"I'll tell you what," she exclaimed at last, "I don't believe a bit of it! Not a darn bit."
"Then I'll tell you," retorted Johannes, sharply, "that you are too rude and coarse to understand things that are elevated."
"Maybe I am," said Marjon in her coolest, most indifferent manner.
Then Johannes spoke to Markus alone, hoping for an understanding from him. What he said came out passionately, as if it had long been repressed, and his voice trembled with ready tears.
"I have thought for a long, long time, Markus, that there was no use in trying. I cannot bear anything rude and rough, and everything I have yet seen in peopleisrude and rough—neither good nor beautiful. It cannot be that the Father meant it to be so. And now that I have found something fine, and exquisite, and noble, ought I not to follow it? I had not thought that there were anywhere such beautiful human beings. Markus, they are the most beautiful of all I have ever seen. Their hair is like gold, Markus. Not even the elves have more beautiful hair. And their little feet are so slim, and their throats so slender! I cannot help thinking of them all the time—of the pretty, proud way they raise their heads, of their sensitive lips, of the beautiful, upturned curves at the corners of their mouths, and of the music in their voices when they ask me anything. They danced together to the music, hand in hand, and then their nice smooth stockings peeped out, together, from under their little velvet dresses. It made me dizzy. One of them has blue eyes, and fuller, redder lips. She is the gentler and more innocent. The other has greyer, more mischievous eyes, and a smaller mouth. She is more knowing and roguish. She is the fairer, and she has little fine freckles just under her eyes. And you ought to see them when they run up to their mother, one on each side, when all their hair tumbles down over her, in two shades of gold—brown gold and light gold—that ripples together like a flowing river! And I saw the diamonds in their mother's neck, sparkling through it all! You ought to hear them speak English—so smoothly and purely. But they speak Dutch, too, and I would much rather hear that. One of them—the innocent one—lisps a little. She has the darkest hair, with the most beautiful waves in it. But I could talk more easily with the other one. She is more intelligent. And the mother, also, is so attractive in every way. Everything she says is fine and noble, and every movement is charming. You have a feeling that she stands far, far above you, and yet she acts in everything as if she were the least of all. Isn't that lovely, Markus? Is it not the way it should be?"
Markus made no reply, but looked straight at him, very seriously, and with a puzzling expression. It was kind, but wholly incomprehensible to Johannes.
In his excitement Johannes kept on: "I have just come into a consciousness now of something in the world of people, of which I knew nothing whatever before. My friend Walter, the one who made that poem, lives in that world. She—" pointing to Marjon—"has no idea of it. That is not her fault. I had no idea of it before. But I am not surly, like her; I do not scoff at it just because I do not belong there yet. It is a world of beauty and refinement—a sublime world of poetry and art. Walter wishes to lead me into it, and I think it silly in her now to jeer about it. Do you not think it silly, Markus?"
Markus' eyes remained as serious and puzzling as ever, and his mouth uttered not a word. Johannes looked first at one, then at the other, for an answer to his question.
At last Markus said: "What does Marjon say?"
Marjon, who had been leaning forward as she sat, lifted up her head. She no longer looked indifferent. Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes, with their dry, red rims, seemed to be afire. She stared with the fixed, glittering look of one in a fever, and said:
"What do I say? I have nothing to say. He thinks me too rude and rough. Possibly I am. I swear sometimes, and Keesje smells. I can't endure those people, and they don't want anything to do with me—certainly not with Kees. As Jo has need of finer companionship now, he must choose for himself."
"No, Marjon, you do not understand me; or do you not wish to understand?" said Johannes, sadly. "It is not because I have need of it, but because it is good. It is good to enter a finer life—into a more elevated world. Is it not so, Markus? You understand me, do you not?"
"I understand," said Markus.
"Tell her, then, that she must come too—that it would be better so."
"I don't think it would be better," said Marjon, "and I'm certainly not going with you."
"Tell us, then, Markus, while we have you with us—tell us what we ought to do. We will do as you say."
"I don't know yet whether I will or not," said Marjon.
Then Markus smiled, and nodding toward Marjon, he said: "Look! She knows already we must not promise obedience to any one. Let him who promises obedience promise it to the Father."
"But you are so much wiser than we are, Markus."
"Is it enough that I am wiser, Johannes? Do you not wish to become wiser yourself? Because I can run better, ought you to let me carry you? How will you ever learn to run, yourself?"
Marjon stared at him fixedly, with her flashing, flaming eyes, while two red spots burned upon her pale cheeks. She stepped up to Markus and pressed her hand upon his mouth, exclaiming passionately:
"Do not say it! I know what you are going to say. Don't say it; for then he will do it, and he must not! hemustnot!"
Then she hid her face on Markus' arm. Markus laid his hand upon her head and spoke to her tenderly:
"Are you not willing, then, to grant him what you yourself demand—that he should be doing what he himself, not some one else, thinks right?"
Marjon looked up. Her eyes were tearless. Johannes listened quietly, and Markus continued:
"There are frightful events, children, but most of them are not so bad as they seem to be. The fear of them, only, is bad. But the only events that you should dread come through not doing what you yourself think right—yourself,children—yourself alone, with the Father. The Father speaks to us also through men, and through their wise words. But they are indirect vehicles; we have Him within ourselves—directly—just as you, Marjon, are now resting upon my bosom. He wills it to be so, and there we must seek him—more and more.
"Now there is a great deal of self-deception. Self is a long while blind and deaf, and we often mistake the Devil's voice for the voice of God, and take the Enemy to be the Father. But whoever is too fearful of straying never leaves his place, and fails to find the right way. A swimmer who dares not release his hold upon another—will drown when in peril. Dare then, children, to release your hold upon others—all—all —to follow the Father's voice as it speaks within yourselves. Let all who will, call evil what seems to yourselves good. Do this, and the Father will not be ashamed of you."
"But understand me well; close your ears to no one, for the truth comes from all sides, and God speaks everywhere. Ask the opinion of others, but ask no one else to judge for you."
They were all silent for awhile. At last Marjon stood up, slowly, with averted face, and flinging back her short, ash-blonde hair from her forehead, she stepped up to Keesje, who, fastened to a chain, sat shelling nuts. She loosened his chain, and said gently and affectionately: "Coming with me, Kees? I know very well what is going to happen now." Then she had him leap to her shoulder, and, without once looking round, she went out into the street.
"Do you also know, Johannes?" asked Markus.
"Yes!" said Johannes, resolutely, "I am going!"
And so Little Johannes took leave again of his Guide and of his friend, and went forth to seek a finer and a nobler sphere of life.
He did not do this now in a heedless way, as when first he left his father, and, afterward, Windekind; nor partly by compulsion, as when he chose Vrede-best rather than the gypsy-wagon.
He was acting now quite voluntarily, according to his own ideas—not recklessly, but in harmony with his convictions. Ought we not to admit that he was making good progress? Indeed, he thought so himself.
How well he recollected his first talk with Markus, during the storm, about remembering and forgetting! What he was now doing, however, did not seem to him disloyal. True, he was turning away from friends, but he was following that which he took to be the mind of his dearest friend, even as Markus had taught him.
