"He shall find it otherwise," said he. "My father shine for him! How conceited!"
But the pale man was too full of enthusiasm to mind the acorn, which appeared to have fallen out of the sky. He spoke a long time, and the longer the louder. At last he grew purple in the face, clenched his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves trembled and the grasses waved hither and thither in astonishment. When at last he calmed down, they all began to sing again.
"Fie!" said a blackbird, who had heard the uproar from the top of a high tree. "What a frightful racket! I would rather the cows came into the woods. Just hear that! For shame!"
Now, the blackbird is a critic, and has fine taste.
After the singing, the people brought all sorts of eatables from baskets, boxes, and bags. They spread out papers, and distributed rolls and oranges. Bottles and glasses, too, came to light.
Then Windekind called his allies together, and the siege of the feasting company began.
A gallant frog jumped into the lap of an old lady, close beside the bread she was just about to eat, and remained sitting there, astonished at his own daring. The lady gave a horrible shriek, and stared at the intruder in amazement, without daring to stir. This mettlesome example found imitators. Green caterpillars crept valiantly over hats, handkerchiefs, and rolls, awakening fright and dismay. Big, fat spiders let themselves down glistening threads into the beer glasses, and upon heads or necks, and a loud, continual screaming accompanied their attack. Innumerable small flies assailed the people straight in the face, offering their lives for the good of the cause by tumbling into the food and drink, and, with their bodies, making it unfit for use. Finally, came multitudes of ants, a hundred at a time, and nipped the enemy in the most unexpected places. Men and women sprang up hurriedly from the long-crushed moss and grass; and the blue-bell was liberated through the well-aimed attack of two ear-wigs upon the ankles of the plump woman. Desperation seized them all; dancing and jumping with the most comical gestures, the people tried to escape from their pursuers. The pale man stood his ground well, and struck out on all sides with a small black stick; till a pair of malicious tomtits, that considered no method of attack too mean, and a wasp, that gave him a sting through his black trousers on the calf of the leg, put him out of the fight.
The jolly sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face behind a cloud. Big rain-drops descended upon the struggling party. Suddenly, as though it had rained down, a forest of big black toadstools appeared. It was the outstretched umbrellas. The women drew their skirts over their heads, exposing white petticoats, white-stockinged ankles, and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun it was for Windekind! He laughed so hard he had to cling to the flower-stem.
Faster and faster fell the rain, and a greyish, glistening veil began to envelop the woods. Water dripped from umbrellas, high hats, and black coats. The coats shone like the shells of the water beetle, while the shoes kissed and smacked on the saturated ground. Then the people gave it up—dropping silently away in little groups, leaving many papers, empty bottles, and orange peels for unsightly tokens of their visit. The little glade in the woods was again solitary, and soon nothing was heard but the monotonous patter of the rain.
"Well, Johannes! Now we have seen human beings, also. Why do you not laugh at them, as well?"
"Oh, Windekind! Are all human beings like that?"
"Some of them are much worse and more ugly. At times they swear and tear and make havoc with everything that is beautiful or admirable. They cut down trees, and put horrid, square houses in their places. They wantonly trample the flowers, and kill, for the mere pleasure of it, every animal that comes within their reach. In their cities, where they swarm together, everything is dirty and black, and the air is dank and poisonous with stench and smoke. They are completely estranged from Nature and her fellow-creatures. That is why they make such a foolish and sorry figure when they return to them."
"Oh, Windekind! Windekind!"
"Why are you crying, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born among human beings. I love you all the same, and prefer you to everybody else. I have taught you the language of the birds and the butterflies, and how to understand the look of the flowers. The moon knows you, and good, kind Earth loves you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad, since I am your friend?"
"Oh, Windekind, I am, I am! But then, I have to cry about all those people."
"Why? If it makes you sad, you need not remain with them. You can live here, and always keep me company. We will dwell in the depths of the woods, on the lonely, sunny dunes, or in the reeds by the pond. I will take you everywhere—down under the water among the water-plants, in the palaces of the elves, and in the haunts of the goblins. I will hover with you over fields and forests—over foreign lands and seas. I will have dainty garments spun for you, and wings given you like these I wear. We will live upon the sweetness of the flowers, and dance in the moonlight with the elves. When autumn comes, we will keep pace with the sun, to lands where the tall palms rise, where gorgeous flowers festoon the rocks, and the face of the deep blue sea lies smiling in the sun. And I will always tell you stories. Would you like that, Johannes?"
"Shall I never live with human beings any more?"
"Among human beings there await you endless sorrow, trouble, weariness, and care. Day after day must you toil and sigh under the burden of your life. They will stab and torture your sensitive soul with their roughness. They will rack and harass you to death. Do you love human beings more than you love me?"
"No, no, Windekind! I will stay with you."
Now he could show how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, for his sake he would leave and forget each and everything—his bedroom, Presto, and his father. Joyfully and resolutely he repeated his wish.
The rain had ceased. From under grey clouds the sunlight streamed over the woods like a bright smile. It touched the wet, shining leaves, the rain-drops which sparkled on every twig and stem, and adorned the spider-webs, stretched over the oak-leaves. From the moist ground below the shrubbery a fine mist languidly rose, bearing with it a thousand sultry, dreamy odors. The blackbird flew to the top of the highest tree, and sang in broken, fervent strains to the sinking sun, as if he would show which song suited best, in this solemn evening calm, as an accompaniment to the falling drops.
"Is not that finer than the noise of human beings, Johannes? Yes, the blackbird knows exactly the right tone to strike. Here everything is in harmony—such perfect harmony you will never find among human beings."
"What is harmony, Windekind?"
"It is the same as happiness. It is that for which all strive. Human beings also. Yet they are like children trying to catch a butterfly. They simply drive it away by their silly efforts."
"Shall I find it here with you?"
"Yes, Johannes; but then you must forget human beings. It is a bad beginning to have been born among human beings; but you are still young. You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life, else it would cause you to err and plunge you into conflicts, perplexities, and misery. It would be with you as with the young May-bug I told you about."
"What else happened to him?"
