"Markus?" repeated the gentleman, considering. "Markus only?"
"Markus Vis," said Johannes, with yet more reluctance.
"Oh! He!" exclaimed partner Kaas.
"Markus Vis?" said Felbeck, turning round to the others in the office. "Is that—?"
"Yes, yes!" interrupted Kaas, "the very same who caused that row at the Exchange."
"Gee! That confounded anarchist!" cried one of the soft-hatted smokers.
"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Dr. Felbeck, with a disdainful sniff.
"Yes, Mijnheer, my best friend," said Johannes, firmly.
"Well, young man, you consort with odd and dangerous friends.
"Do you know where he is?" asked Johannes, quite undisturbed.
"Not I," declared Felbeck, scornfully. "Do any of you happen to know?"
"I rather think somewhere in the neighborhood of Bedlam," said another man.
"Trommel," called Felbeck to a clerk who had kept on writing, "where does Vis hang out at present?"
"Markus Vis?" said partner Trommel. "Well, for the nonce, at the office of an iron foundry. He has a job there."
"That's a neat berth for him," remarked one of the smokers. "You'll see what a boot-licker he'll be after he puts on a collar."
"What foundry is that?" asked Van Lieverlee.
"In the 'de Ruiter,' of your uncle Mijnheer van Trigt," replied partner Trommel.
"How long has he been there?" asked Van Lieverlee.
"For two or three weeks past."
"Is he a tall dark fellow with a beard, and curling hair, and a jumper?"
"That is it—exactly!" said various voices.
Van Lieverlee swung round, strode up to the window, threw back his head, pulled out his handkerchief, and snorted into it. The bystanders could hardly tell whether he was sneezing, or laughing, or indisposed.
"Excuse me!" he cried out. "Something comical occurred to me."
Then he snorted again, and one could plainly see that he was laughing.
"A Mahatma!" they heard him murmur, in the middle of his laughing. "Oh! Oh! but that is good! A Mahatma!"
Those present looked rather perplexed at this outburst, as if waiting for further explanation.
"If I only had had that description earlier, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, recovering from his fit of laughter, "we need not have annoyed these gentlemen. Your friend is in my uncle's office. I have seen him several times."
"Then will you go there with me?" asked Johannes. His voice was still firm, but I assure you his eyes were full of tears. However, he controlled himself in the presence of those men and partners.
"Of course, of course! Sometime!" said Van Lieverlee, in high glee; and he actually began laughing again. He made a pretense of trying to control this outburst, but such was his manner that Johannes would have liked to strike him straight in the face.
He did not do it, however, but went down the steps with Van Lieverlee without having enrolled in the proletarian class.
"Well, good-by!" said Van Lieverlee, when they were in the street, giving Johannes' hand an immoderate shake. "I must go to the Soos.[1]Sometime we will go to the foundry. I'll make some inquiries, first. We'll go sometime—of course—of course!"
With his mouth still twisted in irony, and humming a song, he passed on, in affected indifference. That evening—alone—Johannes hunted for the foundry. But the office was closed and dark, and there was no one about to give him information.
He found in his own little room a small bit of cheer—a vase of forget-me-nots, from Marjon.
[1]Soos = Abbreviation ofSocieteit, or Club.
[1]Soos = Abbreviation ofSocieteit, or Club.
"Wistik, dear," said Johannes, "let me hold your hand. You are such a good and true friend. I am not sorry any more that I slipped from under Windekind's mantle to listen to you."
"One must not admire oneself—I have always said that," replied Wistik, "but it is very true that I am good, and do not deserve all those mean things said of me. And what is the truth may be acknowledged, even if it be called boasting. Neither bragging nor decrying, but the truth—that is my idea."
Thereupon the little fellow nodded proudly, and set his cap on more firmly.
They were sitting on a rocky coast. To the left the sun was shining brightly upon a steep wall of rose-red rocks. To the right was a gentle upward slope, where trees were growing, with delicate silver-grey foliage. In front of them lay the wide waters of the sea—almost motionless, but slightly stirring with the fresh wind, and sparkling in the light. There was nothing to be seen save red rocks, blue sky, and water. The blue, crystal-clear water lapped and gurgled and splashed about the hollows and chinks in the stone at their feet, and then disappeared in the clefts and caves, where the sea-weed and the coral were. How bright it was! How fresh and spacious!
