bright, joyful, and

spirited looks.

Johannes himself felt thankful and happy beyond words--like a child

under his Father's blessing, in the heart of his home.

* * * * *

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!!! went the alarm-clock on the black mantel-shelf

above the Dutch oven in Marjon's small kitchen. The iron bed shuddered

and creaked; and Marjon sprang up, with the sleepy, mechanical haste of

one accustomed to begin work at dawn, to stop the alarm.

There stood the unpainted table, the oil-lamp, and the unwashed

coffee-set, and Marjon began to put things in order.

And out from the stifling, dark alcove came, one by one, the seven

children of Van Tijn--to wash themselves at the kitchen pump and to dry

themselves with one and the same old hand-towel.

[1] Bach = Fountain.

XXIV

Already they had been twice to the hospital, on visitors'

days--Wednesday and Saturday--but they had not been permitted to see

Markus.

He still lay unconscious, and the doctor did not yet know whether an

operation would be necessary.

And when Johannes implored that they might only look upon the face of

their friend, to know if he was still alive, it availed nothing. Their

acquaintance with Dr. Cijfer or with Professor Bommeldoos had no

influence here. There was no disposition to be indulgent. The feeling of

hostility toward his Brother was general, and permeated the humane,

scientific atmosphere of the hospital to such an extent that Johannes

also was received more coldly because he appeared to be a relative of

this man. For not even doctors and nurses are exempt from the suspicion

of being sensitive to the opinions of others.

The strain of their sorrow was so great that Johannes and Marjon each

feared lest the other would be ill--they ate so little and looked so

worn, and their cheeks, although never very round and blooming, grew so

pale and sunken.

At last--at last, they might go, for their third call, and join the

stream of callers on Wednesday afternoon, from two o'clock until four.

Marjon carried some white and purple asters; Johannes, a bunch of grapes

bought with money carefully saved, cent by cent.

Entering the ward, they looked in great anxiety over the two long rows

of beds. They searched for the face they knew so well, but did not find

it. Timidly, they made inquiry of the nurse who sat writing, in the

middle of the ward, at a little table covered with bandages and

remedies. Without replying, she pointed to a bed. Then they saw the

dark eyes, turned toward them with a kind smile.

They had not recognized him, for his beard was gone, his head enveloped

with wrappings, and his face covered with plasters.

He beckoned them, and extended his emaciated white hand. They flew to

him.

Two young men stood beside his bed. They were students. One of them, who

seemed to have just made an examination of Markus, was rather gross in

appearance, and had a flushed, uneasy face. The perspiration stood in

drops on his forehead. The other stood by, indifferently, his hands in

his pockets.

"Have you got at it?" asked the latter.

"Confound it, no," replied the other, wiping his forehead with his

sleeve. "It's a thundering complicated case. There's a fracture of the

skull; but the paralysis I can't account for. It's a mean trick of

Snijman's to pick out such a business for me, just to pester me. I'll be

sure to fail in the examination.

"Come, come, old fellow, you're in a pet. It's a pretty little chance

for you--one to brag about. Come to-night to the quiz, and go through

the brain anatomy again with me. Bring your _Henle_ along. I'll give you

such a lift you'll astonish them, old man. But we must be off now, for

it's visiting-day."

And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his

instruments, he led him out of the ward.

"What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?" asked

Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon's flowers--with his left hand,

because he could not move the other.

But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling

lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of

the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand.

Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words;

but he could not.

"Children," said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, "I

notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when

you sat down in the street beside the scissors'-wheel, and how I

reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow

of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more

over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him

bathed in tears, both day and night."

At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon

said:

"But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you."

"It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen.

_That_ is frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this

befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted,

is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping."

Then said Johannes:

"But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it?

No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of

it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your

words."

Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to

urge upon him a deeper reflection, said:

"But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed--the

most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground--is trodden under

foot--no one sees it--it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in

good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant

bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds

become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for

the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes

forgotten me and my words?"

Johannes shook his head.

"Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to

hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed

lies in the dark ground, and waits its time."

Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now

sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children,

little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring

filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled

with the sharp scent of the disinfectants.

"Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is

broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it

vibrates."

"Are you going to leave us, Markus?" asked Johannes, setting his teeth

to keep command of himself.

"I have performed my task," said Markus.

"Already? Already?" they both asked. "We cannot spare you. We might for

a little while, but not for always."

"Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I

shall be still closer to you than I now am."

"But, Markus, how can I, without you, help people in their sorrow?