"He had seen the bright light which the older beetle had spoken of, and could think of nothing better to do than promptly to fly to it. Straight as a string, he flew into a room, and fell into human hands. For three long days he suffered martyrdom. He was put into cardboard boxes, threads were tied to his feet, and he was made to fly. Then he tore himself free, with the loss of a wing and a leg, and finally, creeping helplessly around on the carpet in a vain endeavor to reach the garden, he was crushed by a heavy foot.
"All creatures, Johannes, that roam around in the night are as truly children of the sun as we are. And although they have never seen the shining face of their father, still a dim remembrance ever impels them to anything from which light streams. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a pitiful death through that love for the sun from whom they were long ago cut off and estranged. Thus a mysterious, irresistible tendency brings human beings to destruction in the false phantom of that Great Light which gave them being, but which they no longer understand."
Johannes looked up inquiringly into Windekind's eyes. But they were deep and mysterious—like the dark sky between the stars.
"Do you mean God?" he asked shyly.
"God?" The deep eyes laughed gently. "I know, Johannes, of what you think when you utter that name; of the chair before your bed beside which you make your long prayer every evening; of the green serge curtains of the church window at which you look so often Sunday mornings; of the capital letters of your little Bible; of the church-bag with the long handle; of the wretched singing and the musty atmosphere. What you mean by that name, Johannes, is a ridiculous phantom; instead of the sun, a great oil-lamp where hundreds of thousands of gnats are helplessly stuck fast."
"But what then is the name of the Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?"
"Johannes, it is the same as if a speck of mold turning round with the earth should ask me its bearer's name. If there were an answer to your question you would understand it no more than does the earth-worm the music of the spheres. Still, I will teach you how to pray."
Then, with little Johannes, who was musing in silent wonder over his words, Windekind flew up out of the forest, so high that beyond the horizon a long streak of shining gold became visible. On they flew—the fantastically shadowed plain gliding beneath their glance. And the band of light grew broader and broader. The green of the dunes grew dun, the grass looked grey, and strange, pale-blue plants were growing there. Still another high range of hills, a long narrow stretch of sand, and then the wide, awful sea.
That great expanse was blue as far as the horizon, but below the sun flashed a narrow streak of glittering, blinding red.
A long, fleecy margin of white foam encircled the sea, like an ermine border upon blue velvet.
And at the horizon, sky and water were separated by an exquisite, wonderful line. It seemed miraculous; straight, and yet curved, sharp, yet undefined—visible, yet inscrutable. It was like the sound of a harp that echoes long and dreamfully, seeming to die away and yet remaining.
Then little Johannes sat down upon the top of the hill and gazed—gazed long, in motionless silence, until it seemed to him as if he were about to die—as if the great golden doors of the universe were majestically unfolding, and his little soul were drifting toward the first light of Infinity.
And then the tears welled in his wide-open eyes till they shrouded the glory of the sun, and obscured the splendor of heaven and earth in a dim and misty twilight.
"That is the way to pray," said Windekind.
Did you ever wander through the woods on a beautiful autumn day, when the sun was shining, calm and bright, upon the richly tinted foliage; when the boughs creaked, and the dry leaves rustled about your feet?
The woods seem so weary. They can only meditate, and live in old remembrances. A blue haze, like a dream, surrounds them with a mysterious beauty, and glistening gossamer floats through the air in idle undulations—like futile, aimless meditations.
Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed, and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they!
There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better.
"They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books."
Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil.
"What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?"
"Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood."
Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made Windekind promise to take him to one of them.
He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of loneliness—times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him stories.
And now he was going to see the goblins.
It was a good day for the visit—so very still. Johannes fancied he could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their tiny feet, although it was yet midday.
The birds were nearly all gone—the thrushes alone were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful chirp the bird flew swiftly away.
The toadstools were having a chatty time together.
"Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines! I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!"
"Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy—so brown and rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than any of you."
"Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You are both poisonous."
"That is a virtue," said the red fungus.
"Do you happen to be a human being?" grumbled the big fellow, scornfully. "If so, I would like to have you eat me up!"
Johannes did not do that, however. He took little dry twigs, and stuck them into his clumsy hood. That made him look silly, and all the others laughed—among them, a little group of tiny toadstools with small, brown heads, who in a couple of hours had sprung up together, and were jostling one another to get a peep at the world. The devil-fungus was blue with rage. That brought to light his poisonous nature.
Puff-balls raised their round, inflated little heads on four-pointed pedestals. From time to time a cloud of brown powder, of the utmost fineness, flew out of the opening in the round head. Wherever on the moist ground that powder fell, tiny rootlets would interlace in the black earth, and the following year hundreds of new puff-balls would spring up.
"What a beautiful existence!" said they to one another. "The very acme of attainment is to puff powder. What a joy to be able to puff, as long as one lives!"
And with devout consecration they drove the small dust-clouds into the air.
"Are they right, Windekind?"
"Why not? For them, what can be higher? It is fortunate that they long for nothing more, when they can do nothing else."
When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were intermingled in one general obscurity, that mysterious forest life did not cease. The branches cracked and snapped, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither over the grass and in the underwood, and Johannes felt the draft from inaudible wing-strokes, and was conscious of the presence of invisible beings. And now he heard, clearly, whispering voices and tripping footsteps. Look! There, in the dusky depths of the bushes, a tiny blue spark just twinkled, and then went out. Another one, and another! Hush! Listening attentively, he could hear a rustling in the leaves close beside him, by the dark tree-trunk. The blue lights appeared from behind this, and held still at the top.
Everywhere, now, Johannes saw glimmering lights. They floated through the foliage, danced and skipped along the ground; and yonder was a great, glowing mass like a blue bonfire.
"What kind of fire is that?" asked Johannes. "How splendidly it burns!"
"That is a decayed tree-trunk," said Windekind. Then they went up to a bright little light, which was burning steadily.
"Now I will introduce you to Wistik.[1]He is the oldest and wisest of the goblins."
Having come up closer, Johannes saw him sitting beside his little candle. By the blue light of this, one could plainly distinguish the wrinkled, grey-bearded face. He was reading aloud, and his eyebrows were knit. On his head he wore a little acorn cap with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a spider—listening to the reading.
Without lifting his head, the goblin glanced up from the book as the two approached, and raised his eyebrows. The spider crept away. "Good evening," said the goblin. "I am Wistik. Who are you?"
