[1]Lottery-Fair.
[1]Lottery-Fair.
It was, indeed, a real lion's tail, and not a bed-cord.
Johannes and Wistik were now sitting on the very back of the mighty beast. Above them it was all dark, but out in front—away where the lion was looking—the daylight could be seen.
They let themselves down cautiously to the ground. They were in a large cave. Johannes saw streaks of water glistening along the rocky walls.
Gently as they tried to slip past the monster, he yet discovered them, and turned his shaggy head around, watching them distrustfully.
"He will not do anything," said Wistik. And the lion looked at them as if they were a pair of flies, not worth eating up.
They passed on into the sharp sunlight outside, and, after several blinding moments, Johannes saw before him a wide-spread, glorious mountain view.
They were standing on the slope of a high, rocky mountain. Down below, they saw deep, verdant valleys, whence the sound of babbling brooks and waterfalls ascended.
In the distance was the dazzling, blinding glitter of sunshine upon a sea of deepest, darkest blue. They could see the strand, and every now and then it grew white with the combing surf. But there was no sound; it was too far away.
Overhead, the sky was clear, but Johannes could not see the face of the sun. It was very still all around, and the blue and white flowers among the rocks were motionless. Only the rushing of the water in the valleys could be heard.
"Now, Johannes, what do you say to this? It is more beautiful than the dunes, is it not?" said Wistik, nodding his head in complete satisfaction.
Johannes was enchanted at the sight of that vast expanse before him, with the rocks, the flowers, the ravines, and the sea.
"Oh, Wistik, where are we?" asked he, softly, enraptured with the view.
"My new cap came from here," said Wistik.
Johannes looked at him. The pretty cap that had appeared black in the twilight proved to be bright red. It was a Phrygian cap.
"Phrygia?" asked Johannes, for he knew the name of those caps well.
"Maybe," said Wistik. "Is not this a great find? And I know, too...." Here he spoke in whispers again, very importantly, behind the back of his hand, in Johannes' ear: "Here they know something more about the little gold key, and the book, which we are both trying to find."
"Is the book here?" asked Johannes.
"I do not know yet," said Wistik, a trifle disturbed. "I did not say that, but the people know about it—that is certain."
"Are there people here?"
"Certainly there are. Human beings, and elves, and all kinds of animals. And they know all about it."
"Is Windekind here, too, Wistik?"
"I do not doubt it, Johannes, but I have not seen him yet. Shall we try to find him?"
"Oh, yes, Wistik! But how are we going to get down there? It is too steep. We shall break our necks."
"No, indeed, if only you are not afraid. Just let yourself float. Then you will be all right."
At first Johannes did not dare. He was wide awake, not dreaming; and if any one wide awake were to throw himself down from a high rock, he would meet his death. If one were dreaming, then nothing would happen. If only he could know, now, whether he was awake or dreaming!
"Come, Johannes, we have only a little time."
Then he risked it, and let himself drift downward. And it was splendid—so comfortable! He floated gently down through the mild, still air, arms and legs moving as in swimming.
"Is it only a dream, then?" he asked, looking down attentively at the beautiful, blooming world below him.
"What do you mean?" asked Wistik. "You are Johannes, just the same, and what you see, Johannes sees. Your body lies asleep, in Vrede-best, at your aunt's. But did you ever in the daytime see anything so distinct as this?"
"No," said Johannes.
"Well, then, you can just as well call your Aunt Seréna and Vrede-best a dream—just as much as this."
A large bird—an eagle—swept around in stately circles, spying at them with its sharp, fierce eyes.
Below, in the dark green of the valley, a small white temple, with its columns, was visible. Close beside it a mountain stream tumbled splashing down below. Still and straight as arrows, tall cypresses, with their pale grey trunks and black-green foliage, encircled it. A fine mist rose up from the splashing water, and, crowned with an exquisite arc of color, remained suspended amidst the glossy green myrtle and magnolia. Only where the water spattered did the leaves stir; elsewhere everything was motionless.
But over all rang the warbling and chattering of birds, from out the forest shade. Finches sang their fullest strains, and the thrushes fluted their changeful tune, untiringly.
But listen! That was not a bird! That was a more knowing, more cordial song; a melody thatsaidsomething—something which Johannes could feel, like the words of a friend. It was a reed, played charmingly. No bird could sing like that.
"Oh, Wistik, who is playing? It is more lovely than blackbird or nightingale."
"Pst!" said Wistik, opening his eyes wide. "That is only the flute, yet. By and by you will hear the singing."
They sank down upon a mountain meadow, in a wide valley. The limpid, blue-green rivulet flowed through the sunny grass-plot, between blood-red anemones, yellow and white narcissi, and deep purple hyacinths. On both sides of it were thick, round azalea-bushes, entirely covered with fragrant, brick-red flowers. White butterflies were fluttering back and forth across it. On the other side rose tall laurel, myrtle, olive, and chestnut trees; and still higher the cedars and pines—half-way up the mountain wall of red-grey granite.
It was so still and peaceful and great blue dragon-flies with black wings were rocking on the yellow narcissus flowers nodding along the stream.
Then Johannes saw a fleeing deer, springing up from the sod in swift, sinewy leaps; then another, and another.
The flute-playing sounded close by, but now there was singing also. It came from a shady grove of chestnut trees, and echoed gloriously from mountain-side to mountain-side, while the brook maintained the rhythm with its purling, murmuring flow. The voices of men and women could be heard, vigorously strong and sweetly clear; and, intermingling with these somewhat rude shouts of joy, the high-pitched voices of children.
On they came, the people, a joyous, bright-colored procession. They all bore flowers—as wreaths upon their heads, as festoons in their hands or about their shoulders-flute-players, men, women, and children. And they themselves seemed living flowers, in their clear-colored, charming apparel. They all had abundant, curling hair which gleamed like dull gold in the sunshine, that tinted everything. Their limbs and faces were tanned by the sun, but when the folds of their garments fell aside, their bodies beneath them shone white as milk. The older ones kept step, with careful dignity; the children bore little baskets, with fruit, ribbons, and green branches; but the young men and maidens danced as they went, keeping the rhythm of the music in a way Johannes had never seen before. They swayed their bodies in a swinging movement, with little leaps; sometimes even standing still, in graceful postures, their arms alternately raised above their heads, their loosened garments flowing free, and again arranging themselves in charming folds.
And how beautiful they were! Not one, Johannes noted, old or young, who had not those noble, refined features, and those clear, ardent eyes, in which was to be found the deep meaning he was always seeking in human faces—that which made a person instantly his friend—that made him long to be cordial and intimate—that which he had first perceived in Windekind's eyes, and that he missed so keenly in all those human faces among which he had had to live.That, they all had—man and woman, grey-haired one and little child.