Indeed, I am far from knowing the way yet. It seems as though I ought to

be asking the way, for weeks to come, day and night."

"Dear Johannes, I have said enough. To ask day and night would help you

no more than to think day and night upon what I have already said to

you. It seems--does it not--as if I had spoken little, and done little,

among men. But recall how the same was said of old, and how it has

never, through many words, become clearer, but always more dim. Where

the plain commandments have not enough weight, much speaking has not a

particle of effect. Has not the best already been said--two thousand

years ago? Millions have torn and martyred one another on account of

additions, because of misinterpretations, explanations, and

commentaries; but the simple commandment, known of all, they have not

kept. Concerning the swaddling-cloths they have fought bitterly; but the

babe itself they have left to the swine and the dogs."

They were permitted to stay throughout the time of visiting, and

Johannes related where he had been during the night of his betrothal.

Marjon, having listened, asked:

"Markus, if he really saw the whole world as it is to be, why did he

neither see nor hear anything of Markus himself?"

But Markus closed his eyes, as if weary of listening, laid back his head

with a contented smile, and said, gently:

"The faithful architect is not concerned about his own renown, but about

the work itself."

Then he indicated that he wished to rest; and, exchanging looks, they

slowly stood up, and with reluctant steps, absorbed in deep thought,

they turned away.

* * * * *

On Saturday, when they came again, they looked straight over to Markus'

bed, for now they knew where he lay. But an icy fear came upon them when

they caught sight of his face, below the white swathing-cloths. It was

like sallow wax, with insunken eyes, and lay pressed into the pillow.

They thought he was dead.

And when they stopped, hesitating and trembling, the patient in the cot

next that of Markus motioned to them to come nearer.

"Come on, you," said the man, a disreputable old fellow with a bandage

around his bald head, a crooked nose, and a shaggy beard stained a

yellow-brown with tobacco-juice. "He isn't cold yet, but he's snoozin'

away's steady's a new-born babe. Isn't that so, Sjaak?"

And Sjaak, the patient on the other side--a drunkard with a broken leg,

and a face full of red pimples--cried out: "Hear me! I couldn't sleep

better meself--after a couple o' drinks."

"Just make yerselves easy," said the old fellow. "Don't be upset about

it. He'd be sorry if you went away again."

"A little less noise, number eight," called the nurse. "Talk quietly."

"Is he your brother?" asked Sjaak, in a whisper this time. Johannes

nodded.

"They've given him the very devil," said the old man, "just as they gave

it to me. Though I believe they served me about right."

"I'm askin' a great deal," said Sjaak; "but if we've both always got to

stay in this here boardin'-house--him and me--why, then, I'd like to

ask the good Lord not to let him kick the bucket before I kicks it.

Because if I've got to stay here alone with that old red-nose there, and

my own damn wicked carcass, then--hi! hi! hi!"

Then came a sudden outburst of maudlin sobs, due, no doubt, to a

condition of enforced abstinence.

"Silence!" called the Sister, sternly.

Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his

neighbors, right and left, and asked:

"Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is

forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram--if you take care

from now on to drink water only, and not gin."

"I swear I will, Marrakus--swear it by God!" said Sjaak, striking

himself on the breast.

"You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of

beer you will have forgotten all your vows."

"No beer, either," said Sjaak. "So help...."

"Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone."

"Mar-r-akus," said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same

time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the

woollen covers, "tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for

such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I'm shy of the

priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can't get no

booze here, I settle down in me bed o' nights with the jim-jams, and

shake like an earthquake. But if _I_ don't have to go to the devil, they

can go to blazes with their bloomin' damnation! They can use their fires

to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes!--it's all the

same to me."

"Listen, my man," said Markus, kindly. "I am going to speak to you from

my heart. Will you believe me?"

"That I will, Marrakus," replied the old man, seriously, holding up a

withered talon.

"When I stand before the Father above--if He let me into heaven--I shall

say, I will not enter in until Old Bram also is redeemed from hell--even

if he be the very last one."

For a time the old fellow continued to gaze into the earnest eyes of

Markus. Then his grotesque face assumed a whimsical grin, and he let

himself fall back on his pillow, with a thud. There he lay, dumbfounded,

staring at the ceiling--grinning, mumbling, and shaking his head.

Johannes heard him whisper, "God-a-mighty!--Jesus Christ--Jesus

Mary--God-a-mighty forever--" and so on and on.

Gently, yet not without some bitterness, Marjon asked:

"But, Markus, is he worthy of that? The fellow is half-witted."

Markus replied, "And Keesje, then? Have you not shed tears over him?