"My name is Johannes. I am very happy to make your acquaintance. What are you reading?"
"This is not intended for your ears," said Wistik. "It is only for spiders."
"Let me have just a peep at it, dear Wistik!" said Johannes.
"I must not. It is the Sacred Book of the spiders. It is in my keeping, and I must never let it out of my hands. I have the Sacred Book of the beetles and the butterflies and the hedgehogs and the moles, and of everything that lives here. They cannot all read, and when they wish to know anything, I read it aloud to them. That is a great honor for me—a position of trust, you know."
The mannikin nodded very seriously a couple of times, and raised a tiny forefinger.
"What were you reading just now?"
"The history of Kribblegauw,[2]the great hero of the spiders, who lived a long while ago. He had a web that stretched over three trees, and that caught in it millions of flies in a day. Before Kribblegauw's time, spiders made no webs, and lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribblegauw was a clever chap, and demonstrated that living things also were created for spider's food. And by difficult calculations, for he was a great mathematician, Kribblegauw invented the artful spider-web. And the spiders still make their webs, thread for thread, exactly as he taught them, only much smaller; for the spider family has sadly degenerated."
"Kribblegauw caught large birds in his web, and murdered thousands of his own children. There was a spider for you! Finally, a mighty storm arose, and dragged Kribblegauw with his web, and the three trees to which it was fastened, away through the air to distant forests, where he is now everlastingly honored because of his nimbleness and blood-thirstiness."
"Is that all true?" asked Johannes.
"It is in this book," said Wistik.
"Do you believe it?"
The goblin shut one eye, and rested his forefinger along the side of his nose.
"Whenever Kribblegauw is mentioned, in the Sacred Books of the other animals, he is called a despicable monster; but that is beyond me."
"Is there a Book of the Goblins, too, Wistik?"
Wistik glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously.
"What kind of being are you, really, Johannes? There is something about you so—so human, I should say."
"No, no! Rest assured, Wistik," said Windekind then. "We are elves; but Johannes has seen, formerly, many human beings. You can trust him, however. It will do him no harm."
"Yes, yes, that is well and good; but I am called the wisest of the goblins, and I studied long and hard before I learned what I know. Now I must be prudent with my wisdom. If I tell too much, I shall lose my reputation."
"But in what book, then, do you think the truth is told?"
"I have read much, but I do not believe I have ever read that book. It is not the Book of the Elves, nor the Book of the Goblins. Still, there must be such a book."
"The Book of Human Beings, perhaps?"
"That I do not know, but I should hardly think so, for the Book of Truth ought to bring great peace and happiness. It should state exactly why everything is as it is, so that no one could ask or wish for anything more. Now, I do not believe human beings have got so far as that."
"Oh, no! no!" laughed Windekind.
"Is there really such a book?" asked Johannes, eagerly.
"Yes!" whispered the goblin. "I know it from old, old stories. And hush! I know too, where it is, and who can find it."
"Oh, Wistik, Wistik!"
"Then why have you not yet got it?" asked Windekind.
"Have patience. It will happen all right. Some of the particulars I do not yet know, but I shall soon find it. I have worked for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it, life will be an endless autumnal day—blue sky above and blue haze about—but no falling leaves will rustle, no bough will break, and no drops will patter. The shadows will not waver, and the gold on the tree-tops will not fade. What now seems to us light will be as darkness, and what now seems to us happiness will be as sorrow, to him who has read that book. Yes, I know this about it, and sometime I shall find it." The goblin raised his eyebrows very high, and laid his finger on his lips.
"Wistik, if you could only teach me...." began Johannes, but before he could end he felt a heavy gust of wind, and saw, exactly above him, a huge black object which shot past, swiftly and inaudibly.
When he looked round again for Wistik, he caught just a glimpse of a little foot disappearing in a tree-trunk. Zip!—The goblin had dashed into his hole, head first—book and all. The candles burned more and more feebly, and suddenly went out. They were very queer little candles.
"What was that?" asked Johannes, in a fright, clinging fast to Windekind in the darkness.
"A night-owl," said Windekind.
They were both silent for a while. Then Johannes asked: "Do you believe what Wistik said?"
"Wistik is not so wise as he thinks he is. He will never find such a book. Neither will you."
"But does it exist?"
"That book exists the same as your shadow exists, Johannes. However hard you run, however carefully you may reach for it, you will never overtake nor grasp it; and, in the end, you will discover that it is yourself you chase. Do not be foolish—forget the goblin's chatter. I will tell you a hundred finer stories. Come with me! We will go to the edge of the woods, and see how our good Father lifts the fleecy, white dew-blankets from the sleeping meadow-lands. Come!"
Johannes went, but he had not understood Windekind's words and he did not follow his advice. And while he watched the dawn of the brilliant autumn day, he was brooding over the book wherein was stated why all is as it is, and softly repeating to himself, "Wistik!"
[1]Wistik = Would that I knew.
[1]Wistik = Would that I knew.
[2]Kribblegauw = Quarrel = quick.
[2]Kribblegauw = Quarrel = quick.
It seemed to him during the days that followed that it was no longer so merry and cheerful as it had been—in the woods and in the dunes—with Windekind. His thoughts were no longer wholly occupied with what Windekind told or showed him. Again and again he found himself musing over thatbook, but he dared not speak of it. Nothing he looked at now seemed beautiful or wonderful. The clouds were so black and heavy, he feared they might fall upon him. It pained him when the restless autumn winds shook and whipped the poor, tired trees until the pale under sides of the green leaves were upturned, and yellow foliage and dry branches flew up in the air.
What Windekind related gave him no satisfaction. Much of it he did not understand, and whenever he asked one of his old questions he never received a full, clear, satisfactory answer.
Thus he was forced to think again of that book wherein everything stood so clearly and plainly written; and of that ever sunny, tranquil, autumn day which was to follow.
"Wistik! Wistik!"
Windekind heard it.
"Johannes, you will remain a human being, I fear. Even your friendship is like that of human beings. The first one after me to speak to you has carried away your confidence. Alas! My mother was quite right!"