"I never see Windekind, now," said Johannes. "It is truly sad, for Father Pan's kingdom was most beautiful. But I am resigned, and I believe you when you say that still more beautiful things are to be found. Did I not once think the dunes the most beautiful of all, and fear I never should feel at home anywhere else? But now this strange land seems to me even greater, and I feel at home here also. Where are we, dear Wistik?"
"What difference does it make?" said Wistik, who never willingly admitted he did not know a thing.
"It does not matter," replied Johannes. "The main thing is that I know that I am I—Johannes, and that I see things good and clear; that yesterday I was at that office, and that I sought for Markus at the foundry. And I know too that I might now be seen lying asleep. But yet I am not dreaming, for I am wide awake—quite wide awake, and I remember everything."
"Exactly," agreed Wistik. "Do you recollect what Markus said about remembering?"
He paused a moment, and then went on in a tone that grew softer and more solemn.
"Remembrance, Johannes, is truly a holy thing; for it makes the past—present. Now the future to it ... and then we should be...."
"Where, Wistik?"
"In that still autumn day, where the gold on the tree-tops never fades, and a branch never breaks. Do you remember?" asked Wistik, hardly above a whisper.
Johannes nodded, in silence. After a while he said:
"It is splendid, Wistik, that I still remember, even in the night, and stay awake and knowing things, even although my body is asleep in bed. I will not be dead and lie down like a log, forgetting everything, as some do in sleep. Neither will I dream all sorts of nonsense, as if every night I grew foolish. That is shameful. I will not do so."
"Right, Johannes! No one wishes to be dead, and no one wishes to be foolish. And when human beings sleep they are dead, and when they dream they are foolish. None of that for me!"
"I shall try to live in my sleep, and to be wise in my dreams," said Johannes. "But it is hard, and time flies so fast!"
He gazed at his hands, his limbs, and his whole body. He had on his handsomest suit. In amazement, he asked:
"What body is this I have on, Wistik? And how silly to wear clothes. What clothes are these?"
"Do you not see? They are your own clothes."
So it was. Johannes recalled them precisely. And he held in his hand one of Marjon's blue forget-me-nots.
"I do not understand it, Wistik! That I have a dream-life—that I travel with you in the night, that I do understand. But how did my clothes get here? Do my clothes dream, too?"
"Why not?" asked Wistik.
Astonished, Johannes continued to meditate. The water swirled and splashed all about the hollows in the rocks. The exquisite warbling of a yellow-finch rang sweet and plaintive from between the clefts.
"But if everything can dream, then everything must be alive—my trousers too, and my shoes."
"Why not?" said Wistik again. "Just prove to me that they are not."
The way to do that was not clear to Johannes.
"Or perhaps," he resumed, "perhaps I make everything—rocks, sea, light, and clothing. One or the other;Idream it and make it, or it dreams everything itself and makes itself."
"It cannot be any other way," assented Wistik.
"But then, I could make something else if I wished to."
"I think so, too," said Wistik.
"A violin? Could I make a violin, and then play on it?"
"Just try it," said Wistik.
Behold! There was the violin—all ready for him. Johannes took it, and passed the bow over the strings as if he had handled it all his life. The most glorious music came from it—as fine as any he had ever heard.
"Oh, Wistik! Do you hear? Who would ever have thought that I could make such music!"
"'Vraagal can do all that Vraagal wills,' said Pan."
"Yes," said Johannes, musing an instant, and forgetting his violin, which forthwith vanished. "Pan also spoke of the real Devil, you remember. He said that I must ask you to show him to me."
Wistik had drawn up his little knees and placed his arms about them, his long beard hanging down in front to his shins. Sitting thus, he threw a sidelong glance at Johannes, to see if he intended to do it. Then his entire little body began to tremble. "Shall we not take a little fly out over the ocean?" he asked.
But Johannes was not to be diverted.
"No, I want to see the real Devil."
"Are you sure, Johannes?"
"Yes," replied the latter. He felt himself a hero, now, after having defied the octopus.
"Think well about it," said Wistik.
"What does he look like?"
"What do you think?"
"I think," said Johannes, beginning to look stern and angry, "I think he looks like Marjon's sister."
"Why?" asked Wistik.
"Because I hate her! Because whatever I think beautiful she always spoils for me, and spoils it through the remembrance alone. She looks like Marjon, and she also looks like that dear friend about whom I am always thinking; and yet she is not the same—she is ugly and common. She kissed me once, and it has spoiled my life."
"Wrong, Johannes! He does not look in the least like that," said Wistik.
Suddenly, Johannes noticed that the bright light was growing dimmer, and that the great firm rocks began to quiver and shake as if seen through heated air, uneven glass, or flowing water.