There is more need for them here."

Thereat the two lapsed into thoughtful silence. At length Johannes,

sighing deeply, exclaimed, "Oh, how many enigmas there are! The golden

key seems farther away than ever."

"Yet it is nearer," said Markus. "Because you have chosen Me and Life,

instead of Windekind and Death.

"The lily of eternal wisdom is a tender flower, which needs to grow

slowly, and of itself.

"The Father hath sent us all forth to search for it; but no one findeth

it alone.

"Eternal wisdom is like a bashful maiden: she flees from him who pursues

too recklessly; but that one who turns aside, and first follows after

love--him she coyly comes to find."

When Markus had said this, Marjon blurted out:

"Johannes and I are husband and wife."

Markus nodded, without appearing at all surprised.

"Will you join us in truth, Markus?" asked Johannes.

"Can I give truth, Johannes, where it is not?" asked Markus.

"That is not what I mean," said Johannes, in confusion; "but I will

promise to be true to her, in the sense you mean."

"Consider your words, Johannes. A promise is a prophecy. Who can

prophesy without full knowledge? This man beside me here promised not to

drink. He intended not to; but what is his promise worth, without

knowledge? Have you knowledge of your lasting faith? Then say, 'I desire

to be true,' and show it. But make no promises; for whoever makes an

idle promise is guilty; and whoever keeps a false promise is more guilty

than he who breaks it."

Then said Marjon to Johannes: "I do not wish you to make any promises,

but I want your loyalty. If you will not remain true without promises, I

do not wish them. Can you love only because you have promised to? For

such love as that I would not thank you."

"Then I will say that I feel true, so far as I know myself," said

Johannes, "and I will promise that I will do everything in my power to

remain true."

"That is more considerately said," added Markus.

"But where we are to set up housekeeping I cannot yet see--he a

_piccolo_, and I only a housemaid! That doesn't bring in much. I think

we shall yet fetch up in a tingel-tangel."[1]

"It cannot make any difference to me where we find ourselves, if only I

know I am contributing something toward the good life--toward the

happiness of all those fine and dear people whom I have seen. But there

will be small chance of that, either as _piccolo_ or in a

tingel-tangel."

"Children," said Markus, "out of the word springs the deed, and out of

the deed springs life. And every one who speaks the good word creates

the deed and fosters life."

"Good," said Johannes. "We will speak the word to all who have ears, so

long as we shall live; and even if in prison, we shall speak it. And I

have not only a mouth, but hands also that are willing to do."

"Such hands will always find something to do--with more to follow; for

the word and the deed are like the forest and the rain: the forest

attracts the rain, and the rain makes the forest grow."

"But how, then," cried Johannes, "how? I see no way, no opportunity for

my deeds."

"Do you remember what I told you about the field-laborers? That tells it

all. And this I say to you, Johannes: constant love makes one

invincible; love, a sure memory, and patience. For him who draws nigh to

the Father, and who forgets not, who remains always the same,--for such

a one, although he still be weak, God always opens the way through every

obstruction and perplexity. He is like one who continues to urge gently,

in one direction, through throngs that go--they know not whither. He

will make progress where others lag behind. And think of it, children,

the highest and noblest thing you can long for is still only sad and

inferior compared with what you can attain through a calm and

steadfastly determined love."

The bell which warned the visitors that it was four o'clock, and time to

leave, had sounded some time ago, and the ward was nearly empty. The

head nurse softly clapped her hands, to indicate to Johannes and Marjon

that they must pass on. They were obliged to rise.

Then the door opened, and Professor Snijman came in with two assistants.

The professor was a tall man, with a beardless face, and brown hair

which curled behind his ears and about his carefully shaven neck. He had

a hard and haughty look, with an assumption of stately condescension.

With short steps he walked up to Markus' bed, followed by the two young

men--his assistants--with little pointed, blonde beards, and in spotless

white linen coats.

"Well, well! Come! Visitors still? Not getting on very fast, are you?"

said the professor.

At the same time he studied Markus with the cool calculation of a

gardener considering whether he will uproot the shrub or let it remain.

Then he took Markus' paralyzed hand in his own, and moved it

meditatively.

"It seems to me, gentlemen--don't you think?--that we'll have to try

what the knife can do here. Don't you think so? It's a _casus perditus_,

anyway, isn't it? And who knows?... removal of the bone

splinter--relieving the pressure on the motor-centre.... Possibly

splendid results, don't you think?"

The assistants nodded, and whispered to each other and to the professor.