"No, Windekind! But you are so much wiser than Wistik; you are as wise as that book. Why do you not tell me all? See, now! Why does the wind blow through the trees, making them bend and sway? Look! They can bear no more; the finest branches are breaking and the leaves are torn away by hundreds, although they are still so green and fresh. They are so tired, and yet again and again they are shaken and lashed by this rude and cruel wind. Why is it so? What does the wind want?"
"My poor Johannes. That is human language!"
"Make it be still, Windekind! I like calm and sunshine."
"You ask and wish like a human being; therefore there is neither answer nor fulfilment. If you do not learn better to ask and desire, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will become like the thousands of human beings who have spoken to Wistik."
"Are there so many?"
"Yes, thousands. Wistik pretended to be very mysterious, but he is a prater who cannot keep his secret. He hopes to find that book among human beings, and he shares his knowledge with any one who, perhaps, can help him. And so he has already caused a great deal of unhappiness. Many believe him, and search for that book with as much fervor as some do the secret of the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, and forget all their affairs—even their happiness—and shut themselves up among thick books, and strange implements and materials. They hazard their lives and their health—forget the blue heavens, good, kindly Nature, and even their fellow-beings. Sometimes they find beautiful and useful things, like lumps of gold. These they cast up out of their caves, on the sunny surface of the earth. Yet they do not concern themselves with these things—leaving them for others to enjoy. They dig and drudge in the darkness with eager expectancy. They are not seeking gold, but the book. Some grow feeble-minded with the toil, forget their object and their desire, and wander about in aimless idleness. The goblin has made them childish. They may be seen piling up little towers of sand, and reckoning how many grains are lacking before they tumble down. They make little waterfalls, and calculate precisely each bend and bay the flow will make. They dig little pits, and employ all their patience and genius in making them smooth and quite free from stones. If these poor, infatuated ones are disturbed in their labor, and asked what they are doing, they look at you seriously and importantly, shake their heads and mutter: 'Wistik! Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that wicked little goblin. Look out for him, Johannes!"
But Johannes was staring before him at the swaying, creaking trees. Above his clear child-eyes wrinkles had formed in the tender flesh. Never before had he looked so grave.
"But yet—you have said it yourself, that there was such a book! Oh, I know—certainly—that there is something in it which you will not tell me concerning the Great Light."
"Poor, poor Johannes!" said Windekind. And above the rushing and roaring of the storm his voice was like a peaceful choral-song borne from afar. "Love me—love me with your whole being. In me you will find more than you desire. You will realize what you cannot now imagine, and you will yourself be what you have longed to know. Earth and heaven will be your confidants—the stars your next of kin—infinity your dwelling-place. Love me—love me! Cling to me as the hop-vine clings to the tree—be true to me as the lake is to its bed. In me alone will you find repose, Johannes."
Windekind's words were ended, but it seemed as though the choral-song continued. Out of the remote distance it seemed to be floating on—solemn and regular—above the rushing and soughing of the wind—peaceful as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds.
Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom, protected by the little blue mantle.
Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest.
Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again—in swift, ghostly succession—driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were human beings as they were? Why must he leave them—forego their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers die? Why?—Why?
There were the blue lights again—dancing in the depths of the underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay very still, and fast asleep.
"Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from under the blue mantle.
"Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?"
"Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you answer it?"
"You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you have come for?"
"Who will find that book, Wistik?"
"Ah, yes. That's it; that's it! Will you help me if I tell you?"
"If I can, certainly."
"Listen then, Johannes." Wistik opened his eyes amazingly wide, and lifted his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered along the back of his little hand:
"Human beings have the golden chest, fairies have the golden key. The foe of fairies finds it not; fairies' friend only, opens it. A springtime night is the proper time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way."
"Is that true, really true?" cried Johannes, as he thought of his little key.
"Yes," said Wistik.
"Why, then, has no one yet found it?" asked Johannes. "So many people are seeking it!"
"I have told no human being what I have confided to you, I have never yet found the fairies' friend."
"I have it, Wistik! I can help you!" cried Johannes, clapping his hands. "I will ask Windekind."
Away he flew, over moss and dry leaves. Still, he stumbled now and then, and his step was heavy. Thick branches cracked under his feet where before not a grass-blade had bent.
There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low it looked!
"Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him.
"Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew up with a scream.
There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing.
The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the starlight.
Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound.
Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite sorrow.
The morning was cold and grey. The black, glimmering boughs, all stripped by the storm, were weeping in the mist. Little Johannes ran hurriedly on over the wet, down-beaten grass—staring before him toward the edge of the woods where it was lighter, as if that were the end in view. His eyes were red from crying, and strained with fear and misery. He had been running back and forth the whole night, looking for the light. It had always been safe and home-like with Windekind. Now, in every dark spot lurked the ghost of forlornness, and he dared not look around.
At last, he left the woods and saw before him a meadow over which a fine, drizzling rain was falling. A horse stood in the middle of it near a leafless willow-tree, motionless and with drooping head, while the water dripped slowly from its shining sides, and out of its matted mane.
Johannes walked along by the woods. He looked with tired, anxious eyes toward the lonely horse and the grey, misty rain, and he whimpered softly.
"All is over now," he thought. "The sun will never come out again. After this it will always be with me as it is now—here."
But he dared not stand still in his despair; something more frightful yet would happen, he thought.
Then he saw the grand enclosure of a country-seat, and, under a linden tree with bright yellow foliage, a little cottage.
He went within the enclosure, and walked through broad avenues where the ground was thickly covered with layers of brown and yellow linden leaves. Purple asters grew along the grass-plots, and other brilliant autumn flowers were flaming there.
Then he came to a pond. Beside it stood a large house with low windows and glass doors. Rose-bushes and ivy grew against the wall. It was all shut up, and wore a gloomy look. Chestnut-trees, half stripped of their foliage, stood all around; and, amid their fallen leaves, Johannes saw the shining brown chestnuts.
Then that chill, deathly feeling passed away. He thought of his own home. There, too, were chestnut-trees, and at this season he always went to find the glossy nuts. Suddenly he began to feel a longing—as though he had heard the call of a familiar voice. He sat down upon a bench near the house, and gave vent to his feelings in tears.