Then, all at once, he knew, without descrying it, through an inner feeling of nameless distress, thatItwas sitting behind him.
It! You know well, do you not, what it was? It—the same that sat by the pool when that poor young girl was drowned—It was sitting behind him, huge and deathly still. Sunlight, sea, and rocks—the whole beautiful land, grew hazy and vague.
"He is here," whispered Wistik, "behind us. Bear up, Johannes! You yourself wanted it."
"What shall I do?" asked Johannes, now very nervous and terrified.
"Do not be afraid! For God's sake, do not be afraid! If you do you are lost."
"Shall I cry to God, or to Jesus? Or cross myself?"
"He cares not a bit for such things; he laughs at them; he knows all about them. He makes fun of prayers and the sign of the cross. The main thing is to keep on the alert, and not to be afraid. He will be very friendly, and show you all kinds of pretty and interesting sights, and he will try to make you sleepy and afraid. But you must not fear and must not forget. Above all, keep fast hold of Marjon's flower. And here ... look!"
With his nervously trembling little fingers Wistik fumbled in the small satchel that always hung by a strap over his shoulder, and took from the jumbled lot of pebbles, scissors, lead-pencils, and dried plants, a little mirror on the frame of which his name was neatly engraved. Then in a voice shaken and nearly speechless with emotion, he said: "Hold that good and fast! It is your salvation. Go now, dear boy. Go!"
And the good little fellow wept.
"Are you not going with me?" asked Johannes, in agitation.
"I am his greatest enemy," said Wistik; "he cannot endure the sight of me. But I will stay in the neighborhood. Call me once in a while, and I will answer you. Then you will know that you are safe...."
"Welcome, Johannes!" said a gentle, friendly voice, and a soft warm hand clasped his own. "You are not embarrassed in my presence, I hope."
Could that be the Evil One? A nice, polite person like that, with such taking manners, and such a caressing voice? Johannes looked round, in amazement, to the place whereItwas. He could not distinguish clearly, nor look straight at the speaker, but he seemed to be an ordinary, modish gentleman, with a frank, smiling face—well dressed in a brown suit and a straw hat.
"Would you not like to make acquaintance with me and my Museum?" continued the speaker. "It is an excellent collection—sure to please you. But what have you in your hand? Not a mirror, is it? Fie! You must throw it away. I have no patience with such mirrors. I abhor them! They foster only conceit."
The soft hand essayed to take away the mirror, but Johannes held it fast, and said firmly: "I will keep the mirror."
He had scarcely said this when there flitted across that smiling, honest-looking face a shade of indescribable malice. It was very brief, but plain enough to cause Johannes a shudder, and to convince him that truly the Evil One stood before him.
But instantly the face became again most frank and winning, and he heard:
"Very well, then, as you please. We will begin by making the acquaintance of my subjects—all of them friends, comrades, or relatives."
Just then Johannes heard again the well-remembered whispering and giggling which he had heard while watching the little hands. On all sides, amid much rustling and shuffling, he heard breathing, coughing, and sniffling—all sorts of queer human sounds, as if the place was thronged with people. But still he could see nothing.
"You fancied I was very different, did you not, Johannes? That I had horns and a tail? That idea is out of date. No one believes it now. Thank God we are forever above that foolish separation of good and evil. That is untenable Dualism. My kingdom is as good as the other."
"What is your name?" asked Johannes.
"They call me King Waan.[1]Yes, indeed! I am a king, if I do appear so humble. Besides, external pomp is out of fashion. I am a constitutional, bourgeois, democratic king. Here, Bangeling![2]Come here! This is my most trusty helper—my right hand, in fact."
Johannes shuddered at the sight of Bangeling—a shrinking, stooping, pale, and loathsome youngster. His eyes were red-rimmed, and glanced shiftingly right and left—never straight in front. His lean knees knocked against each other, and every moment his rag-covered body twitched with terror, and he cried: "Oh, Heaven! Oh, God! Now you will catch it! It is too late! Too la-a-ate!"
To hear and see this repeatedly, without becoming frightened oneself, was not easy; but Johannes pressed his flower close to his breast and cried:
"Wistik!"
"Ay, ay!" he heard his good little friend shout.
But the voice sounded from above, and far away. And suddenly Johannes had a very distinct sensation of falling, fast as lightning, down fathomless depths, although everything around him remained the same.
"Are we falling down below?" he asked.
King Waan gave Johannes a falsely-sweet smile. "One should not ask such impolite questions when making a visit," said he.