"Oh, Wistik," he whispered, so moved he could scarcely speak, "are they really human beings, and not elves? Can human beings be so beautiful? They are more beautiful than flowers—and much more beautiful than the animals. They are the most beautiful of all things in this world!"
"What did I tell you?" said Wistik, rubbing his little legs in his satisfaction. "Yes, human beings rank first in nature,—altogether first. But until now we have had to do with the wrong ones—the trash, Johannes—the refuse. The right ones are not so bad. I have always told you that."
Johannes did not remember about it, but would not contradict his friend. He only hoped that those dear and charming people would come to him, recognize him as their comrade, and receive him as one of them. That would make him very happy; he would love the people truly, and be proud of his human nature.
But the splendid train drew near, and passed on, without his having been observed by any one; and Johannes also heard them singing in a strange, unintelligible language.
"May I not speak to them?" he asked, anxiously. "Would they understand me?"
"Indeed, no!" said Wistik, indignantly. "What are you thinking about? This is not a fairy tale nor a dream. This is real—altogether real."
"Then shall I have to go hack again to Aunt Seréna, and Daatje, and the dominie?"
"Yes, to be sure!" said Wistik, in confusion.
"And the little key, and the book, and Windekind?"
"We can still be seeking them."
"That is always the way with you!" said Johannes, bitterly. "You promise something wonderful, and the end is always a disappointment."
"I cannot help that," said Wistik.
They went farther, both of them silent and somewhat discouraged. Then they came to human habitations amid the verdure. They were simple structures of dark wood and white stone, artistically decorated and colored. Vines were growing against the pillars, and from the roofs hung the branches of a strange, thickly leaved plant having red flowers, so that the walls looked as if they were bleeding. Birds were everywhere making their nests, and little golden statues could be seen resting in marble niches. There were no doors nor barriers—only here and there a heavy, many-colored rug hanging before an entrance. It seemed very silent and lonely there, for everybody was away; yet nothing was locked up, nor concealed. An exquisite perfume was smoldering in bronze basins in front of the houses, and columns of blue smoke coiled gently up into the still air.
Then they ventured farther into the forest that lay behind the houses. It was dusky twilight there, and all was solemnly and mysteriously silent. The moss grew thick upon the massive rocks between which the mighty chestnut and cedar trees took root. Foaming rivulets were flowing down; and frequently it seemed to Johannes as if he saw some creature—a deer or other animal—peep at him, and then dart away between the tree-trunks. "What are they? Deer?" asked Johannes.
"Indeed, no!" said Wistik, lifting a finger. "Only listen! They are laughing. Deer do not laugh."
Truly, Johannes heard every now and then, as he saw a figure disappear in the twilight of the woods, a soft peal of laughter—clearly, human laughter.
"Now! now we are going to see him!" said Wistik.
"Who?" asked Johannes.
"Pst!" said Wistik, very mysteriously, pointing toward an open place in the forest.
Johannes saw there such a pretty and captivating spectacle that he stood speechless, with only a light laugh of joy and amazement.
The forest was more open there, and the sun shone in upon a grassy, flower-covered spot. In the centre stood a single, extraordinarily large chestnut tree. About its foot, bordered with white narcissi, a little stream of purest water was winding. On every side tall rhododendrons stood out in all their beauty of dark foliage, and hundreds of hemispherical clusters of purple flowers.
At the foot of the tree, in the shade of its leaves, a strange figure, dark and shaggy, was sitting in a circle of exquisite, fair-skinned beings. Johannes did not know what to think of them, they were so light and so delicate. And they lay in all sorts of graceful attitudes amid the tall grass and the narcissus flowers. They seemed to be human beings, but they were so small; and they were as white as the foam of the brook. Their long hair was so feathery light, it seemed to float about their heads in the motionless air.
In the centre sat the dark, shaggy figure, with his arms upon his knees, and his hands extended. He had a long, grey beard, an old, wrinkled, friendly face, large gold earrings, a wreath of leaves upon his head, a red flower-festoon adorned with living yellow butterflies about his shoulders, bare, brown arms, a deep, broad, hairy chest, and legs entirely covered with a growth of red-brown fleece. On each hand rested a bird—a finch—and each bird sang, in turn, his longest strain. Then the old figure laughed, and nodded his approval, and the fair little beings joined in the laugh. On his shoulder sat a squirrel, shucking chestnuts so that the shells fell upon his beard.
"Oh, Wistik!" cried Johannes, half laughing, half crying, with rapture, "I know who that is—I know him. That is Pan—Father Pan!"
"Very likely!" said Wistik, with a knowing look. "Nowhewill listen to us. Let's try!"
Diffidently, Johannes went nearer. At the first step he took in the open space, the little white nymphs sped apart in a trice—as swiftly and softly as if they had been turned into newts—and there was nothing to be heard save their light, mocking laughter, and a slight rustling in the dark shadow of the rhododendrons. The two finches flew away and the yellow butterflies, also, from their flower-festoon; and the squirrel shot into the tree—his little nails clattering as he went. But Pan remained sitting, with head bent forward, down-dropping hands, and peering, friendly eyes.
"I know you all right!" came from the wide mouth of Pan, while he nodded to Johannes, and looked at him with his large head a little to one side.
"Oh, Father Pan!" exclaimed Johannes, quivering with awe and suspense, "do you know me? Will you answer me? Tell me where we are, then!"
Continuing to nod in a quieting, affable manner, Pan replied: "Phrygia! Golden Era—to be sure!"
"And do you know Wistik, too? And Windekind? And do you know about the little key, and the book?"
"Wistik? Certainly! Would that I knew all, though!—You know how to ask questions, Vraagal. Know-all and Ask-all! A pretty pair you are!"
And Pan laughed heartily, showing his great white teeth in an astonishingly large mouth.
"But tell me, Father Pan! Who is Windekind?"
"My dearest dear! My darling, clever little son! That is who he is. We are two yolks of one egg, although I am old, rough, and shaggy, and he is sleek, and fine, and beautiful."
"Shall I ever see him again?"
"Why not? He comes here often; and you also like it here, do you not?"
"But Wistik said I could not stay."
"You cannot do so—now; but why could you not come back again sometime?"
"Could I?"
Pan's face took on a most amused, astonished look, and he puffed out his cheeks.
"You dear little Vraagal! Give me your hand." Johannes laid his small hand trustfully in the broad open palm. The large hand was dark and shaggy on the outside, but white, and smooth, and firm on the inside. "Do you not know that yet? Then let Father Pan make you happy with a word. Do not forget it, mind!Vraagal can do whatever he wills to do—everything—if he will only be patient! But tell me now,—how did you know me?"
"I have seen statues and engravings of you."