A peculiar odor caused him to look up. A man stood near him with a white apron on, and a pipe in his mouth. About his waist were strips of linden bark for binding up the flowers. Johannes knew this scent so well; it made him think of his own garden, and of the gardener, who brought him pretty caterpillars, and showed him starlings' eggs.
He was not alarmed, although it was a human being who stood beside him. He told the man that he had been deserted and was lost, and he gratefully followed him to the small dwelling under the yellow-leaved linden-tree.
Indoors sat the gardener's wife, knitting black stockings. Over the peat fire in the fireplace hung a big kettle of boiling water. On the mat by the fire lay a cat with folded forepaws—just as Simon sat when Johannes left home.
Johannes was given a seat by the fire that he might dry his feet. "Tick, tack!—Tick, tack!" said the big, hanging clock. Johannes looked at the steam which rose, hissing, from the kettle, and to the little tongues of flame that skipped nimbly and whimsically over the peat.
"Now I am among human beings," thought he.
It was not bad. He felt calm and contented. They were good and kind, and asked what he would like best to do.
"I would like best to stay here," he replied.
Here he was at peace, but if he went home, sorrow and tears would follow. He would be obliged to maintain silence, and they would tell him that he had been naughty. He would have to see all the past over again, and think once more of everything.
He did long for his little room, for his father, for Presto—but he would rather endure the silent longing where he was, than the painful, racking return. It seemed as if here he might be thinking of Windekind, while at home he could not.
Windekind had surely gone away now—far away to the sunny land where the palms were bending over the blue seas. He would do penance here, and wait for him.
And so he implored the two good people to let him stay. He would be obedient and work for them. He would help care for the garden and the flowers, but only for this winter;—for he hoped in his heart that Windekind would return in the spring.
The gardener and his wife thought that Johannes had run away because he was not treated well at home. They sympathized with him, and promised to let him stay.
He remained, and helped them in the garden and among the flowers. He was given a little bedroom, with a blue wooden bedstead. From it, mornings, he could see the wet, yellow linden leaves slipping along the window-panes; and nights, the dark boughs rocking to and fro—with the stars playing hide-and-seek behind them. He gave names to the stars, and called the brightest Windekind.
He told his history to the flowers—almost all of which he had known at home; the big, serious asters, the gaudy zinias, and the white chrysanthemums which continued to bloom so late in the rude autumn. When all the other flowers were dead the chrysanthemums still stood—and even after the first snowfall, when Johannes came one morning early to look at them, they lifted their cheerful faces and said: "Yes, we are still here. You didn't think we would be,didyou?" They were very brave, but two days later they were all dead.
But the palms and tree-ferns still flourished in the green-house, and the strange flower-clusters of the orchids hung in their humid, sultry air. Johannes gazed with wonder into the splendid cups, and thought of Windekind. On going out-of-doors, how cold and colorless everything looked—the black footsteps in the damp snow, and the rattling, dripping skeletons of trees!
Hour after hour, while the snowflakes were silently falling until the branches bowed beneath their weight of down, Johannes walked eagerly on in the violet dusk of the snow-shadowed woods. It was silence, but not death. And it was almost more beautiful than summer verdure; the interlocking of the pure white branches against the clear blue sky, or the descending clouds of glittering flakes when a heavily laden shrub let slide its snowy burden.
Once, on such a walk, when he had gone so far that nothing was to be seen save snow, and snow-covered branches—half white, half black—and all sound and life seemed smothered under its glistening covering, he thought he saw a tiny white animal run nimbly out in front of him. He followed it. It bore no likeness to any that he knew. Then he tried to grasp it, but it sped away and disappeared in a tree-trunk. Johannes peered into the round, black opening, and thought—"Could it be Wistik?"
He did not think much about him. It seemed mean to do so, and he did not wish to weaken in his doing of penance. And life with the two good people left him little to ask for. Evenings, he had to read aloud out of a thick book, in which much was said about God. But he knew that book, and read it absent-mindedly.
The night after his walk in the snow, however, he lay awake in bed, looking at the cold shining of the moonlight on the floor. Suddenly he saw two tiny hands close beside him—clinging fast to the bedside. Then the top of a little white fur cap appeared between the two hands, and at last he saw a pair of earnest eyes under high-lifted eyebrows.
"Good evening, Johannes," said Wistik. "I came to remind you of our agreement. You cannot have found the book yet, for the spring has not come. But are you keeping it in mind? What is the thick book I have seen you reading in? That cannot be the true book. Do not think that."
"I donotthink so, Wistik," said Johannes. He turned over and tried to go to sleep again, but he could not get the little key out of his head.
And from this time on, as he read in the thick book, he kept thinking about it, and he saw clearly that it was not the true book.
"Now he will come," thought Johannes, the first time the snow had melted away, and here and there little clusters of snowdrops began to appear. "Will he not come now?" he asked the snowdrops. They could not tell, but remained with drooping heads looking at the earth as if they were ashamed of their haste, and wished to creep away again.
If they only could have done so! The numbing east winds soon began to blow again, and the poor, rash things were buried deep in the drifted snow.
Weeks later came the violets, their sweet perfume floating through the shrubbery. And when the sun had shone long and warmly on the mossy ground, the fair primulas opened out by hundreds and by thousands.
The shy violets, with their rich fragrance, were mysterious harbingers of coming magnificence, yet the cheerful primulas were gladness itself. The awakened earth had taken to herself the first sunbeams, and made of them a golden ornament.
"Now," thought Johannes, "now he is surely coming!" In suspense he watched the buds on the branches, as they swelled slowly day by day, and freed themselves from the bark, till the first pale-green points appeared among the brown scales. Johannes stayed a long time looking at those little green leaves, and never saw them stir. But even if he only just turned around they seemed to have grown bigger. "They do not dare while I am watching them," he thought.
The foliage had already begun to cast a shade, yet Windekind had not come. No dove had alighted near him—no little mouse had spoken to him. When he addressed the flowers they scarcely nodded, and made no reply whatever. "My penance is not over yet," he thought.
Then one sunny spring morning he passed the pond and the house. The windows were all wide open. He wondered if any of the people had come yet.
The wild cherry that stood by the pond was entirely covered with tender leaves. Every twig was furnished with little, delicate-green wings. On the grass beside the bush sat a young girl. Johannes saw only her light-blue frock and her blonde hair. A robin was perched on her shoulder, and pecked out of her hand. Suddenly, she turned her head around and saw Johannes.