He was resolved to combat the sorrows of humanity. But first of all, he most become a good man himself, and he agreed with Van Lieverlee that it was the proper thing for a good man to be also a clever one, and to live a fine life.
Hitherto, there had been too little of that which was beautiful around him. With regard to his face, he had a vague idea that it was plain. But that he could not very well help. All the more, it behooved him to have a care for his clothes. Every flower and every bird presented a more comely appearance than did he. His cap and jacket were formless, ragged, and rain-spotted. His shoes were worn and out of shape. And while so attired, the thought of becoming the guest of a countess, and of appearing beside Van Lieverlee, was not a little distressing.
Happily, he now possessed a little money—not much, to be sure, for he had his traveling expenses to meet, but yet he could spare a little for a few purchases. And that was a serious question for Johannes, involving much thought—how he could array himself the most finely, at the least cost.
He first bought a white, starched "dicky," and with it a ready-made tie—black—not venturing, when he thought of Van Lieverlee's gorgeous cravats, to select a colored one. Then for his dicky he selected studs with little green stones in them. They looked like emeralds, but they were only green glass. The studs were not a necessity, for the dicky fastened at the back. But their modest twinkling simply attested his toleration of outward adornment. He bought also a stiff, round hat, a cloak, and a pair of new shoes. That the shoes pinched and pained him was a small matter. He was pleased at the odor of new leather which they spread around, and liked their loud squeaking still better.
They did not squeak at first, to his distinct disappointment; but after an hour or two—there it was! They began to creak and squeak, as if proclaiming to everybody that from this day forward he became part of the higher life, and one of the finer sort of human beings.
Finally—a pair of kid gloves! But these he dared not put on after he had them. As little did he dare leave them off, for they had cost a good deal, and the money must not be thrown away. So he settled the question by wearing one and carrying the other. He seemed, indeed, to remember that this was the mode.
And a traveling-bag now seemed to him the ideal—the acme—of dignity. But he had nothing to put into it. To buy more for the mere sake of filling it was not to be thought of, and to carry it for the mere sake of appearances ran counter to his ideas of sincerity and honesty. Aunt Seréna's old satchel he left behind with Marjon.
The leave-taking was not hard for him. No, indeed! He was too full of the new life which awaited him. Never had he felt more fully convinced that he was taking the right path—that he was going to do the right thing.
Markus had said that we must seek for happiness and prosperity, as well as for goodness. Johannes felt happier than he ever had felt since leaving Windekind. Did not that prove that he was in the right way?
And what was the Father's voice of which Markus had spoken, if not this inner joy? It was not, however, the audible, usual voice, sounding in Dutch, or some other tongue. The Bible, indeed, said so; but that was not now the way. Surely, then, it must be this feeling of joy and of glad anticipation that he now experienced.
Does it not seem to you that Johannes had advanced? I do not believe that you would have reasoned better than he did. And if you were not taken in as he was, it would have been more from good luck than from wisdom.
At first Van Lieverlee had promised to accompany him; but at the last moment, without giving a reason, he wrote to recall his promise, and let Johannes go alone.
In the corner of a third-class railway coach, among a strange people, he sped through a foreign country. He was at rest and contented, because he was going to the two children. It was as great a pleasure to him as if he had been traveling to the home of his parents. Where those dear, beautiful little beings were, there was his home. He looked at the foreigners with interest. They seemed less coarse and clownish, less ugly and unmannerly, than his own people. They were much more merry and agreeable, also more obliging to one another. Johannes was on the alert for an occasion to do the polite thing. However, as he did not speak the language very fluently, he sat in his corner wrapped in his cloak, listening quietly, and in a friendly mood, to the scraps of conversation that came to him. This was carried on in the rattling, jolting car, with loud laughter and vehement gesticulations.
At night he slept once more on the leather-covered benches of a boat. This time it was not on the smooth Rhine, but on the mighty, swelling ocean. All around him were people to whom he had nothing to say. Only, his neighbor on the leather bench requested him not to kick his head. Then he made himself as small as possible, and lay farther away, and quite still.
About midnight he took a peep around the cabin, hardly knowing whether or not he had been asleep.
The people lay at rest. Most of them appeared to be asleep—some making queer noises. The light was dim, and, in the semi-darkness, the lamps swung mysteriously to and fro, and the plants that stood upon the table were all of them quivering. One could hear, above the soft jingling and creaking everywhere, the quaking and dull throbbing of the engines. Outside, the water was hissing and rushing, and dashing along the sides of the vessel.
Beside the table sat a lone passenger—a tall, dark figure. He was motionless, his head resting upon his hand.
Johannes gave him a good look. He seemed to have on an amazingly big, spacious cloak, full of folds; on his head was a broad-brimmed hat. The one hand which Johannes could distinguish looked very thin and white.
How familiar the man looked, though! Johannes expected immediately to hear the sound of a well-known voice. He thought of Markus, then of his father....
Suddenly, the emaciated hand was removed, and the face turned slowly round toward Johannes. Only the white beard came into view. The rest remained in the shadow of the hat. Then Johannes recognized him.
"Friend Hein!" said he. And he was much more at his ease than the first time he had seen him—in fact, not at all afraid.
"How do you do?" said Death, nodding. How very kind he looked, and how much more human! Not a bundle of bones with a scythe! He looked instead more like a kind, old—very,veryold, uncle.
"What are you doing here?" asked Johannes.
"Things!" replied Death, drily.
"Are we going to be shipwrecked?"
Johannes had come to this conclusion without any special alarm. It even seemed to him just now that a shipwreck would be a rather interesting incident.
"No, no!" said Death. "Would you really like that?"
"I would not want it, but neither would I be afraid of it."
"The last time we met, Johannes, you asked me to take you with me."
"I would not ask you that now," said Johannes; "life is too pleasant now."
"Then you are not afraid of me this time, Johannes?"
"No; for now you look so much more friendly."
"And I am friendly, Johannes. The more you try your best to live a fine life, the more friendly I become."
"But what do you mean, friend Hein? I should think the finer life became, the harder it would be to leave it."
"It must be the right sort of fineness, Johannes—the right sort."
"Then it must certainly be that I am seeking the right kind now, or you would not look so much more friendly."
"You are indeed seeking it, Johannes; but look well to it that you also find it. Take care! Take care! I should like when I come again to look most friendly, dear Johannes, and you must be careful to have it so."
"What shall I do, friend Hein? How can I be certain of the right way to live? How can I make you look friendly when you come again?"
But Death turned away his pale face, gave a slight shake of the head, and continued to sit immovable and silent. Once again Johannes asked him a question, but it was of no avail. Then his head grew heavy, his eyelids drooped, and everything vanished under the veil of slumber, while his resting-place quivered and shivered above the heaving waters.