"Do I look like them?"
"No!" said Johannes. "I think you are much nicer. In the prints you look like the Devil."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Pan, raising his heavy hands above his head, and clapping them together. "That is who I am, Vraagal. They have made a devil of me, so as to drive people away. But do you believe, now, that I am bad? Give me your paddy again! And now the other one!"
This time Johannes laid both his own in Pan's two giant hands, and said: "I know who you are. You are good. You are Nature!"
"Hold your tongue, little hypocrite, with your conceited platitudes! Are you not ashamed of yourself?"
Johannes blushed deeply; tears fell from his eyes, and he wished he could sink out of sight. But Pan drew him up closer and stroked his cheek.
"Now, do not cry! It is not so bad. You have come, too, out of a dreary nest. I am not evil—neither is Wistik. Only trust us."
"I have told him that, too," said Wistik, earnestly and emphatically.
"Little Vraagal," continued Pan, looking very serious, "there is, indeed, an evil Devil, but he is far more ugly than I am. Is it not so, Wistik? You know him. Is he not much uglier? Tell us!"
Johannes never forgot the look on Wistik's face as Father Pan asked him this in a loud voice, with a keen, serious regard. The little fellow grew as pale as death, his mouth dropped open, he pressed both hands upon his stomach, and from his trembling lips came the almost inaudible word: "Horrible!"
"Oh, indeed!" said Pan. "Well, I am not that. Sometime Wistik must point him out to you. He looks much more like those foolish people you have just come from than like me."
"Aunt Seréna?" asked Johannes, astounded. "Isshe, then, not good and first-rate? Isshea foolish person?"
"Now, now, you dear little Vraagal!" said Pan, in palliation. "Everything is relative. But it is a fact that she looks more like the Devil than I do."
"How can that be?" asked Johannes, in amazement.
Pan grew a little impatient. "Does that puzzle you? Then ask her to show you the little tree she has in her safe, with the golden apples growing on it. Do not forget!"
"Good, good!" shouted Wistik, clapping his hands with delight.
At this moment there came suddenly from the distance an alarming sound—a short, hoarse, resounding roar that echoed through the forest.
"The lion!" cried Wistik; and away he went, as fast as he could run.
Johannes also was greatly frightened. He knew it was time to leave, but he would not go quite yet. He asked, imploringly:
"Father Pan, shall I find the book?"
"Remember what I said to you," replied Pan. "Vraagal can do what Vraagal wills to do. To will is to do. But it must be the right sort of will."
Again that frightful roar resounded, this time much nearer. Johannes stretched out his hand, hesitating between his mounting fears, and his desire to make use of an instant more.
"One more question!" he cried. "Who is Markus?"
At that, he saw Pan's eyes distend, and stare at him with a look full of intense emotion. He seemed as fiercely sorrowful as a wounded animal; and, until now, Johannes had not observed what beautiful great eyes he had. He lifted up his outspread hands—then covered his face with them, and began to weep and wail, loudly. The air grew dense and dark, and a heavy shower descended.
Then, for the third time, the lion roared....
"It's a downright shame!" said Daatje, snappishly, while unfastening the third shutter, which opened with a shriek and a rumble. "Half past-nine—on Saturday, at that—and the room to be tidied up! You'll catch it from Aunt Seréna. Half-past nine! It's a downright shame!"
Johannes was not pleased with this familiarity, as if he were still a mere child; and, in a rebellious spirit, without quite understanding his own object, he muttered: "This thing's got to end."
With Aunt Seréna, disapproval was expressed in a manner very different from that in a kermis-wagon. There was no swearing, nor scolding, nor any din; and no cooking utensils flew out of the window.
But Aunt Seréna would grow a little paler, her fine face become cold and severe like marble, and the very few words that fell from her lips would be short and spoken in a soft, low voice. She knew how, though, to make one so uncomfortable in this way, that he would rather she had thrown a piece of the tea-set at his head.
Johannes, however, neither felt, nor evinced, any remorse. On the contrary, he assumed an independent bearing. He was not saucy, but wonderfully indifferent; neither was he morose, but cheerful and obliging; for his thoughts were full of that beautiful land and its noble people, and of his good Father Pan. Aunt Seréna, herself, felt a little disconcerted.
That evening the circle of lady friends came in full force. There was Juffrouw Frederike—called Free—tall and bowed, with her grey hair in a net. There was Pietekoo, who was always laughing, and saying flattering things, but who could, also, show a tart side upon occasion. There was Suze, who had the name of being so musical, and who, pluming herself on that score, kept on taking piano lessons far on in her sixties though she was. There was the saintly Koos, who had once leaped into the water, in a religious frenzy, and who could repeat the sermons, word for word. There was the quiet Neeltje, a bit round-shouldered, and very negligent in her dress, who never said anything, and was always being teased about suitors. There was the widow Slot, who, in her deep voice, uttered short, sarcastic comments, mostly at the expense of poor Neeltje. There was Miebet, the beauty of the company, toward whom Johannes felt a special aversion. They all brought their hand-work, and were speedily deep in conversation. Johannes was greeted in a friendly way as "dear boy" and "good boy," but, after that, as always, was left in peace.
It did seem, listening to their conversation, as if love and meekness reigned undisturbed in their hearts. It was an uninterrupted competition in generosity, each striving to be foremost in helping the others to the footstools, the cozy places, and the various delicacies. Miebet said that she had only one defect—this one, that she always thought of others first, and herself last. From this single defect one could perceive, by comparison, the nature and number of her virtues. To the saintliness of Koos, according to her own testimony, even Daatje and Aunt Seréna would have to yield precedence. She could repeat, word for word, the long, closing prayer of the previous Sunday, and stood alone in this proficiency. Johannes noticed that she could neither read nor write, nor even tell the time, but cunningly contrived to hide her ignorance. Juffrouw Frederike, who was wont to enumerate the excruciating pains that her poor health inflicted upon her, was not silent concerning the heavenly patience with which she endured these trials, and the indifference of the world toward her sufferings.
At seven o'clock came the dominie. He was greeted respectfully, and with a tender solicitude, while he made interested and condescending inquiries after health and circumstances. Also, he admired and praised the products of womanly industry, deducing therefrom weighty and forceful morals that were listened to in thoughtful silence.
Johannes had received a cold, limp hand-shake. He felt that he had been a long time in disfavor. Neither had Aunt Seréna's stiffness relaxed, and she looked at him now and then, restlessly, as if wishing and expecting that he would show signs of repentance or submissiveness. And it seemed as if the entire circle concerned themselves less about him than ever.
He sat still in his corner, turning the leaves of his penny magazine, his little heart brave and not at all disquieted. But he did not see much of the engravings, and felt more than at other times constrained to listen to the talking.