"Good day, little boy," said she, nodding in a friendly way.
Again Johannes thrilled from head to foot. Those were Windekind's eyes—that was Windekind's voice!
"Who are you?" he asked, his lips quivering with feeling.
"I am Robinetta, and this is my bird. He will not be afraid of you. Do you like birds?"
The redbreast was not afraid of Johannes. It flew to his arm. That was like old times. And it must be Windekind—that azure being!
"Tell me your name, Laddie," said Windekind's voice.
"Do you not know me? Do you not know that I am Johannes?"
"How could I know that?"
What did that mean? Still, it was the well-known, sweet voice. Those were the dark, heavenly-deep, blue eyes.
"Why do you look at me so, Johannes? Have you ever seen me before?"
"Yes, I do believe so."
"Surely, you must have dreamed it!"
"Dreamed?" thought Johannes. "Can I have dreamed everything? Can I be dreaming now?"
"Where were you born?" he asked.
"A long way from here, in a great city."
"Among human beings?"
Robinetta laughed. It was Windekind's laugh. "I believe so. Were not you?"
"Alas, yes! I was too!"
"Are you sorry for that? Do you not like human beings?"
"No. Whocouldlike them?"
"Who? Well, Johannes; but you are an odd child! Do you like animals better?"
"Oh, much better—and flowers."
"Really, I do, too—sometimes. But that is not right. Father says we must love our friends."
"Why is that not right? I like whom I choose whether it is right or not."
"Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents, then, nor any one who cares for you? Are you not fond of them?"
"Yes," said Johannes, remembering. "I love my father, but not because it is right, nor because he is a human being."
"Why, then?"
"I do not know—because he is not like other human beings—because he, too, is fond of birds and flowers."
"And so am I, Johannes. Look!" And Robinetta called the robin to her hand, and petted it.
"I know it," said Johannes. "And I love you very much, too.
"Already? That is very soon," laughed the girl. "Whom do you love best of all?"
"I love—" Johannes hesitated. Should he speak Windekind's name? The fear that he might let slip that name to human ears was never out of his thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired being in blue, Windekind himself? Who else could give him that feeling of rest and happiness?
"You!" said he, all at once, looking frankly into the deep blue eyes. Courageously, he ventured a full surrender. He was anxious, though, and eagerly awaited the reception of his precious gift.
Again Robinetta laughed heartily, but she pressed his hand, and her look was no colder, her voice no less cordial.
"Well, Johannes," said she, "what have I done to earn this so suddenly?"
Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with growing confidence.
Robinetta stood up, and laid her arm about Johannes' shoulders. She was taller than he.
Thus they strolled through the woods, and picked great clusters of cowslips, until they could have hidden under the mountain of sun-filled yellow flowers. The little redbreast went with them—flying from branch to branch, and peering at them with its shining little black eyes.
They did not speak much, but now and then looked askance at each other. They were both perplexed by this adventure, and uncertain what they ought to think of each other.
Much to her regret, Robinetta had soon to turn back.
"I must go now, Johannes, but will you not take another walk with me? I think you are a nice little boy," said she in taking her leave.
"Tweet! Tweet!" said the robin as he flew after her.
When she had gone, and her image alone remained to him, he doubted no more who she was. She was the very same to whom he had given his friendship. The name Windekind rang fainter, and became confused with Robinetta.
Everything about him was again the same as it had formerly been. The flowers nodded cheerfully, and their perfume chased away the melancholy longing for home which, until now, he had felt and encouraged. Amid the tender greenery, in the soft, mild, vernal air, he felt all at once at home, like a bird that had found its nest. He stretched out his arms and took in a full, deep breath—he was so happy! On his way home, wherever he looked he always saw gliding before him the figure in light blue with the golden hair. It was as though he had been looking at the sun, until its image was stamped upon everything he saw.
From this day on Johannes went to the pond every clear morning. He went early—as soon as he was wakened by the squabbling of the sparrows in the ivy about his window, and by the tedious chirping and chattering of the starlings, as they fluttered in the water-leader in the early sunshine. Then he hurried through the dewy grass, close to the house, and watched from behind the lilac-bush until he heard the glass door open, and saw the bright figure coming toward him.
Then they wandered through the woods, and over the hills which lay beyond. They talked about everything in sight; the trees, the plants, and the dunes. Johannes had a strange, giddy sensation as he walked beside her. Sometimes he felt light enough again to fly through the air. But he never could. He told the story of the flowers and of the animals, as Windekind had given it to him. But he forgot how he had learned it, and Windekind existed no more for him—only Robinetta. He was happy when she laughed with him, and he saw the friendship in her eyes; and he spoke to her as he had formerly done to his little dog—saying whatever came into his head, without hesitation or shyness. When he did not see her he spent the hours in thinking of her; and each thing he did was with the question whether Robinetta would find it good or beautiful.
And she, herself, appeared always so pleased to see him. She would smile and hasten her steps. She had told him that she would rather walk with him than with any one else.
"But, Johannes," she once asked, "how do you know all these things? How do you know what the May-bugs think, what the thrushes sing, and how it looks in a rabbit-hole, or on the bottom of the water?"
"They have told me," answered Johannes, "and I have myself been in a rabbit-hole and on the bottom of the water."
Robinetta knitted her delicate eyebrows and looked at him half mockingly. But his face was full of truth.
They were sitting under lilac trees, from which hung thick, purple clusters. Before them lay the pond with its reeds and duck-weed. They saw the black beetles gliding in circles over the surface, and little red spiders busily darting up and down. It swarmed with life and movement. Johannes, absorbed in remembrances, gazed into the depths, and said:
"I went down there once. I slipped down a reed to the very bottom. It is all covered with fallen leaves which make it so soft and smooth. It is always twilight there—a green twilight—for the light falls through the green duck-weed. And over my head I saw the long, white rootlets hanging down.
