VI

It seemed to him, all the next few days, as though it was no longer so

delightful or so beautiful to be with Windekind in the wood or on the

sand-hills. His thoughts were no onger wholly occupied with all that

Windekind told him or showed him. He could not help thinking of that

Book, but he dared not speak of it. The things he saw seemed to him less

fine and wonderful than before. The clouds were so black and heavy, he

was afraid lest they should fall upon him. It distressed him when the

unresting autumn wind shook and bowed the poor weary trees, so that the

sallow under side of the leaves was seen, and yellow leaves and dry

twigs were swept before the gale.

What Windekind told him had ceased to interest him. A great deal of it

he did not understand, and he never got a perfectly clear and

satisfactory answer when he asked one of his old questions.

And this again made him think of that Book in which everything was set

forth so plainly and simply; and of that everlasting still and sunny

autumn day which would ensue.

'Wistik! Wistik!' he murmured.

Windekind heard him.

'Johannes, I am afraid you ought to have remained a human being. Even

your friendship is as that of men--the first person who has spoken to

you after me has won all your confidence from me. Ah! my mother was

right after all!'

'No, Windekind. But you are much wiser than Wistik--as wise as that

Book. Why do you not tell me everything? See now! Why does the wind blow

through the trees so that they bend and bow? Look, they can bear it no

longer; the boughs snap and the leaves are flying by hundreds on all

sides, though they are still green and fresh. They are so tired they can

no longer hold on, and yet they are constantly shaken and thrashed by

the rude, spiteful wind. Why is it so? What does the wind mean?'

'My poor Johannes, you are talking as men talk.'

'Make it stop, Windekind. I want calm and sunshine.'

'You question and want as a man; there is no answer, no fulfilment. If

you cannot learn to ask or wish better, the autumn day will never dawn

for you, and you will be like the thousands of human beings who have

talked to Wistik.'

'What, so many?'

'Yes, thousands. Wistik affects great mystery, but he is a chatterbox

who cannot keep his own secrets. He hoped to find the Book among men,

and communicates his knowledge to every one who might be able to help

him. And he has made many as unhappy as himself. They believe in him,

and go forth to seek the Book with as much zeal as some use in seeking

the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, give up their calling

and their happiness, and shut themselves up among big volumes or strange

matters and instruments. They risk their lives and health, they forget

the blue sky and kindly gentle Nature--nay, even their fellow-creatures.

Some find good and useful things, as it were gold nuggets, which they

throw out of their holes on to the bright sunlit surface of the earth;

but they do not themselves care for these; they leave them for others to

enjoy, while they dig and grub on in the dark without cessation or rest.

They are not seeking gold but the Book. Some lose their wits over the

work, forgetting their object and aim, and becoming mere miserable

dotards. The sprite has made them quite childish. You may see them

building up little castles of sand, and calculating how many grains more

are needed to make them fall in; they make little watercourses, and

estimate precisely the bends and bays the water will make; they dig

trenches, and devote all their patience and reason to making them very

smooth and free from stones. If these poor idiots are interrupted in

their work and asked what they are doing, they look up with great

importance, shake their heads and mutter, 'Wistik, Wistik!' Yes, it is

all the fault of that little foolish Wood-Sprite. Have nothing to say to

him, Johannes.'

But Johannes stared before him at the swaying, creaking trees. The

smooth brow above his clear childish eyes puckered into furrows. He had

never before looked so grave.

'And yet--you yourself said--that there is such a Book! And oh! I am

quite sure that in it there is all about the Great Light, whose name you

will not tell me.'

'Poor, poor little Johannes!' said Windekind, and his voice rose above

the dizzy clamour of the storm like a peaceful hymn, sounding very far

away. 'Love me, only love me with all your might. In me, you will find

even more than you wish. You shall understand that which you cannot

conceive of, and be, yourself, what you desire to know. Earth and heaven

shall be familiar to you, the stars shall be your neighbours, infinitude

shall be your dwelling-place. Love me! only love me! Cling to me as the

hop-bine to the tree, be true to me as the lake is to its bed--in me

alone shall you find rest, Johannes.'

Windekind ceased speaking, but the choral psalm still went on. It seemed

to float at an immense distance, in solemn rhythm, through the raging

and sighing of the wind--as tranquil as the moonlight shining between

the driving clouds. Windekind opened his arms and Johannes fell asleep

on his breast, under the shelter of the blue cloak.

But in the night he awoke. Peace had suddenly and imperceptibly fallen

on the world; the moon was below the horizon; the leaves hung limp and

motionless; the forest was full of silence and darkness.

And questions came back on Johannes' mind, in swift spectral succession,

dislodging all his newly-born confidence. Why were men thus made? Why

must he come away from them and lose their love? Why must the winter

come? Why must the leaves fall and the flowers die? Why--why?

Down in the thicket the blue lights were dancing again. They came and

went. Johannes gazed at them with eager attention. He saw the larger,

brighter light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind was sleeping

soundly and peacefully.

'Just one more question!' thought Johannes, creeping out from under the

blue mantle.

* * * * *

'So, here you are again!' cried Wistik, with a friendly nod, 'I am very

pleased to see you. And where is your friend?'

'Out yonder. But I wanted to ask you one more question--alone. Will you

answer it?'

'You have lived among men, I am sure. Has it anything to do with my

secret?'

'Who will find the Book, Wistik?'

'Ay, ay! That's it, that's it. If I tell you, will you help me?'

'If I can--certainly.'

'Then listen, Johannes.' Wistik opened his eyes astonishingly wide, and

raised his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered behind his

little hand. 'Men have the golden casket; elves have the golden key; the

foe of the elves can never find it, the friend of men alone can open it.

The first night of Spring is the right time, and Robin Redbreast knows

the way.'

'Is that true, quite true?' cried Johannes, remembering his little key.

'Yes,' said Wistik.

'How is it that no one has found it yet?' asked Johannes, 'so many men

are seeking for it.'

'I have never confided to any man, never to any man, what I have told

you. I never before knew a friend of the Elves.'

'I have it, Wistik, I can help you!' Johannes leaped and clapped his

hands. 'I will ask Windekind about it.'

Away he flew over the moss and dry leaves. But he stumbled now and then

and his feet were heavy. Stout twigs snapped under his tread, while

before, it had not even bent the blades of grass. There was the shady

fern under which they had been sleeping. Their bed was empty.

'Windekind!' he called. But he started at the sound of his own voice.

'Windekind!' It sounded like a human voice.

A scared night-bird flew up with a shriek.

There was no one under the fern. Johannes could see no one. The blue

lights had vanished. It was very cold and perfectly dark on all sides.

Overhead, he saw the black tree-tops against the starry sky.

Once more he called. Then he dared no more; his voice was an insult to

the silence, and Windekind's name a mockery. Poor Johannes fell on the

ground and sobbed in helpless grief.

[Footnote 1: 'Wistik' means, Could I but know.]