When on deck, the next morning, the world looked again most bright and cheerful. The sun was shining warmly, the fresh, blue sea was sparkling in the light, and there, in front of him—there lay the foreign land—a long line of grey-white coast, basking in the October sunshine. On the hills Johannes saw little houses standing out in full sight; and he thought of the pettiness of life in those houses—of dressing, of bread and butter, and of little children going to school;—everything so trite and trivial, in what for him was so strange and great.
They coursed up a large river, much broader than the Rhine. The sea-gulls circled over the yellow water, and rested on the sand-banks and the muddy shores. The fishing-boats tacked in zig-zags all about, and throngs of ships and steamboats came to meet them. At last there loomed in the distance, enshrouded with a grey fog, a giant city—a dark maze of masts and chimneys and towers. It was sombre, awful, incomprehensible.
If Johannes had not been so absorbed in thinking of the two children, he would have paid more attention to the city. As it was, he only accepted it for a fact—the unforeseen shadow of a mysterious substance—an ominous premonition, like the rumbling of the ground preceding an earthquake: an instant later all fear is over, and one thinks no further about it.
So it was with Johannes; the great city, the miners—everything was forgotten, when he heard the loved voices of the two little girls.
They lived in a country-seat which to Johannes seemed a small palace. It was built of red brick and grey limestone, and stood on the summit of a hill, close by the shore. In the garden were dark cedar-trees and holm-oaks, and large plots of rhododendrons. The grass was short and even—quite like green velvet; and through it led neat, trim paths of yellow gravel.
The day was far from being so pleasant as Johannes had expected. In fact, it was very unpleasant. To be waited upon by a lackey, as one conies without a trunk, from a third-class carriage, is far from funny. Johannes had not heretofore had such a trying experience.
Indoors, it was very still and stately. The children were at their lessons, and for the first hour were invisible. Johannes received an unfavorable impression of fashionable life. He wished that he had not come. His hopefulness and confidence suddenly took flight. He tripped over a rug of white bearskin, and ran against a glass door, thinking it was open—just as if he were a bumblebee behind a window-pane. He wondered which was the quickest way out, and wished he were with Markus again, in the small tavern. He was not very far from crying.
On a couch in the quiet reception-room, beside a softly crackling coal fire, sat the countess. Johannes strode up to her, and made an awkward bow. A number of dogs, as many as seven, snapped and yapped about his shin-bones. He thought of his dicky and the green glass studs, and felt that they could be making next to no impression. The countess looked as if she did not quite remember who he was, nor what could have been his object in coming.
"Sit down," she said, in English, with a formal smile, and a weary tone of voice; "I hope you have had a pleasant journey."
Johannes took a seat and, as he did so, observed that some one else was in the room. He tried again to bow, but his attempt was unnoticed.
That other indeed was a most impressive personage. She lay back in an armchair, so enswathed in white lace, swan's down, gauze, and tulle as to look still larger than she really was. Upon her head was a huge hat, bearing natural-sized plums and peaches, artificial blue flowers—forget-me-nots and corn-flowers—besides a blue gauze veil. Her face was amazingly big, and highly colored by nature, but toned down with powder to a rosy flush. It was somewhat pimply, and more or less moustached. Her fat, red, shiny hands were rigid with jeweled rings; and, although it was not at all warm, she waved incessantly a large fan of white ostrich-feathers, in the midst of which glittered purple and green precious stones. Most wonderful bangles of gold and silver—little pigs, crosses, hearts, and coins—hung in a great bunch upon her bosom, from a long, many-stranded necklace. A slender crutch with a gold handle stood beside her chair, and on the table at hand, a small green parrot was eating grapes. The seven little dogs—all of them white, with pale-blue ribbons around their necks—probably belonged to her. They sat in a threatening circle, as if awaiting the word, and sharply eyed Johannes' ankles.
"What does that boy want?" she asked, in a deep, heavy voice, without even looking at Johannes. And before and answer could come, she called, "Alice!"
Instantly, there appeared from behind a curtain, just as in a comedy, a trim, spruce lady's-maid. She was dressed in black, with cap and cuffs of dazzling whiteness. With quiet little steps and mincing manners, she glided up to the large lady, and offered a smelling-bottle, at which that person began to sniff industriously.
Johannes sat there in extreme embarrassment. He felt that the costly cut-glass smelling-bottle concerned himself. It cried out, in the keen language of its hundreds of cut facets, "You smell of the third class!"
He sat like one rooted to the spot, and all unnerved, looking at the smelling-bottle as if he wished it was a dynamite bomb which would promptly send himself, the fine house, and all his beautiful illusions, flying into space.
Then Countess Dolores came to his rescue.
"Dear Lady Crimmetart," said she, in a coaxing voice, "this is a very interesting youth—really, very interesting. He is a young poet who sings his own compositions. Is it not so, Johannes? They are so charmingly melancholy—really, charmingly so! Indeed, you must hear them, dear friend. I am sure they will please you."
"Really?" said the deep voice; and the blue goggle-eyes in the frightfully big face glared at Johannes.
"Oh, yes, Lady Crimmetart," continued the countess; "but that is not all. Johannes is also a medium—a sensitive—who can see all kinds of elementals—sometimes even in broad daylight. Is it not so, Johannes?"
Johannes was too much distressed and confounded to do more than give a nod of stupefied acquiescence.
"Really?" said Lady Crimmetart, in a voice like that of a ship's commander in heavy weather. "Then he must come to my party next Saturday evening."
"Do you hear, Johannes? That is a great honor," said Countess Dolores. "Lady Crimmetart is one of the cleverest women in the world, and the elect of intellectual England attend her parties."
"Young man," said Lady Crimmetart, "I will let you talk with Ranji-Banji-Singh, of the University of Benares, the great Theosophist, and with Professor von Pennewitz, from Moscow."
One can well fancy what a fine prospect that opened out for poor little Johannes! But Lady Crimmetart did not request; she commanded. It did not seem possible to decline.
Then came another housemaid—just as trim and still and swift as the first one—to offer tea, little slices of bread and butter, and hot cake. Johannes watched nervously, to see how the others partook of them, and then tried to do as they did. But, under the cool, keen regard of the trig maid, of course he upset the milk.
"The bishop is coming, too! The angel!" burst forth Lady Crimmetart.
Johannes had before his mind's eye the mitre and crozier at the evening party. It made him think of Santa Claus. Thereupon the ladies began chatting about church affairs, the altar and the Lord's Supper, elections, and corn-laws, until he could follow them no further. At last Alice was again summoned, the carriage ordered, the smelling-bottle stored away in a big reticule, the seven small dogs were arranged upon a long, blue-silk cord—like a string of beads; and thus, with the parrot upon the hand of the lady's maid, the procession passed out. At the door, the great lady, who limped a little with gout, turned round once again, while still fanning herself, and thundered: "Come on time, mind! And do not forget your instrument!"
"A woman in a million," said Countess Dolores after she had gone. "Is she not a wonderful woman, Johannes? So good! So clever!"
"Yes!" replied Johannes, meekly, his thoughts occupied anxiously with that instrument he was expected to take to the party.
At last he heard the chattering of high-pitched little voices, and the pattering of light little feet through the quiet house.
His heart began to thump. Then the door opened, and in two seconds the dear, soft little hands put him into a tumultuous state, and the lively, high little voices quite overwhelmed him.
He was consoled; and when they led him away, out-of-doors, and he walked with them, one on each side, over the green cliffs, beside the broad ocean—then he felt something of the new happiness for which he had hoped.
But at night he could not sleep, and when it grew light he still lay in a state of excitement, gazing at the handsome ceiling of dark-brown wood whereon he could see little gilt stars.
He—Little Johannes—was being entertained by a countess, ushered into a sphere of refinement, and living with the dearest little creatures to be found among human beings. He was with his child friends now, but yet he was not happy. He was much too poor and too dull, and would be pitifully mortified here. When he thought of that glittering smelling-bottle, and of the upset milk-pitcher, he buried his face, in shame and bitterness, deep in the pillows.
Toward morning, when he fell asleep for a little while, he dreamed of a big shop where swimming trousers only were for sale in a hundred varieties of color and material, and bordered with fur, cloth, leather, ermine, and velvet, and decked with bows and monograms. And when Johannes went in to select a pair for the party, an immense man, with a long beard and a high fur cap, stood up behind the counter. It was Professor von Pennewitz, and he gave Johannes an examination; but Johannes knew nothing—absolutely nothing. He failed. Then he was given a stringless violin, and forced to play upon it. The professor was not pleased with the performance; and taking off his fur cap, he completely extinguished Johannes. Suffocated with the heat and closeness, the boy found himself awake, and clammy with distress, having been aroused by a vigorous tap, tap, tap!
Even before his "ya" (instead of the "yes" he had firmly intended to say, but was surprised out of saying), the door flew open, and the chambermaid came in bearing a big, silver tea-tray. She looked still more trig and trim than the day before, as if all this time she had been standing under a bell-glass. Without the least embarrassment, she went up to Johannes and presented the tea.
Oh, woe! That was a distressing situation! Nothing of the kind had befallen him since the whooping-cough period while his mother was still living, and when she had brought him, abed, tea and toast. Daatje had, indeed, come just once to call him, and it had made him angry because it seemed as if he were still a child. In Daatje's case, too, it was quite different. She looked more like a nurse-maid.
But this utterly strange and stylish little lady, with arranged hair, and a cap with snow-white strings, who surprised him in his nightgown, sound and well, in bed, while his dicky was still hanging by itself over the back of a chair, and the green glass studs were looking in a frightened way at the rest of the shabby clothes lying scattered over the table—thishousemaid put him out of countenance. Blushing deeply, he declined the tea. As each of his poor garments came under the eye or hand of this pert chambermaid, he could feel her scornful, unuttered thoughts, and he lay dead still while his room was being put in order. He shrank under the sheets up to his nose, and grew wet with perspiration. When the door closed behind her, he took breath again, and regarded, in astonishment, the pitcher of hot water and the snowy towels that she had left him, uncertain exactly what it was he was expected to do with them all.
Really, it was no trifling matter for Johannes—that entrance into a higher and finer station.
Things went rather better during the forenoon, for he stayed with the two children and their German governess. With this kind, every-day sort of person, Johannes felt more at his ease; and he ventured to consult her about his clothes, and what he might, and might not, do in such a grand house.
The countess herself he did not see until afternoon. Then, through the medium of a housemaid, he received an invitation to go to her. She wished to talk with him.
She was again resting on the sofa, and beckoned him to a seat beside her. Johannes thought that she wished to ask him about something. But no! She simply wanted a little conversation—he must know what about. Then, very naturally, Johannes could not think at all; and after a painful quarter of an hour, during which he uttered scarcely anything more than "Yes, Mevrouw!" or "No, Mevrouw!" he was dismissed, still more unhappy than before.
The principal meal, at half-past eight in the evening, was no less distressingly formal, and full of trials. It was as quiet as a funeral, voices were low and whispering, and the servants moved noiselessly to and fro. The governess had told Johannes that he must "dress" for dinner. But alas! poor fellow! What had he to do it with?
As he stood behind his chair, in his shabby jacket and dicky, while the rose-shaded candles lighted up the flowers and the glittering table-furnishings, and the countess came into the great dim dining-room in her rustling, silk attire—then again he felt really wretched. Besides, it was very awkward trying to talk English here, and Dutch seemed not to be in favor. He was conscious during each course of doing something wrong or clumsy; and the lackeys, as they bent over him in offering the dishes, breathed slightingly on his neck.
The second night, being tired from lack of sleep, he soon lost consciousness. But during the small hours he had a thrilling and stirring time. Surely I do not need to tell you what rude occurrences there may be in one's dreams. Raging bulls tore after him as he tried to escape, meeting him again and again at the turning of a lane. There were lonely rooms whose doors flew open of their own accord—a footstep, and a shadow around the corner—ofit! There were railway tracks with an oncoming train, and, suddenly—paralysis! Then loud hangings at the door, and a call of "Johannes! Johannes!" and, waking up, a deathly stillness. After that he noticed some very queer and most astonishing things in the room—a pair of pantaloons that walked away of itself, and in the corner a blood-curdling phantom. And then he was conscious of not being awake, and of making a desperate effort to shake off sleep. Such was the frightful time which befell Johannes that night.
At last, when he actually woke himself up with a scream that he heard resounding in the stillness, and while he lay listening to the beating of his heart, he also heard, like a soft echo of his cry, a fearful, smothered moaning and lamenting that lingered in the silent hallways of the darkened house When all was still, he thought it had been a part of his dreams. But even while he was lying wide awake, it began again, and it was such a dismal sound he could feel the goose-flesh forming. Then silence. "It must have been a dog," he thought. But there it was! A dog does not groan like that! It was a human voice. Could Olga or Frieda be ill?
The next time it came, he knew it was not the voice either of Olga or of Frieda. It was that of a much older person—not an invalid, but some one in mortal anguish—some one being menaced, who was imploring pity. He heard something like "Oh! Oh!—O God, have mercy!" But he could not understand the words, for the sounds came faintly.
He thought a murder was being committed, and he recalled that Death had been his fellow traveler. He sprang out of bed and stepped into the dark hall. Everything was quiet there. The sound came from upstairs, and now he heard, replying to the groans, a calm, soothing, hushing voice—sometimes commanding, sometimes coaxing. A door opened, and a faint light shone out. Another door was opened and then closed. All this seemed to prove that Johannes' intervention was not at all necessary, and that he would perhaps cut a ridiculous figure by attempting to step in as a rescuer. Then, unnerved and miserable, he went to sleep again.
In the morning, both little girls and the governess partook of their breakfast of tea, malted milk, toasted bread, and ham and eggs, just as if nothing had happened. The mother was to be away again until afternoon. Frieda and Olga sat peacefully and quietly eating, like well bred little girls.
At last Johannes could keep silence no longer, and said to the governess:
"Did anything bad happen in the night?"
"No," said the young German lady, looking at her plate. "There is an invalid in the house."
"Did you hear Heléne?" asked Olga, looking at Johannes earnestly. "I never hear her now. At first I used to very plainly, but now I sleep through it. Poor Heléne!"
"Poor Heléne!" lisped Frieda dutifully after her, resuming her busy spooning of the malted milk.
At noon Johannes was again summoned to the drawing-room. He had had a long walk, alone, beside the sea, and felt more at his ease. He had resolved to ask if he might not go away, since he was out of place here, and felt unhappy. And the party the next evening, at Lady Crimmetart's, where he was expected with an instrument—that was too much for him. He must get away before that.
But ere he had a chance to speak about it, his hostess began thus:
"Were you alarmed in the night, Johannes? Did you hear anything?"
Johannes nodded.
"Well, now that I trust you, fully, I will confide to you my sorrowful secret. Listen."
And the estimable and attractive woman beckoned him, with her loveliest smile, to sit beside the sofa, on a low stool.
It made Johannes feel as if he had been brought, nearly benumbed, into a warm room. Pleasant tinglings coursed down his back, and a fine feeling of contentment and security came over him. The countess rested her soft, delicate hand upon his own, and looked into his eyes, kindly. How beautiful she was! And what a sweet, caressing voice she had! All the distress of those recent days was more than amended.
"I am going to speak to you, my dear Johannes, as if you were much older than you are. You really do seem to me older and wiser than your years would lead one to expect."
Johannes was charmed.
"You must know, then, that my life has been full of suffering. Sorrow has been, so to speak, my constant companion, from earliest youth."
Johannes' heart was aglow with compassion. In well-chosen words, and in the flowing English that Johannes more admired than comprehended, the lady continued:
"My marriage was very unhappy. Constrained by my parents I married a rich man whom I did not love. He is dead now. I will not speak any evil of him."
Johannes that instant made up his mind to a certainty that the man had been a wretch.
"Neither will I trouble you with the story of all our misery. It suffices to say that we did not belong to each other, and each embittered the other's life. After six years of torture—it was nothing else—something happened ... what usually happens in such cases.... Do you understand?"
Johannes, greatly to his vexation, did not understand, and he felt himself to be very stupid.
"I became fond of another.... Do you think less of me for that?"
"No! No!" said Johannes' head, as he shook it emphatically.
"Fortunately, my dear boy, I can say that I have nothing to reproach myself with, and can look into the faces of my children without shame. The man for whom I cared was unhappily married—just as I was. We have never seen each other again—not even...."
There was a pause in which the voice of the beautiful speaker broke, while her eyes were veiled in the tears that she was making an effort to repress. Johannes' heart was melting with sympathy.
"Not even," she resumed, "when I was free. My husband made this the opportunity for taking away from me my two children. For years I lived separated from them, even in poverty and privation, with only one old servant who, notwithstanding his low wages, would not desert me.
"During that time, my boy,—you may be surprised to know it,—I longed not only for my children, but even for him who had caused me so much suffering. The mutual parentage of dearly loved children is a wonderful bond that is never completely severed. I would have forgiven him all if he had only called me back."
A silence, in which Johannes' heart, already so inclined to admiration, surrendered itself wholly. The lady continued:
"I was recalled, but alas! too late. They telegraphed me that he was ill, and wished to speak with me. When I arrived, he lay raving, and never recovered his reason. For three days and nights I sat beside him, almost without sleep, to catch anything he might have to say to me. But he raved and raved, incessantly, uttering nothing but nonsense and inarticulate sounds. He certainly knew me; but just the same, he remained hard and cold—sometimes taunting, sometimes angry and abusive. Never shall I forget that night...."
"With my own two children I found an older girl whom I had never seen. They told me she was a child of a former union. I had never even heard of her. Where the mother was, no one could say. It was thought she was not living. The girl was then about fifteen years of age, beautiful, with a brilliant color, a fine profile, and flowing black hair."
"More beautiful than Frieda or Olga?" asked Johannes.
The countess smiled.
"Quite another kind of beauty. Much more gloomy and melancholy. When I went to her, she sat crying, and would pay no attention to me. 'Every one dislikes me,' she kept saying. And she repeated this all day long. She did nothing but walk back and forth, crying and lamenting. Only with the greatest trouble could she be induced to rise in the morning, and be dressed, and in the evening, to go to sleep. Her mind was diseased, and little by little it has grown worse. My husband died, and I remained with the three daughters, caring for them as well as I could."
Countess Dolores studied for a while her beautiful, gem-adorned hands, and then went on, with frequent pauses.
"Heléne knew very little concerning her mother; but she steadfastly maintained that she was living, and would return, and also ... that her father and mother had been married...."
Another prolonged silence, the countess regarding Johannes with her lightly half-closed eyes, to see if he understood. Apparently he did not understand; for he sat, in unsuspecting patience, waiting for whatever else was to be said.
"Can you fancy, Johannes, what that would signify to me to my children ... if it were true?"
Johannes fancied only that he was looking at the speaker in a somewhat confounded and sheepish manner.
"Bigamy, Johannes, is a terrible crime!"
Wait!—A light broke in upon him, albeit a feeble one. His dearly loved children, then, were not legal—were illegitimate—natural, or whatever it was called. Yes, indeed! That was terrible, even though no one, to look at them, would ever think it. But the countess enlightened him still further.
"The idea of living upon the property of another, Johannes, is, to a woman of honor, insufferable!"
What more? The property of another? Then all this sumptuousness, belonged, perhaps, to poor, crazed Heléne; and his dear, pretty children and their beautiful mother were only illegal intruders—usurpers of another's possessions!
Johannes faithfully tried his best to feel as the speaker did about all these curious and confusing things. But he did not succeed. Then, in his desire to comfort her, he gallantly uttered in broken English whatever came into his head.
"No, Mevrouw; you must not think that. You are beautiful and your children are beautiful, and therefore everything that is beautiful belongs to you. I do not believe you have cause to be ashamed, for I have seen no sign of it. If there were any disgrace, I should have detected it. And how is any one to suppose that such evidence exists either on paper or in some secret closet or other—who knows where? Are you and Frieda and Olga any less beautiful, less lovely, less good? I do not care a bit about it. Absolutely nothing."
The countess laughed so heartily, and pressed his hand so warmly, that Johannes was embarrassed.
"Oh, you lovely boy!" she laughingly cried. "Oh, you queer, funny, darling of a boy! How you cheer me up! I have not been so light-hearted in a long time."
Johannes was very glad, and proud of his success. Countess Dolores dried her tears of laughter upon her lace handkerchief, and resumed:
"But now we must be in earnest. It will be clearer to you now why I am so interested in all that pertains to spiritualism and theosophy—why I listen so eagerly to the wisdom of Mijnheer van Lieverlee, and of Lady Crimmetart—why I attend the circle of the Pleiades, at the Hague—and, too, why it made me so happy to meet you, when I heard that you also were a medium, and could see theelementals, in full daylight."
"But why, Mevrouw?" asked Johannes, in some distress.
"How can you ask that, my dear boy! Nothing can ever bring back my peace of mind, exceptoneword from him, from the other side of the grave!"
Ah! but that was a hard blow for Johannes. He was not so troubled at having been invited as a guest, for a side purpose—he was not so overweening as that—but because he was surely going to be a disappointment to his beloved countess. With a sigh he looked down at the carpet.
"Shall we not make a call upon the invalid?" asked the lady, rising.
Johannes nodded, and followed her.
The door of the sick-room was barely open, when a pitiable scream rang out from the corner. The poor girl sat on the floor, huddled up in her nightgown, her long black hair disheveled, and hanging down over face and back. Her beautiful dark eyes were widely distended, and her features wore an expression of mortal anguish.
"Oh, God!—It is coming!" she shrieked, trembling. "Now it will happen! Oh, God! It surely will! I know it will! There it comes! Did I not say so? Now it comes!—Oh! Oh! Oh!"
The nurse hushed and commanded, but the poor, tormented creature trembled and wept, and seemed so desperately afraid, that Johannes, greatly moved, begged leave to go away again. It seemed as if she were afraid of him.
"No, my boy!" said the countess. "It is not on account of you. She does that way whoever comes in. She is afraid of everybody and everything she sees or hears."
That whole day, and a good deal of the night, Johannes mused over this one query: "Why—whyis that poor girl so afraid?"
Johannes did not leave, and at last came the day of the dreaded party. Having grown more confident, he had spoken of his needs. The carriage put in an appearance, and in the neighboring town, he was soon provided with suitable clothing.
Still, his mind was not quite at rest.
"Will you also say, dear lady," said Johannes that afternoon, when with the children and their mother, "that I truly cannot play upon any instrument? Please don't ask me to do anything!"
"But, Johannes," urged the countess, "that would really be very disagreeable in me. After what I have said, something will be expected of you."
"I cannot do anything!" said Johannes, in distress.
"He is joking, Mama," said Olga; "he can play the castanets and can imitate animals."
"Oh, yes! all kinds of animals! Awfully nice!" cried Frieda.
"Is that so, Johannes? Well, then?"
It was true that Johannes had amused his two little friends while they were taking walks together—mimicking all sorts of animal sounds, like those of the horse, donkey, cow, dog, cat, pig, sheep, and goat. He had whistled like the birds so cleverly that the two little girls had been enraptured. And one single instrument he did indeed play admirably—the genuine boys' castanets that every schoolboy and street urchin in Holland carries in his pocket certain months of the year. Many an autumn day, sauntering home from school, he had shortened the way for himself with the sharp, clear, uninterrupted "a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-tytick!—a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-tytick!—a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-tytick!—tack! tack!"
The little girls now begged him to let their mama hear. So he took out his castanets, which he himself had made while there, and clicked away with them lustily.
"Delightful!" cried the countess. "Now you must sing and dance at the same time, like the Spaniards."
Johannes shied at the dancing. But indeed he would sing. And he sang all kinds of street ditties, such as "Oh, Mother, the Sailor!" and "Sara, you're losing your Petticoat," to the merry music of the castanets. The children thought it splendid.
Their enthusiasm excited him, and he began improvising all sorts of nonsense. The little girls clapped their hands, and the longer he played the more merry they grew. Johannes struck an attitude, and announced his selections just as if he were before an audience. The countess and her daughters went and sat in a row—the little girls wild with delight.
"Sketches from Animal Life," announced Johannes, beginning, to the time-keeping accompaniment of the castanets, the well-known air fromThe Carnival of Venice,
"A hen that came from JapanAssured a crippled toadShe'd never have him for her man.That was a sorry load."
The little girls shouted and stamped, with glee.
"More, Jo!—More, more, Johannes! Do!"
"Splendid!" cried the countess, speaking in Dutch, now, herself.
"A rhinoceros said to a louse,'I'll stamp you flat on the ground!'The louse made tracks for his house,And there he is now to be found."A grasshopper sat in the grass,And said to a chimpanzee:'Your coat I will thank you to pass,That I may attend a partie.'"A snoop who stood on the stoopAsked of his fellow boarderIf hairs he found in the soup.Thehostess?—'Twas malice toward her!"A crab who enjoyed a joke,Gave his mama a kick.And when she dropped at his poke,He laughed till the tears fell thick."
"Hey, there!" the little girls shouted boisterously. "Jolly! More, more! Jo!"
"A stock-fish, deaf-and-dumb born,Once said to a billy-goat:'Of my head I see I am shorn—'Twas you did it, silly goat!'"
"There, there, Johannes! That will do. Now you are getting foolish," said the mother.
"Oh, no, Mama! Only funny!" cried Frieda and Olga. "Heisso funny! Go on, Jo!"
But Johannes was quite disconcerted by the mother's comment, and there was no further exposition of "Sketches from Animal Life."
In the evening Johannes drove with the countess in the state-coach to Lady Crimmetart's. Milady dwelt in a very handsome house—a castle in a large park. From a distance, Johannes could see the brightly lighted windows, and also the vehicles in front of the pillars, at the entrance.
Overhead, an awning was spread, and a long strip of heavy, bright-red carpeting laid down, so that the guests might be protected in passing from their carriages to the magnificent vestibule. The way was lined with lackeys—full twenty on each side. They looked very impressive, all of them tall and heavy, wearing knee-breeches of yellow plush, and red lace-trimmed coats. Johannes was puzzled because they all seemed to be such old men. Their hair was white as snow. That was powder, however, and it added to their dignity. How small and shabby Johannes felt while running the gauntlet of those liveried lackeys!
Indoors, Johannes was completely blinded by the dazzling light. He ascended a vaulted staircase, the broad steps of which were of many-colored marble. He saw vaguely, flowers, electric lamps, variegated carpets, broad, conspicuously white expanses of shirt-linen bordered with black coat, and bare necks adorned with gems and white lace. He heard a subdued murmur of soft voices, the rustling of silk clothing, the announcement of names.
In the background, at the top of the stairs, the swollen visage of Lady Crimmetart was glowing like a railway danger-signal. All the guests went up to her, and their names being spoken, each one received a bow and a handshake.
"What name, sir?" asked a colossal lackey, as he bent obliquely over Johannes. Johannes stammered out something, but the countess repeated it, changed.
"Professor Johannes, of Holland!" he heard called out. He bowed, received a handshake, and saw the powdered face smiling—or grinning—with affected sweetness. Lady Crimmetart's neck and arms were so fat and bare that Johannes was nearly terrified by them, and did not dare look straight. They were loaded with precious stones—big, flat, square, uniformly cut diamonds, alternating with pear-shaped pearls. Three white ostrich feathers bobbed in her head-dress. There were no animals at her side, but of course she had her fan and her gold-headed crutch.
"How do you do?" inquired the deep voice. But before Johannes could reply that he was pretty well, she addressed herself, with a grinning smile, to the next comer. Beside her stood a short, heavily built man. He had a shiny, bald head, a red face with deeply cut lines, and a large, bony nose. It was precisely such a head as one sees carved upon knobs of walking-sticks and parasols. It was Lord Crimmetart who stood there, and he gave Johannes' hand a firm clasp.
For an hour or so Johannes wandered about in the midst of the crowd. He felt dispirited and lonesome to begin with; and the babel of voices, the sheen and rustle of silken garments, the glitter of lights and of precious stones, the uniforms, bare necks, and white shirt-fronts, and the heavy scent of perfumery and of flowers,—all this oppressed him until he became deeply dejected. There was such a press of people that at times he could not stir, and the ladies and gentlemen talked straight into his face. How he longed for a quiet corner and an every-day companion! Everybody except himself had something to say. There was no one among those passing by so forlorn as he. He did not understand what they all could be saying to one another. The scraps of conversation that did reach him were about the stir in the room and the magnificence of the party. But the saying of that was not the reason for their having come together.
Johannes felt that the feast of the elves in the dunes had been far more pleasant.
Then, strains of music reached him from a stringed orchestra hidden behind green laurel. That awakened longings almost painful, and he drew closer, to sit down, unobserved, and let the people stream by. There he sat, with moistened eyes, looking dreamily out before him, while his thoughts dwelt upon quiet dunes and sounding seas on a moonlit night.
"Professor Johannes, let me introduce you to Professor von Pennewitz," rang suddenly in his ears. He rose to his feet startled. There stood Lady Crimmetart beside a diminutive man, whose scanty grey locks hung down to his coat-collar. The vision was little like Johannes' dream.
"This is a youthful prodigy, Professor von Pennewitz—a young poet who recites his own compositions. At the same time he is a famous medium. You certainly will have interesting things to say to each other."
Thereupon, Lady Crimmetart disappeared again among the other guests, leaving the two bowing to each other—Johannes abashed and perplexed, von Pennewitz bowing and rubbing his hands together, teetering up and down on his toes, and smiling.
"Now for the examination!" thought Johannes, waiting in mute patience—a victim to whatever wise questions the great man was to pillory him with.
"Have you—ah—known the family here for long?" asked von Pennewitz—opening and closing his thin lips with a sipping sound, while with fingers affectedly spread, he adjusted his eyeglasses, peering over the tops of them at Johannes.
"No, I do not know them at all!" replied Johannes, shaking his head.
"No?" said von Pennewitz, rubbing and wringing his hands, most cheerfully. And then he continued, in broken English:
"Well, well! That pleases me. Neither do I. Curious people! Do you not think so, young man?"
Johannes, somewhat encouraged by this affability, gave a hesitating assent.
"Have you such types in Holland, also? Surely upon a more modest scale? Ha! ha! ha!—These people are astonishingly rich! Have you tried their champagne?—No? Then you must just come with me to the buffet. It is worth the trouble, I can assure you."
Happy, now, to be at least walking with some one, Johannes followed the little man, who piloted him through the packed mass of people.
Arrived at the buffet they drank of the sparkling wine.
"But, sir," said Johannes, "I have heard that Lady Crimmetart is so very clever."
"Have you, indeed?" said the Professor, looking again at Johannes over the top of his glasses, and nodding his head. "I have nothing to say about that. Much traveled—papa a hoarding-house keeper—a smattering of almost everything. Nowadays one can get a good deal out of the newspapers. Do you read the papers, young man?"
"Not much, sir," said Johannes.
"Good! Be cautious about it. Let me give you some extra-good advice. Read few newspapers, and eat few oysters. Especially in Rome eat no oysters. I have just come from a fatal case of poisoning—a Roman student."
Johannes mentally resolved, on the spot, to eat anything in Rome rather than oysters.
"Is Lord Crimmetart also so clever, Professor?" asked Johannes.
"He is bright enough. In order to become a Lord and an arch-millionaire by means of patent pills alone, one needs to be a bright rascal. Just try it! Ha! ha! ha!"
The professor laughed heartily, snorted and sniffed, clicked his false teeth, and finished off his glass. Then he said:
"But take care, young man, that you do not marry before you have made your pile. That was a stupid move of his. He would be able to do very much better now. If he chose, he might win Countess Dolores."
The blood rushed to Johannes' head, and he flushed deeply,
"I am staying there, sir!" said he, considerably touched.
"Is that so? Is that so?" replied the professor, in a propitiatory tone. "But I said nothing about her, you know. A most charming woman. A perfect beauty. So she is your hostess? Well, well, well!"
"There is His Grace, the bishop!" cried the heavy voice of Lady Crimmetart, as she passed by, hurrying toward the entrance.
Johannes was on thequi vivefor the white mitre and the gilded crozier, but he could see only a tall, ordinary gentleman in a black suit, and wearing gaiters. He had a smooth, good-looking face, that bore an affected smile; and in his hand he held a curious, flat hat, the brim of which was held up with cords, as if otherwise it might droop down over his nose. Lady Crimmetart received him quite as warmly as Aunt Seréna received the dominie. How Johannes wished he was still at his Aunt Seréna's!
"Sir!" said some one at his ear, "Milady wishes to know if you have brought your instrument, and if you will not begin now."
Johannes looked round, in a fright. He saw a portly personage with an upstroked moustache, in black satin short-clothes, and a red coat—evidently a master of ceremonies.
"I have no instrument," stammered Johannes. But he did have his castanets in his pocket. "I cannot do anything," he repeated—most miserable.
The pompous one glanced right and left, as if he had made some mistake. Then he stepped away a moment, to return soon, accompanied by Countess Dolores.
"What is it, my dear Johannes?" said the countess. "You must not disappoint us."
"But, Mevrouw, I really cannot."
The pompous one stood by, looking on in a cool, impassive way, as if quite accustomed to the sight of freaks who were considered youthful prodigies. Johannes' forehead was wet with perspiration.
"Indeed you can, Johannes! You are sure to do well."
"What shall I announce?" asked the pompous one. Johannes did not understand the question, but the countess replied, in his stead.
In a twinkling he was standing beside a piano encircled by guests, and he saw hundreds of eyes, with and without eyeglasses, fastened upon him. Straight in front—next Lady Crimmetart—sat the bishop, looking at him severely and critically, out of hard, cold, light-blue eyes.
The master of ceremonies called out, loudly and clearly:
"National Hymns of Holland." And then poor Little Johannes had to clap and sing—whatever he could. To keep up courage, he threw just a glance at the beautiful face of the countess, with its near-sighted eyes—and tried to think it was for her alone that he sang. He did his best, and sang intremolofrom "Oh, Mother, the Mariner!" and "We are going to America," to "The Hen from Japan," and "The Tiger of Timbuctoo"—his entire repertory.
They listened, and looked at him as if they thought him a queer specimen; but no one laughed. Neither the goggle-eyes of the hostess, nor the stern regard of the bishop, nor one of the hundreds of other pairs of eyes pertaining to these richly dressed and excellent ladies and gentlemen, evinced the slightest token of emotion, happy or otherwise. That was scarcely to be wondered at, since they did not understand the words; but it was not encouraging. Without loss of time, most of them turned away their attention, and began anew their laughing and chattering.
When he stopped, there sounded, to his astonishment, a lone hand-clapping, and Countess Dolores came up to him, gave her hand, and congratulated him upon his success. Lady Crimmetart, also, thundered out that it was "awfully interesting." A tall, thin young lady, in white satin, whose prominent collar bones were but slightly concealed by a ten-fold necklace of pearls, came, smiling sweetly, to press his hand. She was so happy, she said, to have heard theCarnival of Venicein the original, by a veritable resident of the city. "How peculiarly interesting! But it must be so nice, Professor ... ah! I have lost your name!... so nice to live in a city lying wholly under water, and where everybody wears wooden shoes!"
"Was that entirely your own composition, Professor Johannes?" inquired a plain, good-natured little lady, in a simple black gown. And several other women, of riper years, sought to introduce themselves. He really brightened up a little at these tokens of approval, although he rather mistrusted their sincerity. When, however, he found himself beside a group of tall, broad-shouldered Britishers, with high collars, florid, smooth-shaven cheeks, and trim, closely-cropped, wavy, blonde hair, who, one hand in the trousers' pocket, stood drinking champagne, he heard such expressions as "beastly," "rot," and "humbug," and he very well knew that the words were applied to himself.
Shortly after this it became clear to him what constitutes genuine success. A robust young lady, with very artfully arranged hair, and pretty white teeth, sang, accompanied by the piano, a German song. With her head swaying from side to side and occasionally tossed backward, and with her mouth open very wide, she threw out trills and runs, like a veritable music-box. The sound of it all pierced through to Johannes' very marrow. What her song was intended to say, it was hard to tell, for she spoke a remarkable kind of German. Apparently, she was exciting herself over a faithless lover, or mistress, and dying—out of sheer affection.
When she had ended, and made a sweet, smiling bow, a vigorous round of applause followed, with cries of "bis," and "encore." Johannes had not himself received such acclaim, nor would he now take part therein.
In his dejection, he went to find Countess Dolores. She was the only one there to whom he could turn for comfort. He asked if he might not take his leave, since he was tired, and did not feel at home where he was.
The countess herself appeared not to be very well satisfied; she had won no honors through him, nevertheless she said:
"Come, my boy, do not be discouraged! You have still other gifts. Have you spoken with Ranji-Banji-Singh?"
A little earlier, Johannes had seen the tall East-Indian, with head erect, and a courtly carriage, striding through the motley crowd. He had wide nostrils, large, handsome eyes with somewhat drooping lids, a light-brown complexion, splendid blue-black hair, and a sparse beard. He wore his white turban, and yellow silk clothing, with solemn ceremoniousness. When any one spoke to him, he smiled most condescendingly, and, closing his eyes, he laid his slender hand, with its pale nails and upturned finger-tips, upon his bosom, and made a profound and graceful bow.
Johannes had noticed him especially, as one to whom he felt more attracted than to any other; and he had visions of deep, blue skies, majestic elephants, rustling palms, and palace facades of pale marble, on the banks of the Sacred River. However, he had not dared to address him.
But now the countess and Johannes went to find him, and find him they did, beside Lady Crimmetart, in a circle of ladies to whom he appeared to be speaking in rotation, with a courtly smile.
"Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh," said Countess Dolores, "have you made the acquaintance of Professor Johannes, of Holland? He is a great medium, and you certainly will find him sympathetic."
The East-Indian showed his white teeth again, in a winning smile, and gave his hand to Johannes. The boy felt, however, that it was not given from the heart.
"But are you not also a medium, Mr. Singh?" asked one of the ladies, "such a great theosophist as you!"
Ranji-Banji-Singh threw back his head, made with his clasped hands a gesture as if warding off something, and smiling disdainfully, said, in broken English:
"Theosophists not mediums. Mediums is organ-grinders—theosophist, composer. Medium-tricks stand low;—street-jugglery for gold. Theosophist and Yogi can everything, all the same—can much more, but not show. That is meanness, unworthiness!"
The slender brown hand was shaken in Johannes' face, in an endeavor to express its owner's contempt, while the dark face of the East-Indian took on an expression of one compelled to drink something bitter.
That was too much for Johannes. Feeling himself misunderstood by the only one upon whom he cared to make a good impression, he said, angrily:
"I never perform tricks, sir. I exhibit nothing. I am not a medium."
"Not by profession—not a professional medium," said Countess Dolores, to save the situation.
"Then you do not practise table-tilting, nor slate-writing, nor flower-showering?" asked the East-Indian, while his face cleared.
"No, sir! Nothing whatever!" said Johannes, emphatically.
"If I had known that!" exclaimed Lady Crimmetart, while her eyes seemed almost rolling out of her head. "But, Mr. Singh, can you not, just for this one time, show us something? Let us see something wonderful? A spinning tambourine, or a violin that plays of itself? Do, now! When we ask you so pleadingly, and when I look at you so fondly! Come!"
And she cast sheep's eyes at Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh in a manner which did not in the least arouse Johannes' envy.
The theosophist bowed again, smiling with closed eyes, but at the same time contracting his brows as if struggling with his aversion.
Then they went to a boudoir having glass walls and exotic plants—a kind of small conservatory, in a soft twilight. There they seated themselves at a table, with the East-Indian in the circle. Johannes was promptly excluded with the words: "Antipathetic! Bad influence!"
"That's Keesje, yet—surely!" thought Johannes.
Then there was writing upon slates held by Mr. Singh in one hand, under the table. The scratching of the pencil could be heard, and soon the slate reappeared—covered with writing in various languages—English, Latin, and Sanscrit. These sentences were translated by the East-Indian, and appeared to contain very wise and elevating lessons.
But Johannes had the misfortune to notice that the slate which should have been written upon was quickly exchanged by the theosophist the instant that he succeeded in diverting the attention of all the on-lookers. And Johannes added to his inauspicious observation the imprudent exclamation—loud and triumphant—"I see it all! He is exchanging slates!"
A regular riot ensued. Yet Ranji-Banji-Singh, with the utmost calmness, brought the exchanged slate to light again, and, with a triumphant smile, showed that it was without writing. Johannes looked baffled, yet he knew to a certainty that he had seen the deception, and he cried: "I saw it, nevertheless!"
"For shame!" thundered Lady Crimmetart. And all the other ladies cried indignantly, "Disgraceful!"
Ranji-Banji-Singh, with a taunting smile said: "I have compassion. Yogi know not hate, but pity evil-doer. Bad Karma. Unhappy person, this!"
That did not agree with what Herr van Lieverlee had said. He had commended Johannes' Karma. But Countess Dolores, now realizing that she was to have no further satisfaction out of her protégé, at once withdrew, and quite good-naturedly, so that he might not feel at all reproached. Indeed, she comforted him, with her friendly jests.
Johannes saw some daily papers lying in the hall of Countess Dolores' house. Against the advice of Professor von Pennewitz, he began running them through. His eyes remained glued to the page, for he saw there a communication from Germany, to the effect that the miners' strike had ended. The laborers had lost the battle.
The sleepless night that ensued seemed very long to him. Poor Heléne, also, was restless, and wailed and wailed without pause.