"The newts, which are very inquisitive, came swimming about me. It gives a strange feeling to have such great creatures swimming above one; and I could not see far in front, for it was dark there—yet green, too. And in that darkness the living things appeared like black shadows. There were paddle-footed water-beetles, and flat mussels, and sometimes, too, a little fish. I went a long way—hours away, I believe—and in the middle was a great forest of water-plants, where snails were creeping, and water-spiders were weaving their glistening nests. Minnows darted in and out, and sometimes they stayed with open mouths and quivering fins to look at me, they were so amazed. There I made the acquaintance of an eel whose tail I had the misfortune to step on. He told me about his travels. He had been as far as the sea, he said. Because of this, he had been made King of the Pond—for no one else had been so far. He always lay in the mud, sleeping, except when others brought him something to eat. He was a frightful eater. That was because he was a king. They prefer a fat king—one that is portly and dignified. Oh, it was splendid in that pond!"
"Then why can you not go there again—now?"
"Now?" asked Johannes, looking at her with great, pondering eyes. "Now? I can never go again. I should be drowned. But there is no need of it. I would rather be here by the lilacs, with you."
Robinetta shook her little blonde head wonderingly, and stroked Johannes' hair. Then she looked at her robin, which seemed to be finding all kinds of tid-bits at the margin of the pond. Just then it looked up, and kept watching the two with its bright little eyes.
"Do you understand anything about it, Birdling?"
The bird gave a knowing glance, and then went on with its hunting and pecking.
"Tell me something more, Johannes, of what you have seen."
Johannes gladly did so, and Robinetta listened attentively, believing all he said.
"But what is to prevent all that,now? Why can you not go again with me to all those places? I should love to go."
Johannes tried his best to remember, but a sunny haze obscured the dim distance over which he had passed. He could not exactly tell how he had lost his former happiness.
"I do not quite know—you must not ask about it. A silly little creature spoiled it all. But now it is all right again; still better than before."
The perfume of the lilacs settled gently down upon them; and the humming of the insects over the water, and the peaceful sunshine, filled them with a sweet drowsiness; until a shrill bell at the house began to ring, and Robinetta sped away.
That evening, when Johannes was in his little room, looking at the moon-shadows cast by the ivy leaves which covered the window-panes—there seemed to be a tapping on the glass. Johannes thought it was an ivy leaf fluttering in the night wind. Yet it tapped so plainly—always three taps at a time—that Johannes very gently opened the window and cautiously looked about. The ivy against the house gleamed in the blue light. Below, lay a dim world full of mystery. There were caverns and openings into which the moonlight cast little blue flecks—making the darkness still deeper.
After Johannes had been gazing a long time into this wonderful world of shadows, he saw the form of a mannikin close by the window, half hidden by a large ivy leaf. He recognized Wistik instantly, by his great, wonder-struck eyes under the uplifted brows. A tiny moonbeam just touched the tip of Wistik's long nose.
"Have you forgotten me, Johannes? Why are you not thinking about it now? It is the right time. Did you ask Robin Redbreast the way?"
"Ah, Wistik, why should I ask? I have everything I could wish for. I have Robinetta."
"But that will not last long. And you can be still happier—Robinetta, too. Must the little key stay where it is, then? Only think how grand it would be if you both should find the book! Ask Robin Redbreast about it. I will help you whenever I can."
"At least, I can ask about it," said Johannes.
Wistik nodded, and scrambled nimbly down the vines.
Before he went to bed, Johannes stayed a long time—looking at the dark shadows and the shining ivy leaves.
The next day he asked the redbreast if he knew the way to the golden chest. Robinetta listened, in astonishment. Johannes saw the robin nod, and peep askance at Robinetta.
"Not here, not here!" chirped the little bird.
"What do you mean, Johannes?" asked Robinetta.
"Do you not know about it, Robinetta, and where to find it? Are you not waiting for the little gold key?"
"No! no! Tell me—what is that?"
Johannes told her what he knew about the book.
"And I have the little key. I thought you had the golden chest. Is it not so, Birdie?"
But the bird feigned not to hear, and fluttered about among the fresh, bright beech leaves.
They were resting against a slope on which small beech and spruce trees were growing. A narrow green path ran slantingly by, and they sat at the border of it, on thick, dark-green moss. They could look over the tops of the lowest saplings upon a sea of green foliage billowing in sun and shade.
"I do believe, Johannes," said Robinetta, after a little, "that I can find what you are looking for. But what do you mean about the little key? How did you come by it?"
"Why! How did I? How was it?" murmured Johannes, gazing far away over the green expanse.
Suddenly, as though fledged in the sunny sky, two white butterflies met his sight. They whirled about with uncertain capricious flight—fluttering and twinkling in the sunlight. Yet they came closer.
"Windekind! Windekind!" whispered Johannes, suddenly remembering.
"Who is that? Who is Windekind?" asked Robinetta.
The redbreast flew up, chattering, and the daisies in the grass before him seemed suddenly to be staring at Johannes in great alarm with their white, wide-open eyes.
"Did he give you the little key?" continued the girl. Johannes nodded, in silence; but she wanted to know more.
"Who was it? Did he teach you all those things? Where is he?"
"He is not any more. It is Robinetta now—no one but Robinetta. Robinetta alone!" He clasped her arm, and pressed his little head against it.
"Silly boy!" she said, laughing. "I will find the book for you—I know where it is."
"But then I must go and get the key, and it is far away."
"No, no, you need not. I will find it without a key—to-morrow—I promise you."
On their way home, the little butterflies flitted back and forth in front of them.
Johannes dreamed of his father that night—of Robinetta, and of many others. They were all good friends, and they stood near looking at him cordially, and trustfully. Yet later, their faces changed. They grew cold and ironical. He looked anxiously around; on all sides were fierce, hostile faces. He felt a nameless distress, and waked up weeping.
Johannes had already sat a long while, waiting. The air was chilly, and great clouds were drifting close above the earth in endless, majestic succession. They spread out sombre, wide-waving mantles, and reared their haughty heads toward the clear light that shone above them. Sunlight and shadow chased each other swiftly over the trees, like flickering flames. Johannes was in an anxious state of mind, thinking about the book; not believing that he should really find it that day. Between the clouds—much higher—awfully high, he saw an expanse of clear blue sky; and upon it, stretched out in motionless calm, were delicate, white, plume-like clouds.
"It ought be like that," he thought. "So high, so bright, so still!"