Then, while all gave quiet attention, Aunt Seréna began an enumeration of all the petty trifles and knick-knacks which had been brought together this time for the "tombola": "three napkin-rings, two corner-brackets, one waste-paper basket worked with worsted, seven anti-macassars, a knitting-needle holder, two sofa-pillows, one lamp-shade, the beautiful fire-screen made by Free, two picture-frames, four pin-cushions, one needle-book, one patchwork quilt, one pair of slippers, by Miebet, one reticule, one painted teacup, two flower-pieces made of bread, one cabinet of shells, one straw thread-winder, seventeen book-marks, eight pen-wipers, one small postage-stamp picture, two decorated cigar-cases, one ash-holder. That is all, I believe."
"Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, over the top of his penny magazine, "do you know what else you ought to count in?"
A moment of suspense followed. All eyes were turned upon him. Aunt Seréna looked surprised, but kindly inquisitive. The dominie suspected something, and his brows contracted.
"What, my dear boy!" asked Aunt Seréna.
"A couple of gold apples, from your little tree."
There followed a moment of subdued silence. Then Aunt Seréna, with a self-restrained but severe manner, asked:
"What tree do you mean, Johannes?"
"The little tree you have in your chest, with the gold apples growing on it."
Again silence, but all understood; that was clear. Pietekoo even tittered. The others exchanged significant glances. Aunt Seréna's pale face flushed perceptibly, and she shot a glance at the dominie over her spectacles. The dominie took the affair very calmly, gave Johannes a cold, disdainful look, as much as to say that he had all along had his measure, and then, while his eyes narrowed in a smile, he signified to Aunt Seréna, by a quieting motion of the hand, that she ought not to bestow any thought upon such a matter. Thereupon, with assumed unprejudice, and in a sprightly tone, he said:
"This is, indeed, a fine 'tombola'!"
But Aunt Seréna was not to be appeased in this way. She threw back her rustling, purple silk cap-strings with a nervous, trembling gesture (in her the betrayal of vehement emotion), and, standing up, motioned to Johannes to follow her into the vestibule.
Closing the door of the room behind her: "Johannes!" said she, in a voice not quite within control, "Johannes, I will not suffer this! To think of you making me appear ridiculous to others! For shame! And after all the good I thought to have done you! Ought you to have grieved your old aunt so? For shame, Johannes! It is mean and ungrateful of you!"
With a face almost as pale as that of his aunt, Johannes looked straight up into her glistening glasses. There were tears in her voice, and Johannes saw them appear from under the spectacles, and slowly trickle down along the delicate lines of her cheeks.
It was Johannes' turn, now, to feel badly. He was utterly confounded. Who was right—Father Pan or Aunt Seréna? In such straits was he that he would rather be running the streets at such a pace as never to get back again.
The street door stood ajar, the autumn day was drawing to its close in a melancholy twilight, and a drizzling rain was falling. Daatje was standing outside, talking with some one.
"Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, trying hard to control himself, "I know that I am wicked, but I really will be good—really—if only I knew...."
Just then there came from outside a sound which made him quiver with agitation. It thrilled through marrow and bone, and he felt his knees giving way. It was the sharp, rasping sound of steel being held against the whetstone; and through the door-crack he saw the glitter of that beautiful fountain of golden sparks.
It sounded to him like a blessed tidings—like the utterance of mercy to one condemned.
"That is Markus!" he cried, with heightened color and shining eyes.
Aunt Seréna went to the door and opened it. There, bowed over his work, stood Markus. Again, he was treading the wheel of the old cart, the one with the footboard. As before, the water was dripping from his old cap, down upon his faded raincoat. His face was sad, and there were deep lines about his mouth.
"Markus!" cried Johannes; and, springing forward, he threw his arms around him, and pressed his head caressingly against the wet clothing.
"For the love of Christ, Boy! What are you doing?" said Daatje. "What Romish freak is this?"
"Oh, Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. "May he not come indoors? He is so wet, and so tired! He is a good man—my best friend."
Daatje placed her arms akimbo, and stepped angrily in front of Aunt Seréna and the doorway.
"Now, I'll attend to that. The dear Lord preserve us! Such a dirty lout of a gypsy come into my clean marble hall! That's altogether too much!"
But Aunt Seréna, in that earnest tone which had always been a command for Daatje—admitting no oppositions—said: "Daatje, go back to the kitchen. I will settle this matter myself."
And turning toward Markus she asked: "Will you not come in and rest?"
Slowly straightening himself up, Markus replied: "I will, Madam." And he laid down his scissors, took off his cap, and walked in.
This time Daatje was disobedient, for she did not return to the kitchen, but remained, arms still akimbo, repeatedly shaking her head, surveying the intruder with horror—especially his feet, and the old coat which he hung upon the hat-rack. And, when Aunt Seréna actually let him out of the vestibule into the room itself, she tarried behind the unclosed door, anxiously listening.
Within the room a dead stillness ensued. The dominie's face took on an expression of utter amazement, while he lifted his eyebrows very high, and thrust out his pursed-up lips. Pietekoo tittered in her embarrassment, and then hid her face in her hands. The others looked, now with a puzzled mien at Markus, then in doubtful expectation at Aunt Seréna, with distrust at Johannes, with very expressive glances at one another, and finally, with pretended absorption in their hand-work. The silence was still unbroken.
"Will you take something?" asked Aunt Seréna.
"Yes, Madam, a bit of bread," said Markus, in his calm, gentle voice.
"Would you not rather have a glass of wine, and some cake?"
"No, Madam, if you will excuse me; I prefer common bread."
The dominie thought it time to intervene. He was stung by the censure conveyed in Markus' refusal.
"The Scripture teaches, my friend, that we should eat what is set before us, when we are guests."
"Do you take me for a theologian—or for an apostle?" asked Markus.
"He has the gift of gab," said Mevrouw Slot, in her coarse voice.
In those pure accents which held Johannes breathlessly attentive, Markus continued: "I will even sit at table with witches, but not necessarily eat of their food."
"Dear me! Dear me!" said the dominie, and the ladies cried: "Good gracious!" and other exclamations of disapproval and indignation. "Be a little less uncivil, friend; you are not with your own kind here."
Markus continued, in a calm, friendly tone: "Theologians, however, thank God for many a rude truth, and know, also, how to take parables. Even when with cannibals, an apostle need not eat human flesh."
Widow Slot, who alone of all in the circle seemed to have retained her coolness, here interposed: "We have not improved, yet."
Markus turned toward her and said with great earnestness:
"Who are they who have their portion? Are not the poorest ones they who drink wine and eat cake, and yet produce not even bread? Every day they sink deeper into debt. I prefer to eat honest food."
"You mistake, my man! I have no debts!" cried Aunt Seréna, with trembling lips.
"But, Aunt Seréna, he does not mean that," said Johannes, as much moved as herself.
"Children must be silent, here!" cried the dominie, angrily.
"If the children are silent here, who is there to speak sense?" continued Markus. And then, with a gentle, penetrating voice, he addressed Aunt Seréna. "Whoever will not listen to children, the Father will not understand. I spoke in metaphor—in a simple way, for simple people. The whole world is a metaphor, and not a simple one. If we do not yet understand such a simple metaphor, then the world must indeed remain a sad riddle."
The dominie held his peace, and smoked fiercely; but Aunt Seréna thought it over, looking in front of her, and said; "All understanding comes through the light of grace."
Markus nodded, kindly. "Yes," said he, "for those who unbolt the shutters and throw open the windows. And the sun will shine even through little windows."
Then he ceased speaking and ate his bread. No one said anything more, unless in a whisper to his next neighbor.
When Markus had eaten he stood up and said: "Thank you. Good night!"
Johannes also stood up, and said anxiously: "Markus, You are not going away?"
"Yes, Johannes. Good-by till we meet again!"
Then he passed silently out of the door, took his cap and coat, and was let out by Daatje. Johannes heard her ask: "How much did you get?" And when Markus said simply: "Twopence," he felt a twinge at his heart. Indoors, no one spoke so long as the creaking of the cart-wheel could be heard. Then the dominie, in a loud tone, and with assumed lightness, said:
"That was a venturesome deed, dear Madam. You ought to be more cautious in future with that altogether too-largely developed philanthropy of yours. That man is known as a very dangerous individual."
Exclamations of astonishment and alarm followed this, and different ladies cried: "Goodness!" "It's a sin!" "Do you know him?"
"Alas, indeed I do!" averred the dominie, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "He is a well-known person—one of those fanatics who incite the people and poison their natures: a nihilist."
"A nihilist!" echoed the ladies, frightened and horrified. Poor Johannes sat listening to Dominie Kraalboom with painful interest. The name "nihilist" did not make him afraid, but such notoriety was a bitter disappointment. It was as if thereby all the mysterious superiority of his beloved friend had been leveled. Had it, then, all been a fraud?
When the circle had taken their leave, and Aunt Seréna was going to bed, he saw Daatje very carefully counting the silver spoons!
"Listen, Juffrouw," said Daatje, the following morning, when all was ready for going to church, "for forty years I have served you faithfully and well; but I just want to say to you, that if you bring any more heathen or Hottentots into the house—into the parlor, rather—in the future,Iwill leave in a jiffy, as sure as fate!"
"Will you, Daatje?" said Aunt Seréna, drily, asking for her prayer-book. Johannes sat stiffly in his Sunday collar, struggling to draw his thread gloves smoothly over his finger-tips. Then, under two umbrellas, the three set out for church.
Already Dominie Kraalboom was sitting in the chancel, busily stroking his freshly shaven cheeks, and thoughtfully watching the coming in of his flock. Not one of the circle was missing. The clothing of the congregation, wet with rain, gave out a peculiar odor; chairs were noisily shoved about over the flat, blue tombstones, while above the sound of shuffling feet and of slamming doors the deep throbbing of the organ was heard.
The dominie soon caught sight of Johannes; and the little man had cause to feel conceited by reason of all the attention paid him. Johannes said to himself that it certainly must be his own imagining (for what could such a great man have to do with a little boy?) but it appeared as if the entire sermon was written for, and especially aimed at, Johannes.
The text was: "Who shall understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from secret faults."
The dominie dwelt upon the sin of arrogance, and the numbers of young people who were wrecked through it ere they rightly understood what it was, and said that they ought to desire to be cleansed from it.
Young people, said the dominie, were conceited and presumptuous, and full of evil; but they were themselves unconscious of it. They thought they knew more than their elders, and they listened, far too willingly, to pernicious dogmas that would make all men equal—that would reason away royal and divine authority, and that made people rebellious, and discontented with the sphere in which God had placed them.
"The true Christian," said the dominie, "cares for neither gold nor goods. He has higher aspirations. If he be blessed with them, let him manage them well, for they are only lent to him. If he be poor, then let him not repine nor complain, knowing that everything is ordered for the best, and that true riches are not of this world."
It was a fine sermon. Johannes and his aunt both listened attentively. The precentor looked pleased, and the saintly Koos nodded repeatedly. Neeltje, alone, slept; but, as everybody knew, that was because of her nervous trouble.
The entire congregation joined spiritedly in the singing, and the dominie sat down visibly self-satisfied.
Once, Johannes looked around, and, close by the door, athwart the chancel in the shadow, beheld, supported by a slender hand, a bowed head with dark hair!
He knew the hand well, and recognized instantly that dark-haired man. Again and again he felt constrained to look in that direction. The figure remained sitting, motionless, and in a bowed posture.
But when the singing came to an end, and the dominie deliberately made ready to continue his sermon.... Surely, the dark head was lifted up! Markus regarded the faces about him for an instant, with a sorrowful look, and then he stood erect.
Johannes' heart began to thump. "Was he going away? What was he going to do? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
But Markus, taking advantage of that pause wherein the people in a congregation are wont to cough, to make use of their handkerchiefs, and to compose themselves again for listening, began speaking in his gentle, musical voice:
"My friends, excuse me for addressing you unbidden, but you know that it is always permitted to bear witness of the Father, if one can do so truthfully."
In perplexity, the congregation looked from the speaker to Dominie Kraalboom. The precentor, also, directed his frightened eyes to the chancel up behind him, as if expecting from that quarter deliverance from this extraordinary difficulty.
Dominie Kraalboom grew very red, and, speaking in his most impressive tones—rolling his r's, for he was really angry—he said: "I beseech you not to disturb the order of this church."
Markus, however, paid not the slightest attention to these words. His voice rang clearer than ever through the chill, lofty spaces. The people listened, and the dominie had no alternative but to be silent or to shout the louder, which latter expedient he renounced from a sense of dignity.
"My poor friends," said Markus, "does it not alarm you that there are wrong-doings of which you are not conscious? Is it not sad to be guilty and not to know it?"
"If we, poor souls, forgive those who unconsciously wrong us, will not our Father forgive us?
"But to wander is to wander, and not to follow the straight course: and he who errs, though he may know it not, does not do right, although he may intend a thousand times to do the right.
"And he who continues to wander gets lost; for the Father's justice is inalterable and unfailing.
"And yet, my poor friends, the Father's forgiveness is for every one, even the poorest wanderer. His mercy is for all.
"And His forgiveness is called knowledge, and the name of His mercy is insight.
"These are bestowed upon every one who does not reject them; and no one will be lost who makes use of them.
"Therefore, the Psalmist begged to be cleansed from secret faults. He knew that we know not ourselves how very guilty we are. And He knew that the enlightening and purifying fire of confession is of the Father's mercy.
"Has ever a thirsty one continued to wander away from the water, after recognizing his mistake?
"Who of us does not long for forgiveness and blessedness? Or who would continue to err after confession?
"Confess, then, and will to look within. It is never too late to do so.
"We are guilty, my poor friends: confess it and there will be forgiveness, but not without knowledge thereof. The least among you can understand this, if only he will.
"It was not the Father who willed that you should be poor, and rich—the poor laboring, the rich idling. It would be abominable blasphemy to say that. Believe it not. Shun as defiling those who would thus delude you.
"Not by divine ordering, but through human mismanagement, wickedness, and foolishness, and the wandering away from the Father's will, have poverty and riches come into this human world.
"Acknowledge it; for, truly, there will be no forgiveness for those who reject the Father's mercy."
Here Dominie Kraalboom beckoned to the sexton and the precentor, who were standing together whispering with considerable vehemence, casting furious looks at the speaker. The sexton coughed and mounted the pulpit. The dominie exchanged a few words with him, and, with a resigned air, half-closed eyes, and a face as severe as possible, went to resume his seat. The sexton strode resolutely through the church, and left the building, all eyes following him in suspense.
Imperturbably, Markus proceeded:
"My poor friends, did ever an artist create a grand masterpiece, and desire that no one should admire it?
"Would the Father, then, have made the mountains, seas, and flowers, gold and jewels, and have desired that we should despise and reject them all?
"No; the highest good belongs not to this world, and neither does the beauty of the universe belong to this world. Yet even here—upon this earth—we may learn to know and to admire; for why else were we placed in this world?
"Let us admire not the mere wood and strings, but the music of them; not paint and canvas, but the eternal beauty to which they do homage.
"So we shall love the world, and admire it only as that by means of which the Father speaks to us; and whoever despises the world despises the voice of the Father.
"Will not he who receives a letter from his distant love kiss the dry paper, and wet the black ink with his tears?
"Shall we, then, hate the world, through which alone, in our alienation, the Father reveals to us his beauty?"
Markus' voice was so deep-toned, and so sweet to hear, that many listeners were moved, even although they only half understood. Tears were streaming freely from Johannes' shining, wide-open eyes. Aunt Seréna, too, looked agitated, and Neeltje, even, had waked up. The dominie scowled blackly, with closed eyes, like one about to lose his forbearance. The precentor looked nervously toward the door.
Again Markus began:
"My friends, how shall the poor, who compulsorily toil, and the rich, who compel them, comprehend the sacred message of the Father?
"Must they always remain both deaf and blind to what is best and most beautiful? Must they see and hear nothing of this?
"Sooner can the sunlight penetrate dungeon-doors of threefold thickness, than can the light of the Father's loving kindness and the radiance of His beauty enter the soul of the stupefied drudge.
"Upon the sands of the sea grow neither grapes nor roses. In the heart of the overworked, needy sufferer grows neither beauty nor wisdom.
"And the rich—who purloin the good things which the Father has given to others—who are served, without rendering service—who eat, without working, and found their houses upon the misery of others—how can these comprehend the justice of the Father?
"Exceeding sweetness shall turn to gall in the rich man's stomach; illicit pleasure shall waste him away like sorrow; wisdom, unrighteously acquired, shall turn in him to despair and madness.
"The rich man is like one who takes away the fire of many others, that he may always keep himself warm; but the heat consumes him. He will have all the water, that he may never again thirst; but he is drowned. Yet unto all the Father has given light and water in equal measure.
"No one escapes the Father's justice. The rich have their reward as they go; and in want shall they envy those whom they robbed while they were still upon earth.
"Admit, then, my poor friends, that it is not the Father's will that there should be poverty and riches, but that your own wickedness and maliciousness have created them—your unbrotherliness and ignorance, your thirst for power and your servility.
"Confess, and there shall be forgiveness for the most guilty. Submit and humble yourselves, and you shall be exalted. Lift up your hearts, fear not, and you shall be saved. Throw open the windows and the light will stream in."
At last, there was a creaking of the heavy, outside door, which was held shut by a rope, weighted with lead. Then followed several more long-drawn creakings of the pulley, ere the door closed with a dull thud. All heads were again turned in that direction. The dominie, too, looked up, visibly relieved.
And Johannes, stiff with terror, saw, in the rear of the sexton, two officers—two common, insignificant policemen—step up to Markus with an air of professional sternness, albeit with a rather slouching mien.
Yes, it was going to happen! The congregation looked on in breathless suspense. The sexton bristled, and the officers hesitatingly prepared themselves for a struggle.
But before the outstretched hand of the helmeted chief had descended upon his shoulder, Markus looked round and nodded in a friendly way as if he was expecting them. After that, he looked about the congregation once again, and bade them farewell with a cordial, comforting gesture which seemed to come to all as a surprise. He had the appearance, indeed, of one who was being conducted by two lackeys to a feast, instead of by policemen to the station.
When he went away, the officers grasped him by his arms, as firmly as if they were resolutely determined not to let him escape. They did this so awkwardly, and Markus was so cheerfully docile, that the effect was very comical, and several people smiled.
The dominie spoke a few more words, and made a long closing prayer which, however, was not listened to attentively. The congregation were too anxious to talk over what had happened. And they made a busy beginning even before they were out of the church.
But Aunt Seréna and Johannes went home with averted eyes, and in anxious silence, without exchanging a word or a look.
Johannes had one peculiarity which he could not excuse in himself. His good intentions and heroic resolves always came, according to his own opinion, a trifle too late. He might be a good boy yet, he thought, if only things did not happen so suddenly that he had not due time to think them over before he needed to act. Thus, sitting on the opposite side of the breakfast table from his Aunt Seréna, deliberating whether it would still be proper, after the agitating events of the morning, to spread his first roll, as usual, with sweet-milk cheese, and his second with Deventer cake, it suddenly dawned upon him what a mean, cowardly, perfidious boy he had been. He felt that any other brisk, faithful person in his place would have risen up instantly, and resisted with all his power of word and deed that shameful outrage against his beloved brother.
Of course, there had been something for him to do! He ought to have intervened, instead of walking home again with Aunt Seréna, as calmly and serenely as if he were not in the least concerned. How was it possible—howcouldit be possible, that he only now perceived this? He might not, perhaps, have accomplished anything; but that was not the question. Was it not his dearest friend who was concerned; and had he not, like a coward, left him alone? Was not that friend now sitting among thieves in a musty pen, enduring the insolence of policemen, while he himself was here in Aunt Seréna's fine house, calmly drinking his coffee?
That must not be. He felt very sure of it, now. And since Johannes, as I have already remarked, was never afraid to do a thing if he was only first sure about it, not only the cake and cheese, but even the rolls and coffee, remained untouched. He suddenly stood up and said:
"Aunt Seréna!"
"What is it, my boy?"
"I want to go!"
Aunt Seréna threw back her head, that she might give him a good look through her spectacles. Her face took on a very grieved expression.
At last, after a long pause, she asked, in her gentle voice, "What do you mean?"
"I want to go away. I cannot stand it. I want to be with my friend."
"Do you think he will take better care of you than I do, Johannes?"
"I do not believe that, Aunt Seréna, but he is being treated unfairly. He is in the right."
"I will not take it upon myself...." said Aunt Seréna, hesitating, "to say that he is wrong. I am not clever enough for that. I am only an old woman, and have not studied much, although I have thought and experienced a great deal. I will readily admit that perhaps I was at fault without knowing it. I did my best, to the best of my belief. But how many there are, better than I am, Johannes, who think your friend in the wrong!"
"Are they also better than he is?" asked Johannes.
"Who can say? How long have you known this friend—and whom of the people have you known besides? But although your friend were right, how would it help me, and what would it matter to me? Must I, in my sixty-fourth year, give away all that I have, and go out house-cleaning? Do you mean that I ought to do that, Johannes?"
Johannes was perplexed. "I do not say that, dear Aunt Seréna."
"But, what do you say, then? And what do you want of me?"
Johannes was silent.
"You see, Johannes...." continued Aunt Seréna, with a break in her voice—not looking at him now, but staring hard at her coffee-tray—"I never have had any children, and all the people whom I have been very fond of are either dead or gone away. My friends do, indeed, show me much cordiality. On my birthday I had forty-four calls, two hundred and eleven cards and notes, and about fifty presents; but that, however, is not for me true life. The life of the old is so barren if no young are growing near. I have not complained about it, and have submitted to God's will. But since ... for a few months ... you ... I thought it a blessing—a dispensation from God...."
Aunt Seréna's voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking, and began to rummage in her work-basket.
Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he spoken with such dignity.
"My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I am going because it is best. If you say, 'You must not,' then I cannot help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an—another boy, or a girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend—my conscience tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?"
Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing colors. Then, very slowly, she replied:
"No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it all over well."
"I have, Aunt Seréna," said Johannes.
Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus had been taken. After that he would return to "Vrede-best."
He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed Johannes, after the latter's bashful inquiry, with a scornful expression, which seemed to say: "What business is it of yours, and where have I seen you before?"
Johannes learned, however, that "the prisoner" had been set free. What use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself.
As he could give no other reason for his interest in the prisoner than that he was his friend, and as this reason was not enough to exalt him in the esteem of police authority, none of the functionaries felt called upon to put him on the track. They supposed that the scissors-grinder had very likely gone back to the Fair. That was all the help they gave.
Johannes returned to his aunt's baffled and in dismay. There, happily, he found relief; for the good aunt had already discovered that Markus had been led out of the town, and that, with his cart, he had taken the road to Utrecht. Already, lying in plain sight, he saw a large, old-fashioned satchel of hairy leather (a sort of bag which could be hung about one), full of neatly packed sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. And in the inside of a waistcoat Aunt Seréna had sewed a small pocket. Within that pocket was a purse containing five little gold-pieces.
"I do not give you more, Johannes, for by the time this is gone you will surely know if you really wish to stay away for good or to come back again. Do not be ashamed to return. I will not say anything to you about it."
"I will be honest, and give it back to you when I have earned it," said Johannes. He spoke in sober earnest; but he had, no more than had his aunt, any clear expectation that it would be possible.
Johannes took just a run into the garden to say good-by to his favorite places—his paths and his flowers. Swiftly and shyly, so as not to be seen, he ran past the kitchen where Daatje, loudly singing hymns the while, stood chopping spinach. After that, he embraced Aunt Seréna in the vestibule for the first and for the last time. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" came insultingly and triumphantly from the little trap-door, as the clock struck two. Then the stately green front door closed between him and Aunt Seréna.
That was a painful moment; yet there quickly followed in Johannes' heart a delightful glow—a feeling of freedom such as he had never yet known. He almost felt himself a man. He had extricated himself from soft and perilous ways; he was going out into the wide world; he would find his beloved brother again; he had a bagful of rolls, and in his waistcoat were five gold-pieces. These last were only lent to him; he would earn as much, and give them back again.
It was a still, humid, August day, and Johannes, full of gladness, saw his beautiful native land lying in white light under a canopy of delicate grey. He saw thickly wooded dikes, black and white cattle, and brown boats in water without a ripple. He walked briskly, inquiring everywhere for Markus the scissors-grinder. In front of an inn, not far from the city, sat three little gentlemen. They were apparently government or post-office clerks, who had taken their midday stroll and their glass of bitters.
Johannes asked information of the waiter who brought drinks, but received no answer.
One of the little dandies, who had heard his question, said to his companions:
"Jerusalem! but did you chaps hear that kicker? The fellow went into the new church yesterday morning, and talked back at the dominie."
"What fellow?" asked the others.
"Good Lord! Don't you know him? That half-luny fellow with the black curly-pate? He does that now and then."
"Gee! That's rich. And what did the dominie say?"
"Well, he found it no joke, for the fellow knew all about it—as darned well as he did himself. But the gypsy had his trouble for his pains; for that time the dominie wouldn't have anything to do with such a dirty competitor!"
And the three friends laughed at the top of their voices.
"How did it end?"
"He had him walked clean out of the church, by the sexton and two cops."
"That's confounded silly. 'Twould have been better to see who could crow the loudest. It's the loudest cock that wins."
"The idea! You'd have me believe you mean it? Suppose they gave the prize to the wrong fellow?"
"Whether you are cheated by a fool of a preacher, or by a scissors-grinder, what's the difference?"
Johannes reflected a moment and wondered if it would not be commendable to do what he ached to do—fly at these people and rain blows upon their heads. But he controlled himself and passed on, convinced that in doing so he was escaping some hard work.
For five hours he walked on without being much the wiser for his inquiries. Some people thought they had seen Markus; others knew positively nothing about him.
Johannes began to fear he had passed him; for by this time he ought to have overtaken him.
It began to grow dark, and before him lay a wide river which he must cross by means of a ferry-boat. On the farther side were hills covered with an underwood of oak, and tall, purple-flowered heather.
The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour's distance from the river, a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be there.
Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It was fun to be so free—so alone and independent—at home in the open country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep out-of-doors—in the underwood.
But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up, and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him.
"Good evening, Director!" said Johannes.
"Good evening to you, my friend!" returned the other. "What are you doing here? Are you lost?"
"No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?"
The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work.
"Markus? I'm not sure. But come along—there's no knowing but he might be there."
"Are you looking for new apprentices?" asked Johannes.
"Do you happen to have any? They're worth a pretty penny, you know!"
They walked together to the camp of gypsy wagons, near the town. Johannes found there all the old acquaintances. There was the fat lady, who could rest a plate upon her bosom and thus eat out of it. Now, however, she was eating simply from a box, like the others, because there were no spectators. There were the mother and daughter who represented the living mermaid, taking turns because one could not hold out very long. There was the exhibitor of the collection of curiosities —a poor, humpbacked knave whose entire possessions consisted of a stuffed alligator, a walrus-tooth, and a seven-months baby preserved in alcohol. There were the two wild men, who, growling horribly, could eat grass and live rabbits, and who might come out of the wagon only at night, when the street boys were away; but who, far from savage now, were sitting in the light of a flickering lantern, "shaving" one another with exceedingly dirty cards.
The flea-tamer brought Johannes at last to Marjon's wagon.
"Bless me!" cried Lorum, who seemed to be in a good humor as he sat by the road smoking his pipe. "Here is our runaway young gentleman again! Now the girls will be glad!"
From behind the wagon came the soft tones of a voice, singing to a zither accompaniment. Johannes could hear the song distinctly, in the dreamlike stillness of the hour. It was sung in a whining, melancholy, street-organ style, but with unusual emotion:
"They have broken my heart—Ah, the tears I have shed!They have torn us apart—His dear voice is now dead.Alas! Alas!How could you forsake me?Alas! Alas!How you have deceived me!"
It was a ditty that Johannes thought he had often heard the nurse-maids sing. But, because he recognized that dear voice, and perhaps even because he was worried over the applicability to himself, he was greatly touched by it.
"Hey, there!" cried Lorum to one behind him. "The kid has come back! Stop your squalling!"
Then Marjon appeared from behind the wagon, and ran up to Johannes. Also, the door of the wagon flew back, and Johannes saw Marjon's sister standing in the bright opening. Her fat arms were bare, and she was in her night-gown.
Since that first night in the dunes with Windekind, Johannes had slept many a time in the open air, and he did not see why he should not now do so. He would lie down under the wagon, upon some hay. He was tired, and so would sleep well.
But sleep did not come to him very promptly. Adventures in the world of people proved to be even more exciting than those in Windekind's land of elves. He was full of the important and unusual situation in which he was placed; the strange human life that surrounded him claimed his attention. Above him, feet were shuffling over the wagon floor, and he could see the people crawling around one another inside the warm, dirty wagons. He was obliged to listen to the talking, singing, laughing and quarreling that frequently broke out here and there. A solitary ocarina continued to whistle awhile; then all was still.
It grew cold. He had with him only a thin cloak of Aunt Seréna's; and, as a horse-blanket could not be spared, he found a couple of empty oat-bags; but they were too short.
When all were asleep, and he was still lying awake, shivering, his spirits already inclined to droop, he heard the door of the wagon open. A voice called him, in a whisper. Johannes scrambled out into sight, and recognized Marjon's dark sister.
"Why don't you come in here, Kiddie?" she asked.
The truth was that Johannes, above all else, feared the closeness and the fleas. But he would not offer these insulting reasons, so he replied—intending to be very courteous and praiseworthy: "But that would not do for me—to be with you!"
Now, formality is not a very strong point in a house-wagon. In the very stateliest, a curtain does indeed sometimes define two sleeping-rooms at night, thus denoting regard for the proprieties. But in most cases the custom is to do as do the birds which change their suits but once a year, and not too much, at that; and as do the mice which also have no separate bedrooms.
"Aw! Come, Boy! You're silly. Just come on! It's all right."
And when Johannes, perplexed and very bashful, hesitated, he felt a fat, heavy arm around his neck, and a soft, broad, cold mouth upon his cheek.
"Come on, Youngster! Don't be afraid. Surely you are not so green! Hey? It's time for me to make you wiser."
Now there was nothing Johannes had learned more to value than wisdom, and he never willingly neglected a chance of becoming wiser. But this time there came to him a very clear idea of the existence of an undesirable wisdom.
He had no time to deliberate over this wonderful discovery; for, happily, there came to the help of his immature thoughts a very strong feeling of aversion, so that for once he knew betimes what he ought to do.
He said loudly, and firmly: "I will not! I rest better here." And he crept back under the wagon. The swarthy jade appeared not to like that, for she uttered an oath as she turned away, and said: "Clear out, then!" Johannes did not take it greatly to heart, although it did appear to him unfair. He slept, however, no more than before; and the sensation of the recent touches, and the wretched odor of poor perfumery which the woman had brought with her, remained with him, to his distress.
As soon as it began to grow light, the door of the wagon was again opened. Johannes, surprised, looked up. Marjon came softly out in her bare feet, with an old purple shawl thrown over her thin little shoulders. She went up to Johannes and sat down on the ground beside him.
"What did she do?" she asked, in a whisper.
"Who?" asked Johannes, in return. But that was from embarrassment, for he well knew whom she meant.
"Now, you know well enough. Did you think I was sleeping? Did she give you a kiss?"
Johannes nodded.
"Where? On your mouth?"
"No. On my cheek."
"Thank God!" said Marjon. "You will not let her do it again? She is a common thing!"
"I could not help it," said Johannes.
Marjon looked at him thoughtfully a few moments, with her clear, light grey eyes.
"Do you dare steal?" she asked then, abruptly.
"No," said Johannes. "I dare to, but it's wrong."
"Indeed it isn't!" said Marjon, very emphatically. "Indeed, it is not! It's only a question of who from. Stealing from one another is mean, but from the public is allowable. I must not steal from that woman any more than from Lorum. Butyoumay steal from the huzzy, if you only dared."
"Then can you steal from me, too?" asked Johannes. Marjon looked at him in sudden surprise, and gave a pretty laugh, showing her white, even teeth.
"A while ago I could, but not now. Now you belong to me. But that woman has a lot of money and you have not."
"I have some money, too—fifty guldens. Aunt Seréna gave it to me."
Marjon drew in the air with her lips as if sipping something delicious. Her pale face shone with pleasure.
"Five little golden Teners! Is it truly so? But, Johannes, then we are well off! We'll have a good time with them. Shan't we?"
"To be sure," assented Johannes, recovering himself. "But I want to find Markus."
"That's good," said Marjon. "That's the best thing to do. We'll both go looking for him."
"Right away?" asked Johannes.
"No, you stupid! We should be nabbed in no time. We'll start in the evening. Then, during the night, we can get a good way off. I'll give you the signal."