Be brave now, for my story is going to be truly sombre and shuddery. Truth can sometimes appear very black; but if we only dare to look her straight in the eye, she smiles, in the end, brightly and blithely.
Only those who are afraid of her, and turn halfway back, will be caught and held fast in the meshes of gloom and misery.
You have, doubtless, known all along that there was something utterly amiss in Johannes' fine, new life—that he had made a pitiful mistake, and was all at sea. He, also, knew it now, although he would not admit it to himself. Those joyful expectations had not been prompted by the Father's voice, and he knew now that one could be misled by positive impressions.
However, he was not yet out of the scrape. To acknowledge again that he had made a mistake—to leave this life and return to Markus and Marjon, was a hard thing to do. Here were far greater attractions than Aunt Seréna's raspberries and fresh rolls. When he thought of the garden at Vrede-best, ah, how eagerly he longed to be there again! But that which held him here had a much stronger hold upon him, for he would not admit to himself that it would be better to leave it. That he should be an intimate little friend of this beautiful, distinguished woman—that, above all things—preoccupied him day and night.
Did you ever, late at night, when you ought to have been in bed, read a very captivating book? You knew then, did you not, that it was not good for you—that you would be sorry for it? Perhaps you even found the book to be dull or base. And yet you could not break off, but read on and on, just one more chapter, to see how it ended.
That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores.
He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna—nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon, either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed.
One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once she had done—the same as with her two little daughters?
Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is nothing in it to rail about.
Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to him.
It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain—sharp pain—and yet it was sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory—so confounding!
One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of which the breakers were pounding.
He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it seemed! He felt left out. Life—cruel, human life—with its passions and entanglements, now had him in its grasp.
It seemed agonizing and frightful, as if a great monster had pursued him to the shore of the sea, and were still close behind. And now Nature had become strange and inhospitable.
He stretched out his hand, and cried to the clouds:
"Oh, help me, clouds with the silver lining!" But the clouds rolled on as if wholly unconscious of the wonderful shapes they assumed at every turn—ever changing, and adorned anew with glittering gold and gleaming silver. And all the while the sea was roaring just as if it had no memory whatever of Johannes.
And when he had cried "Help me, clouds with the silver lining!" the words clung to his mind, and, like shining angels, they beckoned other, sister words, still lingering in the depths of his soul, to come and join them. And so they came—one after another, in twinkling file, and fell into line. Their faces seemed more serious than did ever those of his own words.
"Help, oh, help me, ye silver-lined clouds!Oh, save me, sun and stormy sea!To thee I fly from stifling haunts of men.Life, with its frightful, crimson-flaming hands,Has laid its hold on me.Once I was thy friend and confidant—At home in thy mysterious loneliness.I explored without fear thy boundless spaceAnd celestial mansions builded I thereWith the mere light of stars, and the waves of wind.Peace I found in thy grandeur stern,And rest in thy bright expanse.Now, life sweeps me on with its current swift,And a seething volcano I find where erstWas an ocean serene of exalted delights.Alas! thou doest rest in thy splendor immersed—As cool as a lion licking his paws.All slowly the cloud is transformed,Letting the light stream through,And the tossing main with sparks is clad,As if with a golden coat of mail.Ah, beautiful world! Untrue and unrealThou glidest away 'neath my anguished eyes.The ocean roars ever, and silent are sun and clouds.Sadly, I see the strange daylight fail.It leaves me alone with still stranger night.Oh! may I yet find there my Father's spirit,That dwells beyond sun and sea and clouds?Must I join with the hapless, hopeless throngAnd bind my sorrowful fate to theirs,Until the Great Leveler bring surcease?"
What Johannes meant by the "Great Leveler" he did not himself know at first. Neither did he at all realize that he had composed something better than formerly. But in the night he understood that it was Death he had meant. And he knew, also, that something within him had opened to the light, like an unfolding flower.
He felt that the verses might be sung like a song, but he could not hear the melody—or but faintly—like wind-wafted tones from the farthest distance. At night, he heard in his dreams the full strain, but in the morning he had entirely forgotten it. And Marjon was not there to help him.
You must remember that Little Johannes was no longer soverylittle. Nearly four years had passed since that morning when he had waked up in the dunes, with the little gold key.
He could not refrain from reading the poem to the countess on the following day. The making of it—the writing and rewriting—had calmed the unrest out of which it had come. He was curious, now, to learn what others would say of it—above all, the one who was ever in his thoughts.
"Ah, yes!" said she, after he had read it aloud, "life is fearful! And that 'surcease' is all that I long for. I fully agree with you."
This remark, however kind the intention of the speaker, gave Johannes, to his own astonishment, small pleasure. He would have preferred to hear something different.
"Do you think it good?" he asked, with a vague feeling that he really ought not to ask the question, because he had been so very much in earnest over the verses. And when one is deeply in earnest about anything one does not ask if it is good; no more than he would ask if he had wept beautifully. But yet he would have liked, so well, to know what she thought.
"I do not know, Johannes. You must not hope for a criticism from me. I think the idea very sympathetic, and the form seems to me also quite poetic. But whether or not it is good poetry, you must ask of Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He is a poet."
"Is Mijnheer van Lieverlee coming soon?"
"Yes; I expect him shortly."
One fine day Van Lieverlee put in an appearance. With him arrived a host of merrily creaking, yellow trunks, smelling delightfully like russia leather—ditto high-hat box, and a brisk, smooth-shaven, traveling-servant.
Van Lieverlee wore in his button-hole a dark-red rose, and pointed pale-green carnation leaves.
He was very much at his ease—contented and gay—and when he saw Johannes he did not appear to have a very clear remembrance of him.
That evening Johannes read to him the poem. Van Lieverlee listened, with an absent-minded expression of face, while he drummed on the arm of the low, easy-chair in which he lay indolently outstretched. It looked very much as if the verses bored him.
When it was over, and Johannes was waiting in painful suspense, he shook his head emphatically.
"All rhetoric, my worthy friend—mere bombast! 'Oh! Alas!' and 'Ah!' All those are impotent cryings which show that the business is beyond you. If you had full control of expression, you would not utter such cries—you would form, shape, knead, create, model—model! Plasticity, Johannes! That is the thing—vision, color, imagery! I see nothing in that poem. I want something to see and taste. Just think of that sonnet of mine! Every line full of form, of imagery, of real, actual things! With you, there is nothing but vague terms—weak swaggering—all about the spirit of your Father, and such things—none of them to be seen. And, to produce effect, you call upon the other words: 'Ah!' and 'Alas!' and 'Oh!' as if that helped, at all. Any cad could do that if he fell into the water. That is not poetry."
Johannes was completely routed. And although his hostess tried to console him with assurances that if he did his best things would go better with him by and by, when he was a little older, it was of no avail. Johannes already knew that it was quite in vain for him to attempt his best, so long as the inspiration he so much needed was withheld.
His night was a sad one; for the serious words of the poem were continually before him, and to think that they had been disdained was indeed torture. They would not be driven away, but remained to vindicate their worth. And then he wished that others, as well as he, should value them. But his powerlessness and his own mistrust, were a grievous vexation.
In the small hours, he had just fallen asleep—probably for only a few minutes—when he awoke again with the feeling that his room was full, but with what kind of company—human beings or other creatures—he could not tell. He did not see them; for just in the place where he was looking there was no one, and where he wanted to look, he could not. He seemed to be prevented from doing so by a strange power.
He heard a laugh, and the sound was very familiar to him. It was a dismal, old-time memory. It was Pluizer's laugh.
Could Pluizer be in the room?
Johannes tried his best to look at the spot whence the sound came. Exerting himself, he saw something at last—not an entire figure, but hands only—two, four, six little hands, busily doing something. Higher up, to what was above the hands, he could not look—but that they were the hands of Pluizer he was quite positive.
There was something in those hands—a white band—and the little hands were very busy tying all kinds of knots in it. And all the while there was continuous laughing and snickering, as if it was great fun.
What could that mean? Johannes felt that something menaced. The play of those little hands portended danger. Most plainly of all he saw the white band—a common, white tape.
Then the hands went out of the room, and Johannes was forced to follow them. In another room—that of Heléne's nurse—there they were, as busy as ever, this time with a pair of scissors. The scissors had fallen upon the floor close to a toilet-table. One point having stuck through the carpet into the floor, there they stood—erect. The invisible one was laughing again—giggling and snickering—and all six little hands were pointing at the scissors.
A light was burning in Heléne's room, but the poor, sick girl was not now complaining. All was quiet there. The door opened, and the nurse came out, leaving it open behind her. The nurse went to her own room to look for something. She was a long time searching, but could not find it. Surely it was the scissors.
All this time they were sticking by one point, in the carpet behind the toilet-table, and the six little hands were pointing at them. But the seeker apparently neither saw the hands nor heard the laughter.
Johannes could not help her. He had to follow the hands. He still heard giggling and snickering, and saw the little hands go away—downstairs, through the hall, outside.
Save for the shining of the stars—sharp and clear in the black sky—it was still very dark out-of-doors.
On the terrace, there was visible to Johannes, a tall, dark figure. He could look at it better than at the sneering ones. He recognized it, instantly. It was He with whom he had traveled by sea.
The dark figure now took the lead with slow, firm strides. Pluizer went next, but in between these two there was a third.
It was quite impossible for Johannes to look at that third one. When he tried to look, he felt an indescribable agony.
That third one! Yes, he certainly knew it well. It wasit! Do you understand? TheItwhich lies in wait around the corner, outside the door, while you dream of being alone in a dark room, vainly trying to call for help.
It, the most frightful object!—so frightful that no one can either look at or describe it.
These three now passed down the dark avenue of the park until they came to the black pool lying deathly still and calmly expectant—shining beneath the starlight.
There the three sat down and waited.
It was still as still could be. Not a leaf rustled.
The star-tips on the water were as sharply defined as points of light upon fathomless darkness.
"Prettily planned; don't you think so?" said Pluizer.
Itgrumbled, sneeringly.
Thereupon good Death, in a soft, restful voice, said: "Yet all is for the best!"
Then again they sat very still. Johannes waited with them for he could not do otherwise.
The sound of a door was heard in the still night air, and a white figure drew near, with light, swift steps. By the faint starlight Johannes saw the slender girl in a white night-dress, her black hair flowing loose.
For an instant she stood still at the edge of the pool. Johannes could see her eyes shining with both terror and joy, like those of one pursued who sees escape. He tried to call or to move, but could do neither.
Then the girl waded into the water with her arms extended as if to embrace it. She went cautiously, so that the water neither plashed nor spattered; only, the star-points were broken up and became long stripes, and serpentine lines of light. These, after the white garment could be seen no more, still continued—dancing up and down with the ripples.
"We have her!" sneered Pluizer.
"That remains to be seen," said good Death.
At once, Johannes found himself awake, in his own bed. He had been wakened by noises, cries of anguished voices, hasty runnings hither and thither through the hallways of the house, and by the opening and shutting of doors.
"Heléne! Heléne!" rang through the halls, in the garden, in the park. "Heléne! Heléne!"
Johannes dressed himself, not overhastily, for he knew it was too late.
The members of the household were already gathered in the large vestibule. The poor nurse, with a startled face of deathly pallor, came in from the garden.
"I cannot find her anywhere," she cried. "It is my fault—my fault!"
She sat down and began to sob.
"Come, dear," said the countess, in her tranquil voice, "do not reproach yourself. She may be back again in no time; or perhaps the servants will find her in the town."
"No, no," shrieked the poor nurse. "She has long wanted to do it, and I knew it. I never left her door unfastened. But this time I only thought to be gone two seconds. She had knotted a tape into a tangle, and I wanted to get my scissors. But I could not find them ... and then.... O God! How could I be so stupid! I can never forgive myself. Oh, my God, my God!"
Could not Johannes have run quickly to the pool, and told what he knew? No, for he also knew, quite as surely, that it was too late. And before he could have done it, the men came to say she had been found. He saw her borne into the house, wrapped in a checked bed-cover.
And when he saw them making vain endeavors to resuscitate her he remarked that he feared it would do no good. And he added, "Indeed, I don't fear—but I hope so."
"For her sake," said the countess.
"Surely for her sake," repeated Johannes, in some surprise.
Van Lieverlee had not appeared. But when the corpse of the beautiful girl had been placed upon her death-bed, her slender hands crossed upon her breast, her hair—still moist—laid in heavy braids about the delicate, sallow little face, the dark lashes nearly closed over the sightless eyes, white lilies and snowdrops all around, then Van Lieverlee came to see.
"Look," said he to Johannes, "this is very pretty. I would not have cared to see her taken from the water. A drowned person is nearly always an ugly spectacle. Even the most beautiful girl becomes repulsive and clownlike when being dragged out of the water by leg or arm, with face and hair all duck-weed and mud. Butthisis worth while. Mind, Johannes, genuine artists are always lucky. They come across the beautiful, everywhere. Such an event as this is, for a poet, a rare bit of good luck."
The next day he was deep in the making of poetry. But Johannes was in a restless, introverted mood, and could find no words for what distressed him.
A few days later, the two guests were sitting with their hostess at the afternoon-tea table.
"Is it not a frightful thought," said Countess Dolores, "that the poor girl cannot yet have rest, but must do penance for her sinful deed?"
"I cannot believe it," said Johannes.
"But yet it was a sin."
"I would certainly forgive her."
"By which we perceive, Dolores," broke in Van Lieverlee, "that Johannes is much more kind-hearted than his beloved Lord."
"But why, Johannes, can you not assure us about that of which I have so often asked?" said the countess again. "Can you not put yourself into communication with her?"
"No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes.
"But your Mahatma, Johannes!" said Van Lieverlee. "He can do it all right. It is child's play for him."
"Of whom are you speaking?" asked the hostess, looking with quickened interest at Van Lieverlee.
"Of his Mahatma. Has he never told you about his Mahatma?"
"Not a word," said the countess, a little pettishly, while Johannes maintained a mortified silence.
"Well, Johannes knows a sage—a Yogi—a great Magician. He saw him come ashore from over the North Sea—which phenomenon might be termed levitation—and this Magician traveled with him in disguise."
"But, Johannes, why have you never told me that? It was not kind of you. You knew how much I have longed for the advice of such a person."
Johannes knew very little to tell. That question exactly concerned what was most perplexing and distressing to him in this situation.
Something there was that always restrained him from speaking of Markus—yes, even the thought of him was baffling. And yet how much he longed for him! But he felt that that longing was opposed to the other longings which held him where he was.
"I believe," he said at last, timidly, "that he does not like it when I talk about him."
"Of course," said Van Lieverlee, "but only in the case of the uninitiated—the common herd."
"Do you count me in with them?" asked his hostess in her most engaging manner.
"No, oo!" protested Johannes, with great earnestness. "But neither do I know where he is."
"He well knows, however, whereweare," said Van Lieverlee, "and if we desire to see him, he will come to us."
"He surely will not come here," said Johannes.
"Why not?"
Johannes could not explain why, but the countess said:
"Then we will go to Holland and have him come to our club."
That gave Johannes a thrill of joy. But ah! he realized at the same time how cold and unresponsive he had become to thebeautifulwhich had brought him thither. The two children were indeed just as captivating, but they did not give him the same happiness as before. And he began gradually to dislike Van Lieverlee.
In Holland, Countess Dolores dwelt in a villa between a large town and the ocean. And when Johannes was there again, and, though knowing better, was expecting to re-see his beloved dunes, then, for the first time, he felt convinced that Pan was indeed dead, and Windekind's kingdom at an end.
Civilization had conquered the dunes. Long, straight, barren streets led out to them, and house after house, all exactly alike—as tedious as they were ugly—lined the comfortless way. Sand drifted through the dreary, brick-paved streets, and shavings, bits of tin, and great pieces of tattered wall-paper were strewn about the intervening spaces. Buildings were being put up everywhere. Of the beauty and mystery of the dunes there was nothing left—only dismal, dust-littered heaps of sand.
The ocean also was spoiled for Johannes, for here there were great crowds of people, come for the sake of society, or else for the music. And even when they were gone there still remained the ugly buildings they had erected.
Countess Dolores seemed indeed to share Johannes' aversion and disappointment. Not so Van Lieverlee. Here he was in his element—dressing himself most gorgeously, making visits, and attending the principal clubs, restaurants, and concerts.
"Romance is dead, my friend," said he. "You must havelife—Life with a capital letter. Life is Passion. Art is Passion. Life is Art—rude, real life—one day gloriously luxurious, the next day coarse and loathsome. You must not dream of the past, Johannes, but live in the present. And you must experience everything, take a part in and enjoy everything, and despise everything. You must lead life by the nose—seize it by the throat and force it to do your bidding. Get tipsy with life—spew it out of your mouth—strike it flat to earth—sling it at the clouds—play upon it as upon a violin—stick it in your buttonhole, like a gardenia—roll with it in the gutter, and consort with it in orgies of supremest passion. Study it in its hideous nakedness and vileness, and subjugate it to your dearest dreams of blood and gold."
This oration was delivered in the evening after Van Lieverlee had dined with his friends. Later, Johannes observed that Van Lieverlee liked best to study the hideous phases of life from a safe distance, and to choose for himself the easy and pleasant ones.
Visitors from very respectable circles came to Dolores' villa; and already, at the receptions preceding the seances of the Pleiades, Johannes had met the members of that "ideal community of ideals in common."
There were, of course, besides the countess and Van Lieverlee, only five others; and when Johannes hesitated to add to this number of seven, he was assured that the Constellation was composed of eight visible stars, besides a great many others not visible to the naked eye.
The leader was a General with a gold-embroidered collar and a grey, closely-cut beard. He had a powerful, commanding voice, and spoke with great respect of the present dynasty. Johannes wondered that he could think of anything other than cannon and battles; but it appeared that he had a very gentle heart, and was extraordinarily curious concerning the immaterial and the life on the other side of the grave.
He even seemed to be conscious that his blood-thirsty trade did not tally with his philosophical researches, and therefore preferred that no one should know he belonged to this ideal community—a weakness common to all the members of the Pleiades.
Then there were a senator and his wife—both of them very courtly and fashionable persons. The husband had exquisitely cut grey hair, and a handsome white beard, small hands, and thin legs. The wife, who was an invalid, had a languishing voice, a discontented face, and a manner that became earnest and excited as soon as things were mentioned of highest import to the society.
Then there was Professor Bommeldoos—an impressive man, who certainly would have been chosen as leader had it not been known that at heart he scorned and condemned such researches. He took part only at the urgent request of the countess, to whose beauty he was not insensible, for as a representative of pure science she desired him to be present. Professor Bommeldoos was awfully learned—his Greek was as fluent as water, and he had, so to speak, every conceivable system of philosophy under his thumb. He was so much taken up with himself that he paid no attention to any reply he might have received to his discourse. He thought only of his own words, and if he did not receive instant assent, or if some one, with a bow, wished to differ from him, he turned himself about, and declared the hearer to be an ignoramus.
These bad manners, however, were the exception among the well-bred Pleiades; but they were endured as being a necessary attribute of his great erudition.
The seventh, and last, was an Honorable Lady, no longer young. She was of noble birth, fat, unattractive, and as ignorant as Professor Bommeldoos was learned. Every one of her observations was crushed by him, with cold disdain, under some obscure quotation or other. Whereupon the Honorable Lady, smiling insipidly, became silent, but with a face which seemed to say that she was by no means convinced.
Johannes waited in great suspense for the first seance, above all because of the possibility that Markus would perceive his longings, and, as Van Lieverlee surmised, suddenly appear.
The members of the society gathered just as if they had no other thought than to make a casual evening visit. The Privy Counselor, who bore a threefold name, and whom therefore I shall call simply the Privy Counselor, chatted with the fat Honorable Lady about the climate on the Riviera, along which he had been traveling with his wife, for her health's sake, and whence he had brought her back home more ill than when she left. The General chatted on about the early shell-peas, while Van Lieverlee talked softly in French to the countess, to the silent distraction of Johannes. No one appeared to care to know the object of their meeting.
But this dissimulation was rudely shaken by Professor Bommeldoos, who, having scarcely entered, burst out in his frightful voice:
"Come, followers of Allan Kardec! Where is the keeper of the door—he who shall unlock for us that portal through which we may step from the kingdom of the three dimensions into that of the fourth dimension?"
Thereupon he looked searchingly into the faces of those present. They smiled in a rather embarrassed way, and glanced at the General. After a good, thorough clearing of his throat, the General said:
"If you refer to our medium, Professor, there is none yet; but we should—ah ... can—ah ... begin to form the circle, in order to prepare ourselves, in some degree, for...."
During oppressive silence, a round, marble-topped table was drawn by the gentlemen into the middle of the room. The assistance of the servants was not desired.
"Look! See what a crack was made in it the other time," whispered the Honorable Lady, "when it rose completely up into the air, you know. We could not possibly hold it down."
"Ought not the light to be put out?" asked the Professor, who had not yet attended a seance.
"No, no," said the General. "A little lower—just a little lower."
"Very well! H'm—h'm!" muttered Bommeldoos.
"The Professor must not counteract with his irony," said the countess, pleasantly.
"Mevrouw," declaimed the Professor, solemnly, "in the researches of a philosopher nothing is trifling, nothing is ridiculous. He stands for all phenomena like an unbroken mirror. Darwin had the contrabass played to an audience of sprouting garden-beans, in order to observe the effect of music on vegetation. And if you have read my book about Plotinus...."
"Pardon, Professor, I have not."
"What! Then the one about the material basis of ideas?" "Nor that."
"Then you certainly must read my book upon Magic. Do not forget it, or I will not come the next time. Plotinus says...."
Here followed a quotation in Greek that I will spare you, but which was listened to with respect. Then the Honorable Lady chimed in with:
"Shall we not sing something? It puts one in such a good frame of mind."
They all agreed with her, but no one wanted to begin. The General seated himself mettlesomely at the table, and spread out his hands on the top of it.
With simulated unconcern, one after another followed him. At last, Johannes also was invited to take part.
"Is the young gentleman a novice in psychical fields?" asked the Privy Counselor, condescendingly.
"My friend Johannes ought to have strong mediumistic powers. I hope that those present will not object...." said the countess.
"Not at all, not at all," said the General. "In this research we are all as ignorant as children."
"I do not in the least agree with you, there, General," blustered Bommeldoos. "Have you read all the writings of Phillipus Aureolus Paracelsus Theophrastus Bombastus ab Hohenheim, born in 1493, died in 1541?"
"I have not, Professor," replied the warrior, meekly.
"Well, I have, and it was not child's work. Magic is a subdivision—and only a small subdivision—of philosophy. In my library I have a hundred and seventy-five volumes, all that subdivision—all of them on magical subjects, from Apollonius Tyannæus to Swedenborg, Hellenbach, and Du Prell. Do you call that childish ignorance?"
"'Suffer the little children to come unto me,'" said the fat Honorable Lady, improving the opportunity to make a quotation, also.
"I am not going to drive them away," said Bommeldoos, "if only they do not imagine they know as much as I do."
Johannes did not at all imagine that, and, hands upon the marble top of the table, he waited very patiently for the manifestations. They sat a considerable time, however, without anything unusual having happened. Van Lieverlee said to the countess, softly yet quite distinctly: "Neither are those magical powers of Johannes very unusual."
Then came the medium—a demure young woman of the middle class, who made deep courtesies to right and left, and appeared not to feel quite at home in this dignified society.
She had scarcely seated herself at the table, before the wife of the Privy Counselor cried out in a shrill voice: "I feel it already. There it goes!"
"Yes, a genuine shock," declared the Honorable Lady, in an excited tone.
"Be calm," commanded the General.
The table began turning and tilting, and now the questions were plied. The first spirit to put in an appearance gave general advice about reading the Bible, and about faithful attendance at church. This advice seemed to make a deep impression on the circle. Asked his name, the spirit replied, "Moses." This gave Professor Bommeldoos the opportunity to inquire if Moses himself had written the Pentateuch. "Yes": was the reply. But when the Professor queried him in Hebrew, Moses said that the medium needed a brief rest; and after that rest he left it to some one else to make reply. In succession followed Homer and Cicero, who both lamented that they had not known the true faith; and after them Napoleon, who evinced great sorrow for the amount of blood he had caused to be shed. One could see that this gave the General food for reflection.
But, save that all these people urged, in the main, the practice of purity and piety, it was unanimously demonstrated that Johannes and the countess were the ones from whose co-operation the greatest results were to be expected. They would have to study up these matters, and apply themselves to automatic writing.
Then Johannes had to sit beside the countess and hold her hand, and thus, together, write down the communications of the spirits. This was a bitter-sweet experience for Johannes. Would Markus come now?
But Markus did not come, nor any news of poor Heléne, nor of her father.
Yet a spirit disclosed itself who treated this ideal society in a very impolite, bearish manner. He called himself Thomas, and would not reply when Bommeldoos asked him if he was Thomas the Apostle, or Thomas Aquinas, or Thomas à Kempis, or Thomas Morus.
"Do you know us?" asked the Privy Counselor.
"Yes, you are heathen and malefactors."
"Will you help us?"
"Confess, pray, and do penance," said Thomas.
"Will you tell us something of the hereafter?" asked Countess Dolores, paling somewhat.
"Hell, if you go on this way," said Thomas.
"Then what must I do?" asked Dolores, almost trembling.
"Be converted," was the reply.
"That is all well and good," said Bommeldoos, "but I know at least twelve religions, and twice as many systems of philosophy. To which of them must we be converted?"
"Be still, you heretic," was the parting shot.
Such treatment as that was a bit too much for the learned Professor, and he declared he had had enough of it, and could better employ his time.
The society was of one mind—that the manifestations this evening had not been propitious. The medium ascribed this to her own indisposition. She had suffered the entire day with a headache, and, moreover, there were—she was certain of it—unfavorable influences present. Saying this, she cast a reproachful glance at the Professor.
"Oh, it was much more lively the last time," said the Honorable Lady. "Was it not truly extraordinary, General?"
"Phenomena cannot be forced," replied the General. "One has to practise patience. We would better stop, for the present."
So the session ended, and after the medium, with many obsequious airs, had taken her leave, they partook of a delicious supper.
Johannes retained his place beside the hostess, and the remembrance of the soft, warm hand that he had been able to hold in his own for so long a time made him very happy. He was not disappointed. Oh, no, he was elated—his excellent friend was so nice, so good, and so kind to him.
A new Dutch waitress in black and wearing a snow-white cap with long strings was in attendance. Johannes paid no attention to her, but noticed that Van Lieverlee looked at her repeatedly.
"Did you not think it a remarkable evening?" asked the countess, after the guests were gone and they were alone together.
"I thought it splendid," replied Johannes, with sincerity.
"They called it a failure," said the countess, "but it impressed me quite otherwise. I feel greatly moved."
"I too," said Johannes.
"Do you? That makes me happy. So you, also, feel that we need to be converted?"
"I do not think that," said Johannes, "but you have been so good to me."
Countess Dolores made no reply, but she smiled and pressed his hand kindly. Johannes retained her hand, while he looked into her eyes with passionate devotion.
The waitress had been standing at the buffet, placing silver in the drawer. At this moment she turned round, and when Johannes in some confusion looked at her to see if she had paid any attention to his all-too-tender airs and words, he suddenly found himself gazing into a pair of well-known, light-grey eyes.
They were Marjon's eyes, and they wore a look of unutterable anguish and sorrow.
It seemed to Johannes as if his heart had stopped beating. He sat like one paralyzed, until his friend's hand slipped from his clasp. He appeared to wish to rise—to say something....
But Marjon put her finger to her lips, and went quietly on with her work.
Among the visitors at Villa Dolores was a Roman prelate—a friend of Dolores' deceased husband. He was heavy of build and always cheerful, and never talked on religious subjects. Sometimes he came sociably, as a table guest, and besides a fund of anecdotes he also had much to say that was instructive, to which Johannes listened eagerly.
He was a far more amiable person than Dominie Kraalboom, and Johannes liked him much better. He understood all about flowers and animals, about poetry, paintings, and music; and of special interest were his observations on beautiful Italy and holy Rome, where he had traveled and studied.
Of course he did not belong to the Pleiades; and if by rare exception the circle was referred to in his presence, he, being both cautious and courteous, remained silent.
Yet, after that first meeting of which I have told you in the preceding chapter, Johannes observed that he came oftener than before, and also at unconventional hours; and when Johannes came into the room he noticed that the conversation between the countess and the priest was suddenly broken off. He saw, also, that his hostess had more color in her cheeks, as if she had been speaking of weighty matters.
"Your Mahatma does not come," said Dolores once, when, after such a time as this, the priest had just taken his leave. "He has turned his back upon us."
"Yes, Mevrouw," Johannes was forced to admit.
"I think myself very fortunate in having found a wise man who can help me."
"Do you mean Father Canisius?"
"Yes. Do you know what he says? That we are on a dangerous road in the pursuit of our object. It is all the work of the devil, he declares. And everything he says agrees with what we heard that evening. Would you not like to have a chat with him?"
But Johannes hesitated. He had not yet spoken to Marjon, and was hoping to hear from her something concerning his brother.
Marjon evaded him, and he had not found an opportunity to meet her alone. Every morning he went to his room with a beating heart, hoping to find her there busied in putting it to rights; but generally it was already in order, and he found merely the traces of her care: his clothing brushed and folded, his linen looked over and nicely placed in the linen-press, and fresh flowers in the little vase on his table. He observed everything, and was deeply touched by it.
But she seemed careful to be always in company with the other servants, and to bear herself as stiffly and coldly as the most pert, demure, and well-trained chambermaid possibly could. Not a word nor a look nor a sign betrayed her acquaintance with Johannes; and he often heard the countess declare to her visitors that she had never before found so quickly a good Dutch servant.
Neither had Van Lieverlee recognized her, but was simply struck with her peculiar, somewhat alien manner, which led him to ask the lady of the house if she knew the origin of the girl.
"No," said the countess; "she was recommended to me by an old friend, and apparently she deserves all that was said of her."
But Johannes' yearning for Markus grew stronger every day. He both dreaded and longed for his coming, and he wished that in some way he might be delivered from his uncertainty.
Therefore he was ever on the alert to seize an opportunity for speaking with Marjon alone. One evening he detained her in the hall under the pretense of inquiring about his shoes.
"Where did you leave Keesje?" he asked in a low voice.
"You know very well," replied Marjon, curtly, and in the same low tone.
Johannes did indeed know, and for that very reason he had asked the question.
"Yes, but where is he who has Keesje?"
"I do not know; and even if I did, I would not tell you. He knows his time."
At that moment Countess Dolores passed by.
"Johannes," said she, "I am having a talk with Father Canisius. If you wish you may come, too."
Johannes questioned Marjon with a look; but there fell before her eyes that impenetrable veil which always completely hid her inmost self from every stranger.
Father Canisius was in the parlor, seated in a low chair. His black soutane fitted tightly over his robust body, and his heavy feet in their buckled shoes were planted wide apart. He was polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief, and as Johannes entered the room he put them quickly in place, and turned his large eyes, full of interest, toward the door.
When Johannes came forward he took his hand in a kindly way and drew him nearer. Johannes looked into the broad, smooth-shaven face with its flat nose and sagacious eyes.
"Have you never had good guidance, my boy? Without it life is difficult and dangerous."
"I have indeed had good guidance, Mijnheer," said Johannes, "but I have more than once preferred to go my own way; and then I disregarded my guidance."
"But was itgoodguidance?" asked the priest.
"I had a good father; later, I found a dear, good friend. But I left them both."
"Why did you do that? Were you not satisfied with what they taught you? What was it that took you from them?"
Johannes hesitated.
"Were they too strict?"
Johannes shook his head.
"Then what was lacking that you found elsewhere but not with them?"
"I do not know, Mijnheer, what to call it. It is not pleasure, for I am willing to endure much suffering. And yet again it is the most glorious thing I know. I think it is what is meant by 'the beautiful.'"
On saying this, he bethought himself that it was not merely "the beautiful" for which he had left his father, and that the emotion which had led him away from Markus, and which he had felt for the two little girls, might indeed be called love.
"Perhaps it is also called love," said he.
Father Canisius considered a moment, and throwing a glance at the countess, he said:
"Then did you not find the love of that good father and the good friend enough for you?"
"Oh, yes, yes," said Johannes, with spirit. "But it was from them I had learned that I ought to follow what seemed to me, in all sincerity, the most beautiful, and to do what I truly thought best."
The priest dropped Johannes' hand, and pressed his own fleshy palms together, while he slowly and sorrowfully shook his great head, gave a deep sigh, and continued to look at Countess Dolores with a very serious face.
"Poor boy!" said he then. "Poor, poor boy!"
Then, lifting his head and looking Johannes straight in the eyes, he said: "No, Johannes, they were not good guides. I do not know them, and I shall not judge them, but I assure you positively that with such teaching, such guidance, you are bound to be lost unless granted extraordinary grace."
A long silence ensued. Johannes was touched, and even startled.
"What do you mean?" he finally stammered with trembling lips.
"Listen, Johannes," said Countess Dolores. "Father Canisius is very wise—a man of large experience in life."
"Do you believe in God, Johannes?" asked the priest.
"I know that I have a Father who understands me," said Johannes, slowly.
"Do you mean a heavenly Father? Very well; so far, so good. But you must have observed also that there is an evil one—Satan—who goes about deceiving us."
"Yes," said Johannes, promptly, thinking of his many disappointments. "That is so. I have observed it."
"Well, then, Satan is always lying in wait for us, like a wolf lurking near the sheep. One who trusts only in his own powers and his own opinion is like a sheep that strays from the fold. The wolf surely waits his opportunity, and, unless God perform a miracle, that sheep is lost."
Johannes felt the fear strike to his heart, and he could not speak.
"We first notice the approach of this wolf by a terrible sensation. That is God's warning to us. That feeling is doubt. Have you ever known what it was to doubt, Johannes?"
Johannes, with clenched fists and compressed lips, nodded in quick and utter dismay. Yes, yes,yes! He had known what it was to doubt.
"I thought so," said Father Canisius, calmly. "It is a fearful feeling, is it not?" Raising his voice, he proceeded: "It is like the sound of howling wolves in the distance—to the wandering sheep. Let it not be in vain that you are warned, Johannes."
After a pause he continued:
"Doubt itself is a sin. He who doubts is on an inclined plane that slopes toward a fall. Have you ever heard of the hideous octopus, Johannes—that soft sea-monster with the huge eyes, and eight long arms full of suckers which, one by one, he winds around the limbs of a swimmer, before dragging him down to the deeps? You have? Well, Satan is such an octopus. Unnoticed, he reaches out his long arms, and twines them about your limbs—holding them fast with his suckers until he can stab his sharp beak into your heart. Doubt is not only a warning but positive proof that Satan has already gripped you. It is the beginning of his power. The end is everlasting pain and damnation."
Johannes raised his head and looked at the priest, who was watching the effect of his words.
In spite of his distress there was suddenly aroused in Johannes a feeling of resistance. He felt that an effort was being made to frighten him; and even if he was but a stripling he would not allow that.
"My Father does not condemn those who err in good faith," said he.
Father Canisius observed that by bearing on too hard he had awakened a rebellious spirit. He therefore became more cautious, and resumed gently:
"Certainly, Johannes. God is infinitely good and merciful. But have you not remarked that there is a justice from which you cannot escape? And do you believe that one who has been led astray can plead, 'I am not guilty, for I was deceived'? No, Johannes, you take this matter too lightly. Punishment attends sin. That is God's inexorable law. And only if He had failed to warn us—only if He had not accurately revealed to us His will, could you call that cruel and unjust. But wearewarned—areinstructed—and may follow good guidance. If then we continue to stray, it is our own fault and we must not complain."
"You mean the Bible, do you not, Mijnheer?"
"The Bible and the Church," said the Father, not pleased at the tone of this question. "I very well comprehend, my boy, that you, with your poetic temperament and your craving for the beautiful, have not found peace in the cold, barren, and barbarous creed of Protestantism. But the Church gives you everything—beauty, warmth, love, and exalted poetry. In the Church alone can you find peace and perfect security. You know, however, do you not, that the flock has need of a Shepherd? And you know also who that Shepherd is?"
"Do you mean the Pope?"
"I mean Christ, Johannes—our Redeemer, of whom the Pope is merely a human representative. Do you know this Shepherd? Do you not know Jesus Christ?"
"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes, in all simplicity, "I do not know him at all."
"I thought as much; and that is why I said to you, 'Poor boy.' But if you wish to learn to know him, I will gladly help you. Do you wish me to?"
"Why not, Mijnheer?" said Johannes.
"Very well. Begin, then, by accompanying the countess to the church she has promised me to attend—Have you, indeed, arranged to go?"
"Yes, Father," replied the countess. "Oh, I am so happy that you take such an interest in us! Johannes will surely always be grateful to you."
Father Canisius pressed very cordially the hands of both of his new disciples, and, with an expression of calm satisfaction on his face, he took his leave.
The children came in, and nothing further was said that day between Johannes and his friend concerning the matter; but the countess was much more animated than usual, and wonderfully kind toward Johannes. She even kissed him again when they said good-night, as once before she had done —when with her children.
Johannes could not sleep. He was full of anxiety, and in a state of high nervous tension. When the house grew still, and the lonely, mysterious night had come, came also fear and doubt and faint-heartedness. He doubted that he doubted, and feared the doubt of the doubt. He heard the howling of the wolf that lay in wait for the wandering sheep; he felt the slippery, slimy, crawling grasp of those terrible arms, that unnoticed, had fastened their suckers everywhere to his limbs; he saw the great yellow eyes of the octopus, with the narrow, slit-shaped pupil; and he felt the mouth searching and feeling about his body for his heart, that it might stab it with the sharp, parrot-like beak. With chattering teeth he lay wide awake between the sheets—shivering and shaking, while the perspiration poured from him.
Then he heard a faint, creaking sound on the stairs, followed by a light footfall at the doorway. His door was opened, and a slim, dark form came cautiously up to the bed.
He felt a soft, warm hand on his clammy forehead, and heard Marjon's voice whispering:
"You must be faithful, Jo, and not let them make you afraid. The Father likes brave and loyal children."
"Yes, Marjon," said Johannes; and the shivering ceased, while a gentle warmth stole over and through his entire body. He dropped asleep so soon that he did not notice when she left the room.
"Jump out!" cried Wistik, excitedly, swinging his little red cap. "Come on—jump!"
Johannes saw no way of doing so. The window was high and quite too small. Perhaps by climbing still higher he might find a way out. A flight of stairs, and another garret. Still another narrow passage, and another stairway. Then he caught another glimpse of Wistik, astride a large eagle.
"Come on, Johannes!" cried he. "You must dare to—then nothing can happen."
Johannes was ready to venture, but he could not do it. The little window was again out of reach. Back again. Empty garrets, steep stairs—stairs without end. And there was the octopus! He knew it. Again and again he saw one of the long arms with its hundreds of suckers. Sometimes one of them lay stretched along the garret floor, so that he had to step over it. Sometimes one meandered over the stairs that Johannes was obliged to mount. The whole house was full of them.
And out-of-doors the sun was shining, and the blue air was clear and bright. Wistik was circling around the house, seated on the great eagle—the very same eagle they had come across before, in Phrygia.
Out-of-doors also rang the voice of Marjon. Hark! She was singing. She, too, was in the open air. She seemed to have made a little song, herself—words and melody—for Johannes had never before heard either of them.
"Nightly there come to me,White as the snow,Wings that I know to beStrange, here below."Up into ether blue,Pure and so high,Mounting on pinions true,Singing, I fly."Sea-gull like then I soar—Not light more swift—So near to Heaven's doorTo rock and drift!"
Alas! Johannes could not yet do that. He had no wings. He did, indeed, see rays of light at times, and here and there a bit of blue sky. But he could not get to it—he could not get out! And on he went again—upstairs, downstairs, through doorways, halls, and great garrets. And the terrible arms lay everywhere.
Again Marjon sang:
"Marvelous, matchless blueI cleave in flight.The spheres are not so fleetAs my winged feet."World after world speed byUnder my hand,New ones I ever espy,Countless as sand."Blue of the skies!Blue of the deep!Now make me wise—Nomore to weep."
Johannes also heard the blue calling him; but what the magic word was he could not guess. He was on his knees now, before a small, garret window through which he could barely thrust his arm. Behind him he could hear a shuffling and sliding. It was the long arm again!
"It's a shame!" said Wistik again, his little face red with anger, "the way they have maligned me! I ought to be hail-fellow with the Evil One for not letting you be. What a rascal he is! Do you want to be rid of me, Johannes?"
"No, Wistik. I believe that you are good even if you have often disappointed me and made me very restless. You have shown me so much that is beautiful. But why do you not help me now? If you call me you ought to help me.
"No," said Wistik; "you must help yourself. You must act, you understand? Act! You know thatItis behind you, do you not?"
"Yes, yes!" shrieked Johannes.
"But, boy, do not shriek at me! Shriek atIt. It is much more afraid of you than you are of It. Try!"
That was an idea. Johannes set his teeth, clenched his fists, turned round and shouted:
"Out, I say! Out with you—you ugly, miserable wretch!"
I even believe he used a swear-word. But one ought to forgive him, because it was from sudden excitement. When he saw that the long arms shriveled and drew away, and that it grew still in the house—when he felt his distress abating and saw the sunlight burst out, revealing a spacious deep-blue sky—then his anger calmed down, and he felt rather ashamed of having been so vehement.
"That is good!" said Wistik. "But do not be unmannerly—do not scold. That is hateful. But nevertheless, act, and learn compassion."
Johannes was now no longer afraid; he shouted for joy. Yes, he was bathed in tears of thankfulness and relief. Oh, the glorious blue sky!
"Now you know it, once for all," said Wistik.
Marjon's voice again in song. But this time very different—the air of one of her old songs merely hummed: a customary calling sound—a soft suppressed little tune. And thereupon followed a "tap, tap, tap," at his chamber door, to tell him that it was half-past eight and time to get up.
Fresh energy, a feeling of high spirits and courage, filled Johannes that day. At last he was going to act—to do something to end his difficulties.
First, he sought an opportunity to speak with Van Lieverlee. He went to brave him in his own rooms where he had never yet been. There he saw a confused medley of dissimilar things: some rare old pieces of furniture, and oriental rugs; a large collection of pipes and weapons; a few modern books; on the wall some picture-studies of which Johannes could not glean the meaning; some French posters picturing frivolous girls. With the same glance he saw mediæval prints of saints in ecstasy, and plaster casts of wanton women, and the heads of emaciated monks. There were images of Christ in hideous nakedness, and lithographs and casts so blood-curdling, crazy, and bizarre that they made Johannes think of his most frightful dreams.
"What are you here for?" asked Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest who, with an empty pipe in his mouth and a face full of displeasure, lay stretched out languidly on the floor.
"I have come to ask something," said Johannes, not exactly knowing how to begin.
"Not in the mood for it," drawled Van Lieverlee.
The day before, Johannes would have wilted. Not so to-day. He seated himself, and thought of what Wistik had said—"Act!"
"I will not wait any longer," he began again. "I have waited too long already."
"The big priest has had you in hand, has he not?" said Van Lieverlee, with a little more interest.
"Yes," replied Johannes; "did you know it? What do you think of him?"
Van Lieverlee gaped, nodded, and said: "A knowing one! Just let him alone. Biceps! you know—biceps! All physique and intellectuality. Representative of his entire organization. Can't help respecting it, Johannes. How those fellows can thunder at the masses! One can't help taking off his hat to them. The whole lot of the Reformed aren't in it with them! Theirs is only half-work; they are irresolute in everything they give or take;krita-krita, as we say in Sanscrit. Whether you do good or do ill, aways do it wholly, not by halves; otherwise you yourself become the dupe. If you would keep the people down, hold them down completely. To establish a church, and at the same time talk of liberty of conscience, as do the Protestants—that is stuff and nonsense —nothing comes of it. You may see that from the results. Every dozen Protestants have their own church with its own dogmas, with its own little faith which alone can save, and with its little coterie of the elect! No, compared with them the Roman Church is at least a respectable piece of work—a formidable concern."
"Do you believe in it?" asked Johannes.
Van Lieverlee shrugged his shoulders.
"I shall have to think it over a while longer. If I think it agreeable to believe in it, then I shall do so. But it will be in the genuine old Church, with Adam and Eve, and the sun which circles around the earth; not in that modernized, up-to-date Church, altered according to the advancement of science—with electric light and the doctrine of heredity. How disgusting! No, I must have the church of Dante, with a real hell full of fire and brimstone, right here under our earth, and Galileo inside of it."
"But I did not come to inquire about that," said Johannes, sticking to his point. "I am not content, and you ought to help me. What I have heard in the Pleiades, and from Father Canisius does not satisfy me. I am sure, also, that it is not in this way I shall find my friend again; and now I am determined to find him."
"Where, then, do you wish to look for him?"
"I believe," said Johannes, "that if he is to be found anywhere, it is among the poor—the laborers."
"Ah! Would you take part in the labor agitation? Well, you can do so, but I do not agree to go with you. You know what I think about that. Socialism has got to come, but I am not going to concern myself with it. It smells too much of the proletariat. I am very glad of the birth of a new society, but a birth is always an unsavory incident. I leave that to the midwife. I'll wait until the infant is thoroughly washed and tidy before making its acquaintance."
"But I wish to look for my friend."
Van Lieverlee stood up and stretched himself.
"You bore me," said he, "with that eternal chatter about your friend."
"Act!" thought Johannes, and he went on:
"You promised to show me the way to what I am seeking, and to give an explanation of my experiences. But I know no more than I knew before."
"Your own fault, my friend. Result of pride and self-seeking. Why have you had so little to do with me? You kept yourself with those two little girls. Did they enlighten you?"
"Quite as much as you did," replied Johannes.
Van Lieverlee looked up in surprise. That was insubordination—open resistance. However, he thought it better to take no notice, so he said:
"But since you will join the labor movement, then you must find out for yourself. I won't hold you back. Go, then, and look for your Mahatma!"
"But how am I to begin? You have so many friends—do you know some one who can help me?"
Van Lieverlee thought about it while looking steadily at Johannes. Then he said, deliberately:
"Very well. I know of one who is in the middle of it. Would you like to go to him?"
"Yes, at once, if you please."
"Good," said Van Lieverlee. Together they set out. The friend referred to was the editor of a journal—a Doctor of Laws. Felbeck was his name.
His office was far from luxurious in appearance. The steps were worn, and the door-mat was trodden to shreds. It was a dreary and sombre place. Large posters and caricatures were pasted on the walls, and on the table, lay many pamphlets and papers. Also there were writing-desks, letter-boxes, and rush-bottomed chairs. Two clerks sat there writing, and a few men, with hats on and cigars in their mouths, were talking. There was a continual running to and fro of people—printers' devils, and men in slouch hats.
Dr. Felbeck himself had a pale, thin face, square jaws, bristling hair, and a black goatee and moustache. His eyes were deep-set, and they looked at Johannes keenly, in a manner not fitted to put him into a restful and confiding state of mind.
"This young person," said Van Lieverlee, "wishes, as you express it, to turn his back upon his bourgeois status, and to swell the ranks of the struggling proletariat. Is that what you call it?"
"Well!" said Dr. Felbeck. "He need not be ashamed of it, and you might follow his example, Van Lieverlee."
"Who knows what I may yet do," said Van Lieverlee, "when the proletariat shall have learned to wash itself?"
"What!" said Felbeck. "Would you, a poet, have washed and combed proletarians, with collars and silk hats? No, my friend; with their vile and callous fists they will smash your refined and coddled civilization, like anetagèreof bric-à-brac in a parlor!" Dr. Felbeck vented his feelings in a blow at the imaginaryetagère. The attention of a clerk on the other side of the room was arrested, and he stopped his work. Van Lieverlee, too, looked somewhat interested.
"A revolution appeals to me," said Van Lieverlee. "With barricades, and fellows on them with red flags, straggling hair, and bloodshot eyes. That isn't bad. But you people of the Society of the Future!—Heaven preserve us from that tedious and kill-joy crowd! I would ten times over prefer an obese, over-rich banker with his jeweled rings, who, waxing fat through the misfortunes of simpletons, builds a villa in Corfu, to your future citizen."
"You do not at all understand it yet," said Felbeck, with a slighting laugh. "You are bound to have such notions because you belong to the bourgeois class of which you are an efflorescence. You are obliged to talk like a bourgeois, and versify like one. You cannot do otherwise. You cannot possibly comprehend the proletarian civilization of the future. It is to be evolved from the proletarian class to which we belong, and with which your young friend wishes to connect himself, as I perceive with pleasure."
The clerk across the room came nearer, to listen to the speech of his chief. He was an under-sized young man whose pomaded black hair was parted in the middle. He had a crooked nose straddled by eye-glasses, and thick lips from between which dangled a cigar—even while he spoke. He wore a well-fitting suit, and pointed shoes with gaiters.
"May I introduce myself," said he. "I am Kaas—fellow-partner Isadore Kaas."
"Pleased to meet you," said Van Lieverlee. And Johannes also received a handshake.
"Have you come to register yourself?" the partner asked.
"In what?" asked Johannes, who had not yet exactly gotten the idea of things. "In the proletarian class?"
"As a member of the party," said Kaas.
"What does that imply?" asked Johannes, hesitating.
"It implies," said Felbeck, "that you renounce the privileges of the class to which you are native, and that you range yourself, under the red flag, in the ranks of the International Workingmen's Party—with the struggling proletariat—the party of the future."
"Then what have I to do?"
"Sign your name, make a small contribution, attend the meetings, read our paper, spread our doctrines, and vote for our candidates in the elections."
"Nothing else?" asked Johannes.
"Well, is not that enough?"
"Did you not speak of privileges I must renounce?"
"There, there!" said partner Kaas, "do not make too much of that, to begin with. Don't be frightened. For the present, nothing further is required of you."
"Oh, I was not afraid," said Johannes, a trifle vexed that he should have been misunderstood. "I was even hoping that I might be able to do more."
"So much the better! So much the better!" said Kaas, stepping hurriedly over to his desk again, and eagerly hunting for a pen. "That settles it. Your name, if you please."
But Johannes was not, for the time being, in a very compliant mood. Since he had dared the octopus he had found that he had more than one string to his bow.
"No, I came for something else. I have a dear friend who lives and works for the poor and oppressed. I am looking for him. I saw him last, at the great strike of the miners, in Germany. Since that time I have heard nothing from him, but I know, surely, that he is with the working people. Mijnheer van Lieverlee has told me that you were in the midst of the labor movement. Could you not help me?"
"What's his name?" asked Dr. Felbeck.
"They know him as Markus," replied Johannes, although it cost him an effort to speak the dear name in that place.