Markus said:

"Professor, will you not let me rest in peace? I am quite resigned to my

condition. I know that it will be labor lost; and I am not willing to be

made unconscious."

"Come, come," said the professor, half commanding, half in pretended

kindness. "Not so gloomy, not so crest-fallen. We'll just see if you

can't have the use of this arm again, shall we not? You need not be

afraid. Everything is safe, and no pain. Would you not like to be able

again to draw on your own blouse, to cut your meat, and to fill your

pipe? Come, come! Keep up courage--keep up courage. Sister,

to-morrow--ten o'clock--on the operating-table."

Then to Marjon and Johannes:

"Hello, young folks, it's after four. Out of the ward, quick!"

Markus put out his hand, which they both kissed, and said: "Till I see

you again."

[1] A kind of cheap music-hall.

XXV

The next Wednesday, at two o'clock, when they came again with the stream

of visitors, and, with the eagerness of those who thirst and know where

they will find water, hastened to the ward where Markus lay, they saw,

as they entered, three green screens around his bed.

They had not yet learned what that means in a hospital ward, and they

stepped up to the bed as hastily as ever, expecting that Markus might

now be able to speak to them with more privacy. But Sjaak, at number

six, saw them coming, and, thrusting out his lower lip compassionately,

he shook his red head.

"Gone!" said he.

And Old Bram, on the other side:

"Just missed him! Gone--this mornin'!"

"Gone!" exclaimed Johannes, terrified and not understanding. "Where?"

"Well," replied Sjaak, "if he'd only come back and tell me where, I'd

know more than I do."

And Bram, whom Sjaak could not see, on account of the screen, said to

Marjon:

"He promised me," striking the woolen covers with his fist, "that I'll

not be lost. He promised it, and I count on it. I just do!"

"What has happened to him?" asked Marjon, gradually comprehending.

"They operated on him," said Sjaak. "They got the ash-can out of his

brains. If he'd lived, then he'd 'a' walked again. He'd 'a' left the

premises now, if he'd only lived."

"Come with me, Marjon," said Johannes; and he led her away. Then softly,

"Shall we ask to see him--now?"

Marjon, pale as death, but calm, replied: "Not I, Jo. I want to keep

the living picture before me as a last remembrance, not the dead one."

Johannes, as pale as she, silently acquiesced.

Then he went to the head nurse and asked, softly and modestly:

"When is the funeral to be, Sister?"

The Sister, a small, trim, pale and spectacled lady, with a rather sour

but yet not heartless face, gave the two a swift glance, and said,

somewhat nervously and hurriedly:

"Oh, you mean number seven, do you not? Yes? Well, we know nothing about

him. There is indeed no family, is there? There was no statement of

birth--no ticket of removal--nothing. There is--ah ... there is to be no

funeral."

"No funeral, Sister!" exclaimed Marjon. "But what then? What--what is to

be done with ... with him?"

Then the nurse, with a scientific severity probably more cruel than she

purposed, said:

"The cadaver goes to the dissecting-rooms, Miss."

For a time the two stood speechless--completely dismayed and horrified.

They had not thought of that possibility--they were not prepared for

such a thing. They both felt it unbearably gruesome, now that they faced

the fact, and were without advice.

"Is there no help for it, Sister?" asked Johannes, stammering in his

confusion. "Can it not ... can it not ... from the poor fund...?"

He comprehended that it would be a question of money, but he could see

no relief.

More practical, Marjon immediately asked, "What would it cost, Sister?"

"I am sorry, Miss," replied the nurse, her feelings now really touched

for them, "but I fear you have come too late. You ought to have asked

about that in advance. The professor has given express orders."

"Twenty-five gulden, Sister? Would that be enough?" asked Marjon,

perseveringly.

The Sister shrugged her shoulders.

"Possibly, if you ask the professor, and if you can prove that you

belong to the family. But I am afraid it is too late." The two turned

away in silence.

* * * * *

"What shall we do, Marjon?" asked Johannes, when they were in the

street.

"There is no use in going to that professor," said Marjon. "He's a

conceited fool--bound to have his own way. But it's a matter of money."

"I have nothing, Marjon," said Johannes.

"Neither have I, Jo--at least, nothing to begin with. But we must go

after the people who _do_ have something. You know who."

"It is miserable work, Marjon."

"It is that; but we shall maybe get still harder work on his account.

Don't you think so?"

"Yes, of course; but neither will I shun it. I am going, now. I know

well where you want me to go."

"Good! They are the richest, are they not? But I, too, am going out to

get something. You might not succeed there."

"Where are you going?"

"Where there is money, Jo,--to the circus, and to Vrede-best."

"Have you enough to get there with?"

"Yes. I've enough for that."

* * * * *

Great was the indignation in the Roodhuis and Van Tijn households when

they heard of the event. Sentimentality, the enjoyment of the

sensational, and attachment to tradition--all this so moved the good

women that their meagre purses contributed, without delay, three gulden

and twenty-four cents.

In the meantime Johannes dragged himself to Dolores' villa. In the

drawing-room, beside a brightly flaming wood fire, sat Van Lieverlee

engaged in lively conversation with two young-lady callers, for whom

the countess was pouring tea. Into this circle came Johannes, with his

sad heart and his lugubrious petition.

He entered hurriedly, awkwardly, abruptly, without heeding the

astonished and disdainful looks of the visitors, nor the very evident

consternation which his poverty-stricken appearance, his untoward

entrance, and his melancholy tidings made upon host and hostess.

"But, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, "I thought you were more

philosophical and had higher ideas than that. It seems to me that--for

your friend who claimed to be a magician, and for yourself who believed

in him--it makes a sad lot of bother what happens to the dust out of

which his temporal presence was formed."

"I thought," replied Johannes, "that as you are now a Catholic, you

might perhaps feel that you could do something for...."

"Certainly," said Van Lieverlee, scornfully, "if your friend also were a

Catholic. Was he?"

"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes.

"But, Johannes," said the countess, "why was not your friend in a burial

club? Nowadays all people of his class belong to such clubs. Is that not

so, Freule?"

"Of course," replied the Honorable Lady. "Every decent poor person

belongs to a club. But it's astonishing how people will complain of

their poverty and yet be _so_ thoughtless and careless."

"Yes, astonishing," sighed the other visitor.

"Then you will do nothing for me?" asked Johannes, not without a touch

of bitterness in his tones.

The countess looked at Van Lieverlee, who frowned and shook his head.

"No, dear Johannes. For anything else, quite willingly; but for this

there seems to be no justification."

* * * * *

A whole night and day passed in which nothing could be done, since

Marjon had not yet returned; and the three gulden and twenty-four cents

had only increased by very slow degrees to about five gulden.

At last, on Saturday forenoon, a carriage drew up to the door of the

little coffee-house, and out stepped a stately figure in black, which,

with its old-time jetted bonnet, heavy rustling black-silk skirt, full

mantilla, and a dainty, lavenderlike suggestion of linen chests, and of

choice silken souvenirs, entirely filled the narrow entrance.

"Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. And in a quick impulse of warm affection

he threw his arms around her.

"It is herself!" said Marjon, excited by her success. "And I've got ten

gulden from the dark woman, who is not so bad as I thought she was."

* * * * *

Aunt Seréna received a cup of coffee, and was soon on good terms with

the Roodhuis family.

In the same carriage that had brought her, Marjon and Johannes drove

with her to the hospital. They were sure of success, now, relying upon

Aunt Seréna's wealth.

But you will not be surprised to hear that they arrived too late--that

the doorman, and the doctor on duty, gave them positive assurance that,

for all the gold in the world, there could now be no question of

burial--because no one could reassemble what had once been the body of

their friend.

"Wretches!" muttered Marjon, as they went homeward. But Johannes cried

out: "Oh, Marjon, Marjon, the time is not yet come for men to honor

their kings."

* * * * *

There was mourning only in the dark alcove behind the drinking-room of

the total-abstainers' coffee-house; but there the mourning, the sobbing

and the sighing, were genuine.

Before going away, Aunt Seréna remarked:

"You see, the golden apples of my little tree were good for something,

after all."

"Ah, Aunt Seréna," replied Johannes, "do not think me proud. I did not

come to you before, because I was ashamed, even though you had said I

need not be. But _he_ has cured me of looking down upon others because

they do not yet think as I do."

"Then you will not be too proud to cherish my little apple-tree, if I

leave it for you to transplant into your own garden?"

And she laughingly continued:

"That is not so kindly intentioned as it appears to be. I have a

mischievous pleasure in thinking of your embarrassment at not knowing

how to use it better than I did."

"That is naughty of you, Aunt Seréna," said Marjon.

"One thing I know," said Johannes. "I shall spread broadcast, the

'little apples,' that from them new trees may grow; for _he_ taught us

that."

"Good! You must come, some time, and explain that to me. God bless you

both! And God bless your work, my children."

"God bless you, Aunt Seréna! Give Daatje our greetings."

And now I have told you all that I had to tell about Little Johannes.