Then came Robinetta. The robin was not with her.
"It is all right, Johannes," she cried out. "You may come and see the book."
"Where is Robin Redbreast?" said Johannes, mistrustfully.
"He did not come. But we are not going for a walk."
Then he went with her, thinking all the time to himself:
"It cannot be! Notthisway!—it must be entirely different!"
Yet he followed the sunny, blonde hair that lighted his way.
Alas! things went sadly now with little Johannes. I could wish that his story ended here. Did you ever have a splendid dream of a magical garden where the flowers and animals all loved you and talked to you? And did the idea come to you then, that you might wake up soon, and all that happiness be lost? Then you vainly try to hold the dream—and not to wake to the cold light of day. That was the way Johannes felt when he went with Robinetta.
He went into the house—and down a passage that echoed with his footsteps. He breathed the air of clothes and food; he thought of the long days when he had had to stay indoors, of his school-tasks, and of all that had been sombre and cold in his life.
He entered a room with people in it—how many he did not see. They were talking together, yet when he came they ceased to speak. He noticed the carpet; it had big, impossible flowers in glaring colors. They were as strange and deformed as those of the hangings in his bedroom at home.
"Well, is this the gardener's little boy?" said a voice right in front of him. "Come here, my young friend; you need not be afraid."
And another voice sounded suddenly, close beside him: "Well, Robbi, a pretty little playmate you have there!"
What did all this mean? The deep wrinkles came again above the child's dark eyes, and Johannes looked around in perplexity.
A man in black clothes sat near—looking at him with cold, grey eyes.
"And so you wish to make acquaintance with the Book of Books! It amazes me that your father, whom I know to be a devout man, has not already given it to you."
"You do not know my father—he is far away."
"Is that so? Well, it is all the same. Look here, my young friend! Read a great deal in this. Upon your path in life it will...."
But Johannes had already recognized the book. It could not possibly come to him inthisway! No! he could not have it so. He shook his head.
"No, no! This is not what I mean. This I know. This is not it."
He heard sounds of surprise, and felt the looks which were fastened on him from all sides. "What! What do you mean, child?"
"I know this book; it is the Book of Human Beings. But there is not enough in it; if there were there would be rest among men—and peace. And there is none. I mean something else about which no one can doubt who sees it—wherein is told why everything is as it is—precisely and plainly."
"How is that possible? Where did the boy get that notion?"
"Who taught you that, my young friend?"
"I believe you have been reading depraved books, boy, and are repeating the words!"
Thus rang the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning, and he began to feel dizzy. The room spun round, and the huge flowers on the carpet floated up and down. Where was the little mouse which had warned him so faithfully that day at school? He needed him now.
"I am not repeating it out of books, and he who taught me is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers, and of animals—I am their intimate friend. I know, too, what human beings are, and how they live. I know all the secrets of fairies and of goblins, for they love me more than human beings do."
Oh, Mousie! Mousie!
Johannes heard coughing and laughing, around and behind him. It all rang and rasped in his ears.
"He seems to have been reading Andersen."
"He is not quite right in his head."
The man in front of him said:
"If you know Andersen, little man, you ought to have more respect for God and His Word." "God!" He knew that word, and he thought about Windekind's lesson.
"I have no respect for God. God is a big oil-lamp, which draws thousands to wreck and ruin."
No laughing now, but a serious silence in which the horror and consternation were palpable. Johannes felt even in his back the piercing looks. It was like his dream of the night before.
The man in black stood up and took him by the arm. That hurt, and almost broke his heart.
"Listen, boy! I do not know whether you are foolish or deeply depraved, but I will not suffer such godlessness here. Go away and never come into my sight again, wretched boy! I shall ask about you, but never again set foot in this house. Do you understand?"
Everybody looked at him coldly and unkindly—as in his dream the night before. Johannes looked around him in distress.
"Robinetta! Where is Robinetta?"
"Well, indeed! Corrupt my child? If you ever speak to her again, look out!"
"No, let me go to her! I will not leave her. Robinetta!" cried Johannes.
But she sat in a corner, frightened, and did not look up.
"Out, you rascal! Do you hear? Take care, if you have the boldness to come back again."
The painful grip led him through the sounding corridor—the glass door rattled, and Johannes stood outside, under the dark, lowering clouds.
He did not cry now, but gazed quietly out in front of him as he slowly walked on. The sorrowful wrinkles were deeper above his eyes, and they stayed there.
The little redbreast sat in a linden hedge and peered at him. He stood still and silently returned the look. But there was no trust now in the timid, peeping little eyes; and when he took a step nearer, the quick little creature whirred away from him.
"Away, away! A human being!" chirped the sparrows, sitting together in the garden path. And they darted away in all directions.
The open flowers did not smile, but looked serious and indifferent; as they do with every stranger.
Johannes did not heed these signs, but was thinking of what the cruel men had done to him. He felt as if his inmost being had been violated by a hard, cold touch. "Theyshallbelieve me!" thought he. "I will get my little key and show it to them."
"Johannes! Johannes!" called a light, little voice. There was a bird's nest in a holly tree, and Wistik's big eyes peeped over the brim of it. "Where are you bound for?"
"It is all your fault, Wistik," said Johannes. "Let me alone."
"How did you come to talk about it to human beings? They do not understand. Why do you tell them these things? It is very stupid of you."
"They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are miserable creatures. I hate them!"
"No, Johannes, you love them."
"No! No!"
"If you did not, you would not mind it so much that they are not like yourself; and it would not matter what they said. You must concern yourself less about human beings."
"I want my key. I want to show it to them."
"You must not do that; they would not believe you even if you did. What would be the use of it?"
"I want my little key—under the rose-bush. Do you know how to find it?"
"Yes, indeed! Near the pond, is it not? Yes, I know."
"Then take me to it, Wistik."
Wistik climbed up to Johannes' shoulder, and pointed out the way. They walked the whole day long. The wind blew, and now and then showers fell; but at evening the clouds ceased driving, and lengthened themselves out into long bands of gray and gold.
When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!"
There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves.
Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose.
"Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it."
"I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key—I didn't."
The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground.
But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers—even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was.
"Oh! where is it? Where is it?"
"Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it—that is always the way with human beings!"
He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass.