Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush.
"Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?"
"We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush.
That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind.
"Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot—cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings."
He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid, heavy fragrance.
"I cannot turn back now, nor ever see Robinetta again. Shall I not die without her? Shall I keep on living, and be a man—a man like those who laughed at me?"
Then, all at once, he saw again the two white butterflies that flew up to him from the way of the setting sun. In suspense, he followed their flight. Would they show him the way? They hovered above his head—then floated apart to return again—whirling about in fickle play. Little by little they left the sun, and finally fluttered beyond the border of the dunes—away to the woods. There, only the highest tips were still touched by the evening glow that shone out red and vivid from under the long files of sombre clouds.
Johannes followed the butterflies. But when they had flown above the nearest trees, he saw a dark shadow swoop toward them in noiseless flight, and then hover over them. It pursued and overtook them. The next moment they had vanished. The black shadow darted swiftly up to him, and he covered his face with his hands, in terror.
"Well, little friend, why do you sit here, crying?" rang a sharp, taunting voice close beside him.
Johannes had seen a huge bat coming toward him, but when he looked up, a swarthy mannikin, not much taller than himself, was standing on the dunes. It had a great head, with big ears, that stood out—dark—against the bright evening sky, and a lean little body with slim legs. Of his face Johannes could see only the small, glittering eyes.
"Have you lost anything, little fellow? If so, I will help you seek it," said he. But Johannes silently shook his head.
"Look! Would you like these?" he began again, opening his hand. Johannes saw there something white, that from time to time barely stirred. It was the two white butterflies—dead—with the torn and broken little wings still quivering. Johannes shivered, as though some one had blown on the back of his neck, and he looked up in alarm at the strange being.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Would you like to know my name, Chappie? Well, just call me Pluizer[1]—simply Pluizer. I have still prettier names, but that you do not yet understand."
"Are you a human being?"
"Better yet! Still, I have arms and legs and a head—just see what a head! And yet the boy asks if I'm a human being! Well, Johannes, Johannes!" And the mannikin laughed with a shrill, piercing sound.
"How do you know who I am?" asked Johannes.
"Oh, that is a trifle for me! I know a great deal more. I know where you came from, and what you came here to do. I know an astonishing lot—almost everything."
"Ah! Mr. Pluizer...."
"Pluizer—Pluizer. No ceremony!"
"Do you know then?..." But Johannes suddenly stopped. "He is a human being," thought he.
"About your little key, do you mean?" asked the mannikin.
"Yes, indeed I do."
"But I did not think human beings could know anything about that."
"Silly boy! And Wistik has babbled to so many about it!"
"Do you know Wistik, too?"
"Oh, yes—one of my best friends, and I have a great many of them. But I know about the little key, without the help of Wistik. I know a great deal more than Wistik. Wistik is a good enough fellow, but stupid—uncommonly stupid. Not I—far from it!" And Pluizer tapped his big head with his lean little hand in a very pert way.
"Do you know, Johannes," he continued, "a great defect in Wistik? But you never must tell him, for he would be very angry."
"Well, what is it?" asked Johannes.
"He does not exist. That is a great shortcoming, but he will not admit it. And he says of me that I do not exist—but that is a lie.Inot exist? Themischief—I do!"
And Pluizer, thrusting the little butterflies into his pocket, suddenly threw himself over, and stood on his head in front of Johannes. Then he made a very ugly grimace, and stuck out his long tongue. Johannes, who did not yet feel quite at his ease alone with this remarkable creature, at the close of the day, in the lonely dunes, was quaking now, with fear.
"This is a most charming way of seeing the world," said Pluizer, still standing on his head. "If you like, I will teach you to do it. Everything looks much clearer and more life-like."
And he sprawled his spindle legs out in the air, and whirled around on his hands. As the red afterglow fell upon his inverted face, Johannes thought it frightful; the small eyes blinked in the light, and showed the whites on the wrong side.
"You see, this way the clouds look like the floor, and the ground the cover, of the world. You can maintain that as well as the contrary. There is no above nor below, however. Those clouds would make a fine promenade."
Johannes looked at the long clouds. He thought they appeared like a plowed field, with blood welling up from the red furrows. And over the sea the splendor was streaming from the gates of that grotto in the clouds.
"Could one get there, and go in?" he asked.
"Nonsense!" said Pluizer, landing suddenly on his feet again, to the great relief of Johannes. "Nonsense! If you were there, it would be precisely as it is here—and the beauty of it would then appear still a little farther off. In those beautiful clouds there, it is misty, grizzly, and cold."
"I do not believe you," said Johannes. "Now I can very well see that you are a human being."
"Oh, come! Not believe me, dear boy, because I am a human being! And what particular thing do you take yourself for?"
"Oh, Pluizer! Am I too a human being?"
"What did you suppose? An elf? Elves do not fall in love." And Pluizer suddenly dropped down exactly in front of Johannes—his legs crossed under him—grinning straight into his face. Johannes felt indescribably distressed and perplexed under this scrutiny, and would have liked to hide, or make himself invisible. Still he could not even turn his eyes away.
"Only human beings fall in love, Johannes. Do you hear? And that is good; otherwise before long there would be no more of them. And you are in love as well as the best of them, although you are still so young. Who are you thinking about, this instant?"
"Robinetta!" whispered Johannes, barely loud enough to be heard.
"Whom do you long for most?"
"Robinetta!"
"Who is the one without whom you think you cannot live?"
Johannes' lips moved silently: "Robinetta!"
"Now, then, you silly fellow," sneered Pluizer, "how can you fancy yourself to be an elf? Elves do not fall in love with the children of men."
"But it was Windekind," stammered Johannes, in his embarrassment. At that, Pluizer looked terribly angry, and he seized Johannes by the ears with his bony little hands.
"What stuff is this? Would you frighten me with that dunce? He is sillier than Wistik—far more silly. He does not know it, though. And what is more, he does not exist at all, and never has existed. I alone exist, do you understand? If you do not believe me, I will make you feel that Idoexist."
And he shook poor Johannes by the ears—hard. The latter cried out: "But I have known him so long, and I have traveled so far with him!"
"You have dreamed it, I say. Where, then, are the rose-bush and the little key? Hey!—But you are not dreaming now! Do you feel that?"
"Auch!" cried Johannes; for Pluizer was tweaking his ears.
It had grown dark, and the bats were flying with shrill squeakings close to their heads. The air was black and heavy—not a leaf stirred in the woods.
"May I go home?" begged Johannes. "To my father?"
"Your father? What do you want of him?" asked Pluizer. "That person would give you a warm reception after your long absence!"
"I want to go home," said Johannes; and he thought of the living-room with the bright lamp-light, where he had so often sat beside his father, listening to the scratching of his pen. It was cozy there, and peaceful.
"Yes, but you ought not to have gone away, andstayedaway—all for the sake of that madcap who has no existence. It is too late now. And if nothing turns up to prevent it, I will take care of you. Whether I do it, or your father does it, is precisely the same thing. Such a father! That is only imagination, however. Did you make your own selection? Do you think no one else so good—so clever? I am just as good, and much more clever."
Johannes had no heart for an answer; he closed his eyes, and nodded slightly.
"And," continued the mannikin, "you must not look for anything further from that Robinetta."
He laid his hands upon Johannes' shoulders, and chattered close to his ear. "That child thought you just as much a fool as the others did. Did you not see that she stayed in the corner, and said not a word when they all laughed at you? She is no better than the others. She thought you a nice little boy, and she played with you—just as she would have played with a May-bug. She cannot have cared about your going away. And she knows nothing about that book. But I do—I know where it is, and I will help you find it. I know nearly everything."
And Johannes began to believe him.
"Are you going with me? Will you search for it with me?"
"I am so tired," said Johannes. "Let me go to sleep somewhere."
"I care nothing for sleep," said Pluizer. "I am too lively for that. A person ought always to be looking and thinking. But I will leave you in peace for a little while—till morning comes."
Then he put on the friendliest face he could. Johannes looked straight into the glittering little eyes until he could see nothing else. His head grew heavy—he leaned against the mossy slope. The little eyes seemed to get farther and farther away until they were shining stars in the darkening sky. He thought he heard the sound of distant voices, as if the earth were moving away from him—and then he ceased to think at all.
[1]Pluizer = Shredder.
[1]Pluizer = Shredder.
Even before he was fully awake he had a vague idea that something unusual had occurred while he slept. Still, he was not curious to know what it was, nor to look about him. He would he were lapped again in the dream which, like a reluctant mist, was slowly drifting away. Robinetta had come to him again in the dream, and stroked his hair in the old way; and he had seen his father once more, and Presto, in the garden with the pond.
"Auch! That hurt. Who did that?" Johannes opened his eyes, and saw, in the grey dawn, close beside him, a small being who had been pulling his hair. He was lying in a bed, and the light was dim and wavering—as in a room.
But the face that bent over him brought back, at once, all the misery and gloom of the day before. It was Pluizer's face—less like a hobgoblin, and more human—but just as ugly and frightful as ever.
"Oh, let me dream!" he murmured.
But Pluizer shook him. "Are you mad, you lazy boy? Dreams are foolish, and keep one from getting on. A human being must work and think and seek. That is what you are human for."
"I do not want to be a human being. I want to dream."
"Whether you wish to or not—you must. You are in my charge now, and you are going to act, and seek, in my company. With me alone can you find what you desire, and I shall not leave you until we have found it."
Johannes felt a vague terror. Yet a superior power seemed to press and coerce him. Unresistingly, he resigned himself.
Gone were fields and flowers and trees. He was in a small, dimly-lighted room. Outside, as far as he could see, were houses and houses—dark and dingy—in long, monotonous rows.
Smoke in thick folds was rising everywhere, and it swept, like a murky fog, through the streets below. And along those streets the people hurried in confusion, like great black busy ants. A dull, confused, continuous roar ascended from this throng.
"Look, Johannes!" said Pluizer. "Now is not that a pretty sight? Those are human beings, and all those houses, as far as you can see—still farther than that belfry in the blue distance—are full of people, from top to bottom. Is not that remarkable? That is rather different from an ant-hill!"
Johannes listened with shrinking curiosity, as if some huge, horrible monster were being shown him. He seemed to be standing on the back of that monster, and to see the black blood streaming through the swollen arteries, and the dark breath ascending from a hundred nostrils. And the ominous growling of that awful voice filled him with fears.
"Look! How fast these people go, Johannes!" continued Pluizer. "You can see, can you not, that they are all in a hurry, and hunting for something? But it is droll that no one knows precisely what it is. After they have been seeking a little while, they come face to face with some one. His name is Hein."
"Who is that?" asked Johannes.
"Oh, a good friend of mine. I will introduce you to him, without fail. Now this Hein asks: 'Are you looking for me?' At that, most of them usually say: 'Oh, no! Not you.' Then Hein remarks: 'But there is nothing to be found save me.' So they have to content themselves with Hein."
Johannes perceived that he spoke of death.
"Is that always the way—always?"
"To be sure it is—always. But yet, day after day, a new crowd gathers, and they begin their search not knowing for what—seeking, seeking, until at last they find Hein. So it has been for a pretty long while, and so it will continue to be."
"Shall I, too, find nothing else, Pluizer? Nothing but...."
"Yes, Hein you will surely find, some day. But that does not matter. Only seek—always be seeking."
"But the little book, Pluizer? You might let me find the book."
"Well, who knows! I have not forbidden it. We must seek—seek. We know, at least, what we are looking for. Wistik taught us that. Others there are who try all their lives to find out what they are really seeking. They are the philosophers, Johannes. But when Hein comes, it is all up with their search as well."
"That is frightful, Pluizer!"
"Oh, no! Indeed it is not. Hein is very good-hearted, but he is misunderstood."
Some one toiled up the stairs outside the chamber door—Clump! clump! on the wooden stairs.
Clump! clump! Nearer and nearer. Then some one rapped at the door, and it sounded like ice tapping on wood.
A tall man entered. He had deep-set eyes, and long, lean hands. A cold draft swept through the little room.
"Well, well!" said Pluizer. "We were just speaking of you. Take a seat. How goes it with you?"
"Busy, busy!" said the tall man, wiping the cold moisture from his white, bony forehead.
Stiff with fright, Johannes gazed into the deep-set eyes which were fixed upon him. They were very deep and dark, but not cruel—not threatening. After a few moments he breathed more freely, and his heart beat less rapidly.
"This is Johannes," said Pluizer. "He has heard of a certain book which tells why everything is as it is; and we are going together to find that book, are we not?" Then Pluizer laughed, significantly.
"Is that so? Well, that is good," said Death kindly, nodding to Johannes.
"He is afraid he will not find it, but I tell him to seek first, diligently."
"Certainly," said Death. "It is best to seek diligently."
"He thought that you were so horrible! You see, do you not, Johannes, that you made a mistake?"
"Ah, yes," said Death, most kindly. "They speak very ill of me. My outward appearance is not prepossessing, but I mean well."
He smiled faintly, like one whose mind was full of more serious matters than those of which he spoke. Then he turned his sombre eyes away from Johannes, and they wandered pensively toward the great town.
It was a long time before Johannes ventured to speak. At last, he said softly:
"Are you going to take me with you,now?"
"What do you mean, my child?" said Death, roused from his meditations. "No, not now. You must grow up and become a good man."
"I will not be a man—like the others."
"Come, come!" said Death. "There is no help for it."
It was clear that this was an every-day phrase with him. He continued:
"My friend, Pluizer, can teach you how to become a good man. It can be learned in various ways, but Pluizer teaches it excellently. It is something very fine and admirable to be a good man. You must not scorn it, my little lad."
"Seeking, thinking, looking!" said Pluizer.
"To be sure! To be sure!" said Death; and then, to Pluizer, "To whom are you going to take him?"
"To Doctor Cijfer, my old pupil."
"Ah, yes. He is a good pupil. He is a very fine example of a man—almost perfect in his way."
"Shall I see Robinetta again?" asked Johannes, trembling.
"What does the boy mean?" asked Death.
"Oh, he was love-struck, and yet fancied himself to be an elf! He, he, he!" laughed Pluizer, maliciously.
"No, my dear child, that will never do," said Death. "You will forget such things with Doctor Cijfer. He who seeks what you are seeking must forget all other things. All or nothing."
"I shall make a doughty man of him. I shall just let him sec what love really is, and then he will have nothing at all to do with it."
And Pluizer laughed gaily. Death again fixed his black eyes upon poor Johannes, who found it hard to keep from sobbing; for he felt ashamed in the presence of Death.
Suddenly Death stood up, "I must away," said he. "I am wasting my time. There is much to be done. Good-by, Johannes. We are sure to see each other again. You must not be afraid of me."
"I am not afraid of you—I wish you would take me with you. Oh, take me!" But Death gently motioned him back. He was used to such appeals.
"No, Johannes. Go now to your task. Seek and see! Ask me no more. Some day I will ask, and that will be soon enough."
When he had disappeared, Pluizer behaved in a very extraordinary manner. He sprang over chairs, tumbled about the floor, climbed up the wardrobe and the mantlepiece, and performed neck-breaking tricks in the open windows.
"Well, that was Hein—my good friend Hein!" said he. "Do you not think him nice? A bit plain and morose in appearance; but he can be quite cheerful when he finds pleasure in his Work. Sometimes, however, it bores him; for it is rather monotonous."
"Who tells him, Pluizer, where he is to go?"
Pluizer leered at Johannes in a teasing, cunning way.
"Why do you ask that? He goes his own gait—he takes whom he can catch."
Later, Johannes saw that it was otherwise. But he could not yet know whether or not Pluizer always spoke the truth.
They went out to the street, and moved with the swarming throng. The grimy men passed on, pell-mell—laughing and chatting so gaily that Johannes could not help wondering. He noticed that Pluizer nodded to many of them; but no one returned the greeting—all were looking straight forward as if they had seen nothing.
"They are going like fun now," said Pluizer, "as though not a single one of them knew me. But that is only a pretext. They cannot cut me when I am alone with them; and then they are not so jolly." Johannes became conscious that some one was following them. On looking round, he saw the tall, pale figure moving among the people with great, inaudible strides. Hein nodded to Johannes.
"Do the people also see him?" asked Johannes of Pluizer.
"Yes, certainly! all of them; but they do not wish to know him. Well, for the present I overlook this defiance."
The din and stir brought to Johannes a kind of stupor in which he forgot his troubles. The narrow streets and the high houses dividing the blue sky into straight strips—the people passing to and fro beside him—the shuffling of footsteps, and the rattling of wagons, effaced the old visions and the dream of that former night, as a storm disturbs the reflections in mirror-like water. It seemed to him that nothing else existed save walls and windows and people; as if he too must do the same, and run and rush in the restless, breathless tumult.
Then they came to a quiet neighborhood, where stood a large house with grey, gloomy windows. It looked severe and uninviting. It was very quiet within, and there came to Johannes a mingling of strange, pungent odors—a damp, cellar-like smell being the most perceptible. In a room, full of odd-looking instruments, sat a solitary man. He was surrounded with books, and glass and copper articles—all of them unfamiliar to Johannes. A stray sunbeam entered the room, passed on over his head, and sparkled on the flasks filled with pretty, tinted particles. The man was looking intently through a copper tube, and did not look up.
As Johannes came nearer, he heard him murmur, "Wistik! Wistik!"
Beside the man, on a long, black bench, lay something white and downy. What it was Johannes could not clearly see.
"Good morning, doctor!" said Pluizer. But still the doctor did not look up.
Then Johannes was terrified, for the white object at which he was looking so intently, began all at once to struggle convulsively. What he had seen was the downy, white breast of a little rabbit. Its head, with the twitching nostrils, was held backward by pinching clamps of iron, and the four little feet were tightly bound along its body. The hopeless effort to free himself was soon over, and the little creature lay still again; the only sign of life being the rapid movement of the blood-stained throat.
Johannes looked at the round, gentle eyes—so wide open with helpless anguish, and it seemed to him that he recognized them. Was not this the soft little body against which he had rested that first, blissful, elf-land night? Old remembrances came thronging over him. He flew to the little creature.
"Wait, wait! Poor Bunnie, I will help you!" And he hurried to untie the cords which were cutting into the tender little feet.
But his hands were seized in a tight grip, and a shrill laugh rang in his ears.
"What does this mean, Johannes? Are you still so childish? What must the doctor think of you?"
"What does the boy want? Why is he here?" asked the doctor, amazed.
"He wants to be a man, and so I brought him to you; but he is still rather young and childish. This is not the way to find what you are seeking, Johannes!"
"No, this is not the way," said the doctor.
"Doctor, let that rabbit loose!"
But Pluizer clutched both his hands, and squeezed them painfully.
"What was our agreement, Jackanapes?" he hissed in his ear. "We were to seek, were we not? We are not in the dunes here, with Windekind, and with stupid animals. We should be men—men, do you understand? If you wish to remain a child—if you are not strong enough to help me—I will send you out of the way. Then you may seek—all by yourself!"
Johannes believed him and said no more. He determined to be strong. So he shut his eyes, that he might not see the rabbit.
"Good boy!" said the doctor. "You appear somewhat tender-hearted for making a beginning. It truly is rather a sad sight the first time. I never behold it willingly myself, and avoid it as much as possible. Yet it is indispensable; and you must understand that we are men, and not animals—that the welfare of mankind and of science is of more importance than the life of a few rabbits."
"Hear!" said Pluizer. "Science and mankind."
"The man of science," continued the doctor, "stands higher than all other men, and so he should overcome the little tendernesses which the normal man feels, for that great interest—Science. Would you like to be such a man? Was that your vocation, my boy?"
Johannes hesitated. He did not exactly know what a vocation was—no more than did the May-bug.
Said he, "I want to find the book that Wistik spoke of."
The doctor looked surprised and asked, "Wistik?"
Pluizer said quickly, "Indeed he wants to be such a man, Doctor! I know he does. He seeks the highest wisdom. He wishes to grasp the very essence of things."
Johannes nodded a "Yes!" So far as he understood, that was his aim.
"You must be strong, then, Johannes—not weak and softhearted. Then I will help you. But remember; all or nothing."
And with trembling fingers Johannes helped to retie the loosened cords around the little feet of the rabbit.
"Now, we shall see," said Pluizer, "if I cannot show you just as fine sights as Windekind can."
And when they had bidden the doctor good-by—promising to return soon, he guided Johannes into every nook and corner of the great town. He showed him how the great monster lived, breathed, and fed itself; how it consumed, and again renewed itself.
But he was partial to the slums and alleys, where the people were packed together—where everything was gloomy and grimy, and the air black and close.
He took him into one of the large buildings from which Johannes had seen the smoke ascending that first day.
A deafening roar pervaded the place—everywhere a rattling, clanking, pounding, and resounding. Great wheels revolved, and long belts whizzed in rapid undulations. The walls and floors were black, the windows broken or covered with dust. The mighty chimneys rose high above the blackened building, belching great columns of curling smoke. In that turmoil of wheels and machinery Johannes saw numbers of pale-faced men with blackened hands and clothing, silently and ceaselessly working.
"Who are they?" asked Johannes.
"Wheels—more wheels," laughed Pluizer, "or human beings—as you choose. What they are doing there they do, day in—day out. And one can be human in that way, also—after a fashion."
They went on into dirty, narrow streets, where the little strip of blue sky looked only a finger's width; and even then was clouded by the clothes hung out to dry. It swarmed with people there. They jostled one another, shouted, laughed, and sometimes sang. In the houses the rooms were so small, so dark and damp, that Johannes hardly dared to breathe. He saw ragged children creeping over the bare floors; and young girls, with disheveled hair, humming melodies to thin, pale nurslings. He heard quarreling and scolding, and all the faces around him were tired, dull, or indifferent.
Johannes' heart was wrung with pain. It was not akin to his earlier grief—he was ashamed of that.
"Pluizer," he asked, "have these people always lived here—so dreary and so wretched? While I...." He dared not go on.
"Certainly; and that is fortunate. Indeed, their life is not so very dreary and wretched. They are inured to this, and know nothing better. They are dull, careless cattle. Do you see those two women there—sitting in front of their door? They look as contentedly over the foul street as you used to look upon your dunes. There is no need for you to cry over these people. You might as well cry about the moles that never see the daylight."
Johannes did not know what to reply, nor did he know why he felt so sad.
In the midst of the clamorous pushing and rushing he still saw the pale, hollow-eyed man, striding with noiseless steps.
"He is a good man after all. Do you not think so?" said Pluizer, "to take the people away from this? But even here they are afraid of him."
When night fell, and hundreds of lamps flickered in the wind—casting long, wavering lights over the black water, they passed through the silent streets. The tall old houses looked tired—as if leaning against one another in sleep. Most of them had closed their eyes; but here and there a window still sent out a faint, yellow glimmer.
Pluizer told Johannes long stories about those who dwelt behind them—of the pains that were there endured, and of the struggles that took place there between misery and love of life. He did not spare him, but selected the gloomiest, the lowest, and most trying; and grinned with enjoyment when Johannes grew pale and silent at his shocking tales.
"Pluizer," asked Johannes, suddenly, "do you know anything about the Great Light?"
He thought that that question might save him from the darkness which was pressing closer and heavier upon him.
"Chatter! Windekind's chatter!" said Pluizer. "Phantoms—illusions! There are only people—and myself. Do you fancy that any kind of god could take pleasure in anything on this earth—such a medley as there is here to be ruled over? Moreover, such a Great Light would not leave so many here—in the darkness."
"But those stars! Those stars!" cried Johannes; as if expecting that visible splendor to protest for him against this statement.
"The stars! Do you know, little fellow, what you are chattering about? Those lights up there are not like the lanterns you see about you here. They are all worlds—every one of them much larger than this world with its thousands of cities—and in the midst of them we swing like a speck of dust. There is no above nor below. There are worlds on all sides of us—nothing but worlds, and there is noendto them."
"No, no!" cried Johannes in terror, "do not say so! I see little lights on a great, dark plain above me."
"Yes, you can see nothing but little lights. If you gazed up all your life, you would see nothing else than little lights upon a dark plain above you. But you can, youmustknow that the universe—in the midst of which this little clod with its pitiful swarm of dotards is as nothing—shall vanish into nothingness. So speak no more of 'the stars' as if they were but a few dozens. It is foolishness."
Johannes was silenced.
"Come on," said Pluizer. "Now we will go to see something cheerful."
At intervals they were greeted by strains of music in lovely, lingering waves of sound. On a dark canal stood a large house, out of whose many tall windows the light was streaming brightly. A long line of carriages stood in front of it. The stamping of the horses rang with a hollow sound in the stillness of the night, and they were throwing "yeses" with their heads. The light sparkled on the silver trappings of the harness, and on the varnish of the vehicles.
Indoors, it was dazzlingly bright. Johannes stood gazing, half-blinded, in the glare of hundreds of varicolored lights, of mirrors and flowers.
Graceful figures glided past the windows, bowing to one another, laughing, and gesturing. Far back in the room moved richly dressed people, with lingering step or with rapid, swaying turns. A confused sound of laughter and of cheerful voices, sliding steps and rustling garments reached the street, borne upon the waves of that soft, entrancing music which Johannes had already heard from afar. In the street, close by the windows, stood a few dark figures, whose faces only—strange and dissimilar—were lighted by the splendor at which they were gazing so intently.
"That is fine! That is splendid!" cried Johannes. He greatly enjoyed the sight of the color and light and the many flowers. "What is going on there? May we go in?"
"Really, do you think this beautiful, too? Or perhaps you would prefer a rabbit-hole! Just look at the people—laughing, bowing, and glittering! See how dignified and spruce the men are, and how gay and smart the ladies. And how devoted they are to the dancing, as though it were the most important matter in the world."
Johannes thought again of the ball in the rabbit-hole, and he saw a great deal that reminded him of it. But here everything was grander and more brilliant. The young ladies in their rich array seemed to him, when they lifted their long white arms, and turned their heads half aside in dancing, as beautiful as the elves. The servants moved around majestically, offering delicious drinks—with respectful bows.
"How splendid! How splendid!" cried Johannes.
"Very pretty, is it not?" said Pluizer. "But you must look a little farther than just to the end of your nose. You see nothing now, do you, but lovely, laughing faces? Well, almost all those smiles are false and affected. Those kindly old ladies at the side there sit like anglers around a pond; their young girls are the bait, the gentlemen are the fishes. However well they like to chat together, they enviously begrudge one another every catch. If one of those young ladies is pleased, it is because she is dressed more beautifully, or attracts more attention than the others. And the pleasure of the men chiefly consists in those bare arms and necks. Behind all those laughing eyes and friendly lips lurks something quite different. Even those apparently obsequious servants are far from being respectful. If it suddenly became clear what each one really thought, the party would soon break up."
And as Pluizer pointed it out to him, Johannes plainly saw the affectation in faces and gestures; and the vanity, envy, and weariness which peeped from behind the smiling masks, or suddenly appeared as soon as they were laid aside.
"Well," said Pluizer, "they must do as they think best. Such people must amuse themselves, and this is the only way they know."
Johannes felt that some one was standing behind him, and he looked round. It was the well-known, tall figure. The pale face was whimsically lighted by the glare, so that the eyes formed large, dark depressions. He murmured softly to himself, and pointed with a finger into the lighted palace.
"Look!" said Pluizer. "He is making another selection."
Johannes looked where the finger pointed. He saw the old lady, even as she was speaking, shut her eyes and put her hand to her head, and the beautiful young girl stay her slow step, and stare before her with a slight shiver.
"When?" asked Pluizer of Death.
"That is my affair," said the latter.
"I should like to show Johannes this same company still another time," said Pluizer, with a wink and a grin. "May I?"
"To-night?" asked Death.
"Why not?" said Pluizer. "In that place is neither hour nor time. What now is has always been, and what is to be, already is."
"I cannot go with you," said Death. "I have too much to do; but speak the name that we both know, and you can find the way without me."
They went on—some distance—through the lonely streets, where the gas-lights flickered in the night wind, and the dark, cold water rippled along the sides of the canal. The soft music grew fainter and fainter, and then died away in the great calm that rested upon the city.
Suddenly there rang out from on high, with full metallic reverberation, a loud and festive melody.
It dropped straight down from the tall tower upon the sleeping town—into the sad, overshadowed spirit of Little Johannes. Surprised, he looked up. The melody of the clock continued, in calm clear tones which jubilantly rose, and sharply broke the deathly stillness. Those blithe notes—that festal song—seemed strange to him in the midst of still sleep and dark sorrow.
"That is the clock," said Pluizer. "It is always just as jolly—year in, year out. Every hour, it sings the selfsame song, with the same vim and gusto. In the night time, it sounds jollier than it does in the daytime; as if the clock were glad it has no need of sleep—that it can always sing just as happily when thousands are weeping and suffering. But it sings most merrily whenever any one is dead."
Still again the joyful sound rang out.
"One day, Johannes," continued Pluizer, "in a quiet room behind such a window as that, a feeble light will be burning—a dim and flickering light—making the shadows waver on the wall. There will be no sound in the room save now and then a soft, suppressed sob. A bed will be standing there, with white curtains, and long shadows in the folds. In that bed something will be lying—white and still. That will have been Little Johannes. Then joyously will that selfsame song break out and loudly and lustily enter the room to celebrate the hour of his decease."
Separated by long intervals, twelve heavy strokes resounded through the air. Johannes felt at once as if he were in a dream; he no longer walked, but floated a little way above the street, his hand in Pluizer's. The houses and lamp-posts sped by in rapid flight. The houses stood less close together now. They formed broken rows, with dark mysterious gaps between, where the gas-lamps lighted pits and pools, rubbish and rafters, in a capricious way. At last came a large gateway with heavy columns and a high railing. As quick as a wink they were over it, and down upon some damp grass, near a big heap of sand. Johannes fancied he was in a garden, for he heard around them the rustling of trees.
"Now pay attention, Johannes, and then insist, if you can, that I am not able to do more than Windekind."
Then Pluizer called aloud a short and doleful name which made Johannes shudder. From all sides, the sound re-echoed in the darkness, and the wind bore it up whistling and whirling until it died away in the upper air.
Then Johannes noticed that the grass-blades reached above his head, and that the small pebble which until now lay at his feet was in front of his face.
Near him, Pluizer—just as small as himself—grasped the stone with both hands, and, exerting all his strength, turned it over. Confused cries of shrill, high-pitched little voices rose up from the cleared ground.
"Hey! Who is doing that? What does that mean? Blockhead!" shouted the voices.
Johannes saw black objects running hurriedly past one another. He recognized the brisk black tumble-bug, the shining brown earwig with his fine pinchers, big humpbacked ants, and snake-like millipedes.
In the middle of them a long earth-worm pulled himself, quick as lightning, back into his hole.
Pluizer tore impatiently through the raving, scolding crowd up to the worm-hole.
"Hey, there! you long, naked lout! Come to daylight with your pointed red nose," he cried.
"What do you want?" asked the worm, out of the depths.
"You must come out because I want to go in. Do you hear? You bald dirt-eater!"
The worm stretched his pointed head cautiously out of the opening, felt all around with it a number of times, and then slowly dragged his bare, ringed body farther toward the surface.
Pluizer looked round at the other creatures that were crowding about him in their curiosity.
"One of you go before us to light the way. No, Black-beetle, you are too big; and you, with the thousand feet—you would make me dizzy. Hey, there, Earwig, I fancy your looks! Come along, and carry the light in your pincers. Bundle away, Black-beetle, and look around for a will-o'-the-wisp, or bring a torch of rottenwood."
The creatures, awed by his commanding voice, obeyed him.
Then they went down into the worm-hole—the earwig in front with the shining wood, then Pluizer, then Johannes. It was a very dark and narrow passage. Johannes saw the grains of sand dimly lighted by the faint bluish flicker of the torch. They looked as large as stones—half polished, and rubbed to a smooth, firm wall by the body of the worm, who now followed, full of curiosity. Johannes saw behind him its pointed head—now thrust quickly out in front, and then waiting for the long part behind to pull up to it.
They went in silence a long way down. When the path became too steep for Johannes, Pluizer helped him. It seemed as if there never would be an end; ever new sand-grains, and still the earwig crept on, turning and bending with the winding of the passage. At last the way widened and the walls fell apart. The sand-grains were black and wet, forming a vault above, where the water trickled in glistening streaks, and through which the roots of trees were stretched like stiffened serpents.
Suddenly, a perpendicular wall—high and black—rose up before Johannes' sight, cutting off everything in front of him. The earwig turned round.
"Hey, ho! Now it is a question of getting behind that. The worm knows all about it; he is at home here."
"Come, show us the way!" said Pluizer.
The worm slowly pulled its articulate body up to the black wall, and touched and tested it. Johannes saw that it was of wood. Here and there it was decayed into brownish powder. In one of these places the worm bored through, and with three push-and-pulls the long, supple body slipped within.
"Now you!" said Pluizer, and he shoved Johannes into the little round opening. For an instant, the latter thought he should be stifled in the soft, moist mold; then he felt his head free, and with some trouble he worked his way completely through. A large space appeared to lie beyond. The floor was hard and damp—the air thick, and intolerably close. Johannes dared scarcely to breathe, and waited in mute terror.
He heard Pluizer's voice. It had a hollow ring, as if in a great cellar.
"Here, Johannes, follow me."
He felt the ground rise up before him to a mountain. With the aid of Pluizer's hand he climbed this, in deepest darkness. He seemed to be walking over a garment that gave way under his tread. He stumbled over hollows and hillocks, following Pluizer, who led him to a level spot where he clung in place by some long stems that bent in his hands like reeds.
"Here is a good place to stop. A light!" cried Pluizer.
The dim light showed in the distance, rising and falling with its bearer. The nearer it came and the more its faint glow filled the space, the more terrible was Johannes' distress.
The mountain he had traveled over was long and white. The reeds to which he was clinging were brown, and fell below in lustrous rings and waves.
He recognized the straight form of a human being; and the cold level on which he stood was the forehead.
Before him, like two deep dark caverns, lay the insunken eyes, and the blue light shone over the thin nose, and the ashen lips opened in a rigid, dismal death-grin.
Pluizer gave a shrill laugh, that was immediately stifled by the damp, wooden walls.
"Is not this a surprise, Johannes?"
The long worm came creeping on between the folds of the shroud; it pushed itself cautiously up over the chin, and slipped through the rigid lips into the black mouth-hole.
"This was the beauty of the ball—the one you thought more lovely than an elf. Then, sweet perfume streamed from her clothes and hair; then her eyes sparkled, and her lips laughed. Looknowat her!"
With all his terror, there was doubt in Johannes' eyes. So soon? Just now so glorious—and already...?
"Do you not believe me?" sneered Pluizer. "A half-century lies between then and now. There is neither hour nor time. What once was shall always be, and what is to be has already been. You cannot conceive of it, but you must believe it. Here all is truth—all that I show you is true—true! Windekind could not say that."
And with a grin Pluizer skipped around on the dead face, performing the most odious antics. He sat on an eyebrow, and lifted up an eyelid by the long lashes. The eye which Johannes had seen sparkle with joy was staring in the dim light—a dull and wrinkled white.
"Now—forward!" cried Pluizer. "There happens to be more to see."
The worm appeared, slowly crawling out of the right corner of the mouth; and the frightful journey was resumed. Not back again, but over new ways equally long and dreary.
"Now we come to an old one," said the earth-worm, as a black wall again shut off the way. "This has been here a long time."
It was less horrible than the former one. Johannes only saw a confused heap, with discolored bones protruding. Hundreds of worms and insects were silently busy with it. The light alarmed them.
"Where do you come from? Who brings a light here? We have no use for it!"
And they sped away into the folds and hollows. Yet they recognized a fellow-being.
"Have you been next door?" the worms inquired. "The wood is hard yet."
The first worm answered, "No!"
"He wants to keep that morsel for himself," said Pluizer softly to Johannes.
They went farther. Pluizer explained things and pointed out to Johannes those whom he had known. They came to a misformed face, with staring, protruding eyes, and thick black lips and cheeks.
"This was a stately gentleman," said he gaily. "You ought to have seen him—so rich, so purse-proud and conceited. He retains his puffed-up appearance."
And so it went on. Besides these there were meagre, emaciated forms with white hair that reflected blue in the feeble light; and little children with large heads and aged, wizened faces.
"Look! These have grown old since they died," said Pluizer.
They came to a man with a full beard, whose white teeth gleamed between the drawn lips. In the middle of his forehead was a little round black hole.
"This one lent Hein a helping hand. Why not a bit more patient? He would have come here just the same."
And there were still more passages—recent ones—and other straight forms with rigid, grinning faces, and motionless, folded hands.
"I am going no farther now," said the earwig. "I do not know the way beyond this."
"Let us turn back," said the worm.
"One more, one more!" cried Pluizer.
So on they marched.
"Everything you see exists," said Pluizer as they proceeded. "It is all real. One thing only is not real. That is yourself, Johannes. You are not here, and youcannotbe here."
And he burst out laughing as he saw the frightened and vacant look on Johannes' face at this sally.
"This is the last—actually the last."
"The way stops short here. I will go no farther," said the earwig, peevishly.
"Well,Imean to go farther," said Pluizer; and where the way ended he began digging with both hands.
"Help me, Johannes!" Without resistance Johannes sadly obeyed, and began scooping up the moist, loose earth.
They drudged on in silence until they came to the black wood.
The worm had drawn in its ringed head, and backed out of sight. The earwig dropped the light and turned away.
"They cannot get in—the wood is too new," said he, retreating.
"I shall!" said Pluizer, and with his crooked fingers he tore long white cracking splinters out of the wood.
A fearful pressure lay on poor Johannes. Yet he had to do it—he could not resist.
At last, the dark space was open. Pluizer snatched the light and scrambled inside.
"Here, here!" he called, and ran toward the other end.
But when Johannes had come as far as the hands, that lay folded upon the breast, he was forced to stop. He stared at the thin, white fingers, dimly lighted on the upper side. He recognized them at once. He knew the form of the fingers and the creases in them, as well as the shape of the long nails now dark and discolored. He recognized a brown spot on the forefinger.
They were his own hands.
"Here, here!" called Pluizer from the head. "Look! do you know him?"
Poor Johannes tried to stand up, and go to the light that beckoned him, but his strength gave way. The little light died into utter darkness, and he fell senseless.
He had sunk into a deep sleep—to depths where no dreams come.
In slowly rising from those shades to the cool grey morning light, he passed through dreams, varied and gentle, of former times. He awoke, and they glided from his spirit like dew-drops from a flower. The expression of his eyes was calm and mild while they still rested upon the throngs of lovely images.
Yet, as if shunning the glare of day, he closed his eyes to the light. He saw again what he had seen the morning before. It seemed to him far away, and long ago; yet hour by hour there came back the remembrance of everything—from the dreary dawn to the awful night. He could not believe that all those horrible things had occurred in a single day; the beginning of his misery seemed so remote—lost in grey mists.
The sweet dreams faded away, leaving no trace behind. Pluizer shook him, and the gloomy day began—dull and colorless—the forerunner of many, many others.
Yet what he had seen the night before on that fearful journey stayed in his mind. Had it been only a frightful vision?
When he asked Pluizer about it, shyly, the latter looked at him queerly and scoffingly.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Johannes did not see the leer in his eye, and asked if it had really happened—he still saw it all so sharp and clear.
"How silly you are, Johannes! Indeed, such things as that can never happen."
Johannes did not know what to think.
"We will soon put you to work; and then you will ask no more such foolish questions."
So they went to Doctor Cijfer, who was to help Johannes find what he was seeking.
While in the crowded street, Pluizer suddenly stood still, and pointed out to Johannes a man in the throng.
"Do you remember him?" asked Pluizer, bursting into a laugh when Johannes grew pale and stared at the man in horror.
He had seen him the night before—deep under the ground.
The doctor received them kindly, and imparted his wisdom to Johannes who listened for hours that day, and for many days thereafter.
The doctor had not yet found what Johannes was seeking; but was very near it, he said. He would take Johannes as far as he himself had gone, and then together they would surely find it.
Johannes listened and learned, diligently and patiently, day after day and month after month. He felt little hope, yet he comprehended that he must go on, now, as far as possible. He thought it strange that, seeking the light, the farther he went the darker it grew. Of all he learned, the beginning was the best; but the deeper he penetrated the duller and darker it became. He began with plants and animals—with everything about him—and if he looked a long while at them, they turned to figures. Everything resolved itself into figures—pages full of them. Doctor Cijfer thought that fine, and he said the figures brought light to him;—but it was darkness to Johannes.
Pluizer never left him, and pressed and urged him on, if he grew disheartened and weary. He spoiled for him every moment of enjoyment or admiration.
Johannes was amazed and delighted as he studied and saw how exquisitely the flowers were constructed; how they formed the fruit, and how the insects unwittingly aided the work.
"That is wonderful," said he. "How exactly everything is calculated, and deftly, delicately formed!"
"Yes, amazingly formed," said Pluizer. "It is a pity that the greater part of that deftness and fineness comes to naught. How many flowers bring forth fruit, and how many seeds grow to be trees?"
"But yet everything seems to be made according to a great plan," said Johannes. "Look! the bees seek honey for their own use, and do not know that they are aiding the flowers; and the flowers allure the bees by their color. It is a plan, and they both unfold it, without knowing it."
"That is fine in sound, but it fails in fact. When the bees get a chance they bite a hole deep down in the flower, and upset the whole intricate arrangement. A cunning craftsman that, to let a bee make sport of him!"
And when he came to the study of men and animals—their wonderful construction—matters went still worse.
In all that looked beautiful to Johannes, or ingenious, Pluizer pointed out the incompleteness and defects. He showed him the great army of ills and sorrows that can assail mankind and animals, with preference for the most loathe-some and most hideous.
"That designer, Johannes, was very cunning, but in everything he made he forgot something, and man has a busy time trying as far as possible to patch up those defects. Just look about you! An umbrella, a pair of spectacles—even clothing and houses—everything is human patchwork. The design is by no means adhered to. But the designer never considered that people could have colds, and read books, and do a thousand other things for which his plan was worthless. He has given his children swaddling-clothes without reflecting that they would outgrow them. By this time nearly all men have outgrown their natural outfits. Now they do everything for themselves, and have absolutely no further concern with the designer and his scheme. Whatever he has not given them they saucily and selfishly take; and when it is obviously his will that they should die, they sometimes, by various devices, evade the end."
"But it is their own fault!" cried Johannes. "Why do they wilfully withdraw from nature?"
"Oh, stupid Johannes! If a nursemaid lets an innocent child play with fire, and the child is burned, who is to blame? The ignorant child, or the maid who knew that the child would burn itself? And who is at fault if men go astray from nature, in pain and misery? Themselves, or the All-wise Designer, to whom they are as ignorant children?"
"But they are not ignorant. They know...."
"Johannes, if you say to a child, 'Do not touch that fire; it will hurt,' and then the child does touch it, because it knows not what pain is, can you claim freedom from blame, and say, 'The child was not ignorant?' You knew when you spoke, that it would not heed your warning. Men are as foolish and stupid as children. Glass is fragile and clay is soft; yet He who made man, and considered not his folly, is like him who makes weapons of glass, careless lest they break—or bolts of clay, not expecting them to bend."
These words fell upon Johannes' soul like drops of liquid fire, and his heart swelled with a great grief that supplanted the former sorrow, and often caused him to weep in the still, sleepless hours of the night.
Ah, sleep! sleep! There came a time after long days when sleep was to him the dearest thing of all. In sleep there was no thinking—no sorrow; and his dreams always carried him back to the old life. It seemed delightful to him, as he dreamed of it; yet, by day he could not remember how things had been. He only knew that the sadness and longing of earlier times were better than the dull, listless feeling of the present. Once he had grievously longed for Windekind—once he had waited, hour after hour, on Robinetta. How delightful that had been!
Robinetta! Was he still longing? The more he learned, the less he longed—because that feeling, also, was dissected, and Pluizer explained to him what love really was. Then he was ashamed, and Doctor Cijfer said that he could not yet reduce it to figures, but that very soon he would be able to. And thus it grew darker and darker about Little Johannes.
He had a faint feeling of gratitude that he had not recognized Robinetta on his awful journey with Pluizer.
When he spoke of it, Pluizer said nothing, but laughed slyly; and Johannes knew that he had not been spared this out of pity.
When Johannes was neither learning nor working, Pluizer made use of the hours in showing him the people. He took him everywhere; into the hospitals where lay the sick—long rows of pale, wasted faces, with dull or suffering expressions. In those great wards a frightful silence reigned, broken only by coughs and groans. And Pluizer pointed out to him those who never again would leave those halls. And when, at a fixed hour, streams of people poured into the place to visit their sick relations, Pluizer said: "Look! These all know that they too will sometime enter this gloomy house, to be borne away from it in a black box."
"How can they ever be cheerful?" thought Johannes.
And Pluizer took him to a tiny upper room, pervaded with a melancholy twilight, where the distant tones of a piano in a neighboring house came, dreamily and ceaselessly. There, among the other patients, Pluizer showed him one who was staring in a stupid way at a narrow sunbeam that slowly crept along the wall.
"Already he has lain there seven long years," said Pluizer. "He was a sailor, and has seen the palms of India, the blue seas of Japan, and the forests of Brazil. During all the long days of those seven long years he has amused himself with that little sunbeam and the piano-playing. He cannot ever go away, and may still be here for seven more years."
After this, Johannes' most dreadful dream was of waking in that little room—in the melancholy twilight—with those far-away sounds, and nothing ever more to see than the waning and waxing light.
Pluizer took him also into the great cathedrals, and let him listen to what was being said there. He took him to festivals, to great ceremonies, and into the heart of many homes. Johannes learned to know men, and sometimes it happened that he was led to think of his former life; of the fairy-tales that Windekind had told him, and of his own adventures. There were men who reminded him of the glow-worm who fancied he saw his deceased companions in the stars—or of the May-bug who was one day older than the other, and who had said so much about a calling. And he heard tales which made him think of Kribblegauw, the hero of the spiders; or of the eel who did nothing, and yet was fed because a fat king was most desired. He likened himself to the young May-bug who did not know what a calling was, and who flew into the light. He felt as if he also were creeping over the carpet, helpless and maimed, with a string around his body—a cutting string that Pluizer was pulling and twitching.
Ah! he would never again find the garden! When would the heavy foot come and crush him?
Pluizer ridiculed him whenever he spoke of Windekind, and, gradually, he began to believe that Windekind had never existed.
"But, Pluizer, is there then no little key? Is there nothing at all?"
"Nothing, nothing. Men and figures.Theyare all real—they exist—no end of figures!"
"Then you have deceived me, Pluizer! Let me leave off—do not make me seek any more—let me alone!"
"Have you forgotten what Death said? You were to become a man—a complete man."
"I will not—it is dreadful!"
"You must—you have made your choice. Just look at Doctor Cijfer. Does he find it dreadful? Grow to be like him."
It was quite true. Doctor Cijfer always seemed calm and happy. Untiring and imperturbable, he went his way—studying and instructing, contented and even-tempered.
"Look at him," said Pluizer. "He sees all, and yet sees nothing. He looks at men as if he himself were another kind of being who had no concern about them. He goes amid disease and misery like one invulnerable, and consorts with Death like one immortal. He longs only to understand what he sees, and he thinks everything equally good that comes to him in the way of knowledge. He is satisfied with everything, as soon as he understands it. You ought to become so, too."
"But I never can."
"That is true, but it is not my fault."
In this hopeless way their discussions always ended. Johannes grew dull and indifferent, seeking and seeking—what for or why, he no longer knew. He had become like the many to whom Wistik had spoken.
The winter came, but he scarcely observed it.
One chilly, misty morning, when the snow lay wet and dirty in the streets, and dripped from trees and roofs, he went with Pluizer to take his daily walk.
In a city square he met a group of young girls carrying school-books. They stopped to throw snow at one another—and they laughed and romped. Their voices rang clearly over the snowy square. Not a footstep was to be heard, nor the sound of a vehicle—only the tinkling bells of the horses, or the rattling of a shop door; and the joyful laughing rang loudly through the stillness.
Johannes saw that one of the girls glanced at him, and then kept looking back. She had on a black hat, and wore a gay little cloak. He knew her face very well, but could not think who she was. She nodded to him—and then again.
"Who is that? I know her."
"That is possible. Her name is Maria. Some call her Robinetta."
"No, that cannot be. She is not like Windekind. She is like any other girl."
"Ha, ha, ha! She cannot be likenobody. But she is what she is. You have been longing to see her, and now I will take you to her."
"No! I do not want to go. I would rather have seen her dead, like the others."
And Johannes did not look round again, but hurried on, muttering:
"This is the last! There is nothing—nothing!"
The clear warm sunlight of an early spring morning streamed over the great city. Bright rays entered the little room where Johannes lived, and on the low ceiling there quivered and wavered a great splash of light, reflected from the water rippling in the moat.
Johannes sat before the window in the sunshine, gazing out over the town. Its aspect was entirely altered. The grey fog had floated away, and a lustrous blue vapor enfolded the end of the long street and the distant towers. The slopes of the slate roofs glistened—silver-white. All the houses showed clear lines and bright surfaces in the sunlight, and there was a warm pulsing in the pale blue air. The water seemed alive. The brown buds of the elm trees were big and glossy, and clamorous sparrows were fluttering among the branches.
As he gazed at all this, Johannes fell into a strange mood. The sunshine brought to him a sweet stupor—a blending of real luxury and oblivion. Dreamily he gazed at the glittering ripples—the swelling elm-tree buds, and he listened to the chirping of the sparrows. There was gladness in their notes.
Not in a long time had he felt so susceptible to subtle impressions —nor so really happy.
This was the old sunshine that he remembered. This was the sun that used to call him out-of-doors to the garden, where he would lie down on the warm ground, looking at the grasses and green things in front of him. There, nestled in the lee of an old wall, he could enjoy at his ease the light and heat.
It was just right in that light! It gave that safe-at-home feeling—such as he remembered long ago, in his mother's arms. His mind was full of memories of former times, but he neither wept for nor desired them. He sat still and dreamed—wishing only that the sun would continue to shine.
"What are you moping about there, Johannes?" cried Pluizer. "You know I do not approve of dreaming."
Johannes raised his pensive eyes, imploringly.
"Let me stay a little longer," said he. "The sun is so good."
"What do you find in the sun?" asked Pluizer. "It is nothing but a big candle; it does not make a bit of difference whether you are in candle-light or sunlight. Look! see those shadows and dashes of light on the street. They are nothing but the varied effect of one little light that burns steadily—without a flicker. And that light is really a tiny flame, which shines upon a mere speck of the earth. There, beyond that blue—above and beneath us—it is dark—cold and dark! It is night there—now and ever."
But his words had no effect on Johannes. The still warm sunshine penetrated him, and filled his whole being with light and peace.
Pluizer led him away to the chilly house of Doctor Cijfer. For a little while the image of the sun hovered before his vision, then slowly faded away; and by the middle of the day all was dark again.
When the evening came and he passed through the town once more, the air was sultry and full of the stuffy smells of spring. Everything was reeking, and he felt oppressed in the narrow streets. But in the open squares he smelled the grass and the buds of the country beyond; and he saw the spring in the tranquil little clouds above it all—in the tender flush of the western sky.
The twilight spread a soft grey mist, full of delicate tints, over the town. It was quiet everywhere—only a street-organ in the distance was playing a mournful tune. The buildings seemed black spectres against the crimson sky—their fantastic pinnacles and chimneys reaching up like countless arms.
When the sun threw its last rays out over the great town, it seemed to Johannes that it gave him a kind smile—kind as the smile that forgives a folly. And the sweet warmth stroked his cheeks, caressingly.
Then a great sadness came into Johannes' heart—so great that he could go no farther. He took a deep breath, and lifted up his face to the wide heavens. The spring was calling him, and he heard it. He would answer—he would go. He was all contrition and love and forgiveness.
He looked up longingly, and tears fell from his sorrowful eyes.
"Come, Johannes! Do not act so oddly—people are looking at you," said Pluizer.
Long, monotonous rows of houses stretched out on both sides—dark and gloomy—offensive in the soft spring air, discordant in the springtime melody.
People sat at their doors and on the stoops to enjoy the season. To Johannes it was a mockery. The dirty doors stood open, and the musty rooms within awaited their occupants. In the distance the organ still prolonged its melancholy tones.
"Oh, if I could only fly away—far away to the dunes and to the sea!"
But he had to return to the high-up little room; and that night he lay awake.
He could not help thinking of his father and the long walks he had taken with him, when he followed a dozen steps behind, and his father wrote letters for him in the sand. He thought of the places under the bushes where the violets grew, and of the days when he and his father had searched for them. All night he saw the face of his father—as it was when he sat beside him evenings by the still lamp-light—watching him, and listening to the scratching of his pen.