"Get away!" cried Johannes to Bangeling, who was now standing close beside them, twitching and whining. Then a throng of frightful figures pushed forward, trying to approach him, grinning, twisted, misformed faces—some with big purple noses, others with drooling lips—still others pale, and passive, with closed eyes, but with scornful muttering mouths.
Johannes knew these figures well; he had often when a child seen them in his dreams. And doubtless you also have seen many of them in the night—just before the measles broke out, or after you have eaten too much pie for dinner.
And you were very much afraid of them, were you not? Perhaps as much as formerly Johannes was. But this time he was not in the least afraid. When they came too near, he called out in a fierce voice: "Back!" Then they grew pale, and crumpled up like withered toadstools.
"This one is Ginnegap!"[3]said the Devil, pointing out a girl-like being with open mouth, dull eyes, and a finger in each nasty nostril, who was constantly tittering. "Another excellent assistant of mine. Here are Labbekak[4]and Goedzak;[5]charming twins, compact of goodness and charity. Just look! They quiver and quake like jelly. They have no bones, and they never did any wrong. If they do not belong in heaven, who does?"
"Of course they have no sense," said Johannes.
"But here, then—this one—an old acquaintance of yours. Maybe you think he has no wits, either?"
Who was it Johannes saw there? Pluizer, in truth—his old enemy Pluizer! But he lacked a good deal of looking so pert and fierce as formerly. Upon seeing Johannes he hid himself behind the back of a stout, dumpy demon.
"A little to one side, Sleur!" said the king to the bulky devil. "Give Johannes a peep at his old friend."
But Sleur did not budge. He was very sluggish. Pluizer called out:
"Does Death know about it, Johannes—that you are already here?"
"What is this place, really?" asked Johannes. "Hell? Is it here that Dante was?"
"Dante?" asked the Devil. And all his retainers whispered and tittered and chattered: "Dante? Dante? Dante?"
"Surely," resumed the king, "you must mean that nice place full of light where it is so hot and smells so bad; where sand melts; where rivers of blood are seething, and the boiling pitch is ever bubbling; where they scream and yell and curse and lament, and swear at one another."
"Yes," said Johannes. "Dante told about that."
"But, my little friend!" said the Devil, affably, "that is not here, as you can very well see. That is not my kingdom. That is the kingdom of another who, they say, is called Love. With me, no one suffers. I am not so cruel as that. I cause no one pain."
"I know that well," said Johannes, "for so long as I have pain I am alive and am warned. Is it not so, Wistik?"
"Yes!" cried the little fellow, his voice now sounding as if far in the distance—up above.
"We are falling all the time!" said Johannes, in great alarm.
"Do not think about it. Does it make you dizzy? I thought you were so level-headed. Just give this a look. This is my cabinet of curiosities."
And before Johannes knew that he had entered anything he found himself in a very small, close room. It was exactly like a bathroom with low ceilings, and was brightly lighted.
"You did not think to find it so well lighted here,didyou?"
"Trick-light!" shouted Wistik, his voice coming faintly from above.
"Look! Here lies an acquaintance of yours."
And King Waan pointed to a straight white form that lay on the stone floor. It was Heléne; and Johannes saw that she was calmly sleeping.
Two imps stood looking at her; one was Bangeling; the other, equally small and dirty, stood gnawing his nails. His head, with its misshapen ears, was much too big for him. He had on a barret-cap of aniline blue velvet, with russet ribbons, a pale-green blouse of Scotch plaid, and short trousers, as purple as spoiled berry-juice.
"That is Degeneracy," said Waan. "These two brought her here; a deserving deed. We hope to keep her. Look! See how peacefully she sleeps."
The sight of the pale, still sleeper, with her outspread black hair, made Johannes also feel drowsy. But he looked in his little mirror, holding his eyes open, hard, and called: "Heléne!"
The long dark lashes were lifted just a little.
"Pst! Not a word!" said the king. "Here we come to number two—a pretty and clever piece of work."
By a little door, so low and narrow that Johannes had to wriggle his way through it, they entered the next place. They were in an extremely smart little church—a dolls' church. The walls were bare and white, and little candles were burning. In the pulpit stood a tiny little dominie, preaching fervidly, gesticulating with hand and head.
"Dominie Kraalboom!" cried Johannes, in astonishment. "Who is he raving at?"
"Look at him, Johannes!" said Waan. "Only do not think he is dead. In order to come here one does not have to wait till death. And do you not see at whom he is raving? Take a good look."
"Reflectors!" exclaimed Johannes. In reality the little church was empty, but it was everywhere furnished with pretty little mirrors, and in each one of them was reflected the dominie's little face surrounded by a halo.
"Those mirrors are of peculiar manufacture. I make much use of them. The imported article alone I cannot endure. Look! here is the counterpart."
Another little church—just as smart and neat and light. But here there were many more candles, also flowers and images. The walls were gaudily painted with pictures, and Father Canisius stood in glittering, gold-embroidered garments, praying and mumbling before the altar.
Johannes looked up at the stained-glass windows. It was as dark as pitch behind them.
"What is outside there?" he asked. "Just let me look out." And he thought he could hear the snickering and giggling of the imps who were peering through the windows.
"Keep away! Silence!" cried the king, sternly.
"Wistik!" called Johannes.
"Ay!" sounded the voice, now very fine, and far away. And they kept falling, falling.
Through a long, narrow passage they went to the next number. It did not smell very fresh there, and Johannes soon noticed that this stale-smelling apartment corresponded with what they usually called at home "the best room."
In the middle of the white-wood floor stood an overturned waste-water pail. A puddle of thick, offensive fluid lay trickling around it.
"Under this," said King Waan, "sits one of the most remarkable specimens in my collection. It is a little creature having the habit of describing precisely everything it sees. His watchword is: 'Truth Above Everything!' He could not have a finer one. I make very interesting experiments with him. Sometimes I put him here, sometimes there. Just now he is under this pail. Listen to him!"
A light little voice came monotonously out from under the pail:
"A rich, soft greyish violet shading off through brown into cream-white, clot-curdling stripe coagulations; long flittery-fluttery down-trickling welter-whirls filtering through pale-yellow toned-down dully shining topazy vaults; faint phlegmy greyish-green dozing off...."
And thus the voice went on until Johannes began to get quite qualmish and drowsy.
"Is not that nice? Lately, I had him in a cuspidor. You should have heard him then. Here is his label."
And he pointed to a trim little tag on which was marked:Division, Fine Arts. Naturalist, var. Word-Artist. Locality: Terra Firma of Europe. Rather rare.
"Is Van Lieverlee here, also?" asked Johannes.
"To be sure! I have him a few centuries farther on, composing sonnets," said the Wicked One. "This is a very large place although you might not think so. I can show you only a small part of it."
Then they came to a division called "Sciences," and the Devil said:
"Look! That concerns you, Wisdom-Seeker!"
And he had Johannes look through the crack of the door, into a little room brightly lighted, cram-full of books. Professor Bommeldoos was there, standing on his head.
"Pluizer taught him that," said the Devil. "And do you see that clever contrivance he has made of mirrors and copper tubes? That is to look into his own brains with. He thinks to become still wiser."
The professor was utterly absorbed in his intricate apparatus, and gazed and gazed, with all his might, into an odd sort of twisted tubing, the end of which was attached to the back part of his head.
Johannes heard a low rushing and roaring, as if made by a gust of wind.
"Silence!" cried the Devil, testily.
But the roaring sound continued and grew louder.
"What is that?" asked Johannes.
"That is Death," said the Devil, spitefully. "He is called an ally of mine, but he often muddles up my affairs here, and he steals by the thousand the choicest specimens in my collection—especially the crack-brained."
"Here they are all crack-brained," said Johannes.
"Yes; but those you in the awake-life call that, he snatches away from me. Here we come to the division, "Happiness." This is the richest man in the world. Would you like a magnifying glass?"
The pen wherein sat the richest man in the world was all of gold, but so small that Johannes could not possibly enter it. The richest man in the world had a large head, quite bare and bald, above a very small insignificant body. He moved slowly back and forth, like a caterpillar incasing himself; and out of his little lips there driveled golden threads with which he made a cocoon of himself.
"Poor fellow!" said Johannes, shuddering.
"Nonsense! Nonsense!" returned the Devil. "Here they are all happy. They know no better. I never torment as does the Other with his Love eternal. I have also here the classification 'War.' You would naturally think that these must be unhappy. But quite the contrary. In general, I am an enemy of war. I prefer peace, as you will presently see. But this is a pleasant 'War.' In fact, the people enjoy it. For that reason it belongs here."
And now they came to a long row of very small pens in which was just such a bustle as one hears at night in a chicken-coop when the fowls are going to sleep. Over each little pen was: "Religious War," "Party Strife," "Class Strife," and as Johannes looked in through a small window, he saw a solitary little fellow, much excited and red in the face, who stood skirmishing in front of a mirror. The reflection of his own figure was so queer that it looked like someone's else.
In the third pen Johannes saw Dr. Felbeck. With furious fists, the little fellow rushed up to the mirror again and again, and stamped and scolded and raved until the foam flew from his mouth.
Then they came to a very long and diminishing little room that bore the words Love and Peace.
"There!" said the Devil. "Now we can talk aloud. They are not easily wakened here. Snug and cozy, is it not? A section of it also isPure Living, andPiety, andBenevolence."
In the little ward stood many tiny beds, as in a hospital; and Johannes saw Labbekak and Goedzak in slovenly felt slippers, shuffling back and forth, distributing cups of warm tea and spoonfuls of a syrupy mixture. The beings in the little beds licked off the spoons, and fell asleep again.
Outside, the demons yelled and screeched still louder, and the downward motion was so apparent that Johannes grew dizzy.
"Here, also," said the Devil, "Death does me much harm."
Johannes looked at him. He now appeared wholly different. His brown suit had disappeared, and his smooth supple body—as shiny as a snakeskin—was as iridescent as water stirred by dripping tar. His face, too, was far less affable. Hollow and grinning, it began to look like a death's head.
"You are the real Death!" exclaimed Johannes. "The other is a good friend of mine. I have no more fear of him."
The Devil laughed and reached out his hand toward Johannes' little flower. But Johannes caught it up close to his breast. The flower hung limp and seemed to be perishing. The little mirror shook like a leaf in his hand, so that he could scarcely hold it.
"Wistik!" he cried.
He listened, but could hear nothing. And now he seemed to be falling with whizzing speed. Johannes was greatly alarmed. The long ward with its rows of little beds grew ever longer, ever narrower.
"Wistik! Marjon! Let me out! Let me out! Set me free!"
"I have also a classification 'Freedom'," remarked the Devil, pointing out a mannikin who, busy with a long ribbon inscribed with the words "Freedom and 'Justice," kept winding it around his head, arms, and legs until he could not move a muscle.
"No!" cried Johannes, banging with both hands—in which were still clutched his flower and mirror—at a hard, spotted door. This door was marked "Sin and Crime."
"Look out!" said the Devil. "Do you not see what it says over it?"
"I do not care what it says!" cried Johannes, pounding away.
"Take care! For God's sake, take care!" shouted Bangeling.
"Help! Wistik! Marjon! Markus! help!" cried Johannes, crashing through the door.
Before him he saw a black and bottomless night; but it was more spacious, and he felt his distress diminishing.
And now he saw the imps all racing after him, and they were playing with something. It glittered as they threw it, one to another, and they tugged and pulled and spit on it, and did things still worse—such as only very vile and impudent beings could do.
It was a book, and Johannes saw his name upon it—his own and his family name. Johannes was called the "Traveler" of his family.
At last one of the imps caught hold of it by a leaf, and flung it high up in air to tear it to pieces. The leaves fluttered and glittered, but held together. And the book, ceasing to fall, went higher and higher up into the dark night until it seemed in the far distance to be a little star.
Johannes kept looking at it with all his might, and it seemed to him as if he were a light bit of wood, or a bubble, rising swifter and swifter to the surface—from out the awful depths of the sea. Then, slowly, the heavens grew blue and bright.
At last he was drifting in the full light of day. His eyes were still closed, but he felt that he had returned to hisdaybody, and he rested—still a little longer—in the light, motionless, blissful slumber of a convalescent, or of one come home again after a long and weary journey.
[1]Waan = Error.
[1]Waan = Error.
[2]Bangeling = Little coward.
[2]Bangeling = Little coward.
[3]Ginnegap = Giggler.
[3]Ginnegap = Giggler.
[4]Labbekak = Duffer.
[4]Labbekak = Duffer.
[5]Goedzak = Goody-goody.
[5]Goedzak = Goody-goody.
"Shall we go to the beach this morning?" asked Countess Dolores after breakfast. "It will be fresh and cool there now."
It was a merry morning trip. Both of the little girls went with them, and Johannes carried a small folding chair, and his friend's book. The countess took a seat in a beach-chair, and Johannes sat at her feet and read aloud to her, while the two children—their skirts tucked up, and their little feet and legs bare and pink in the clear light—busied themselves in the water and sand, with their pails and shovels.
Everything was flooded with sunshine, and clearly, beautifully tinted:—the knotted blonde tresses of the little girls—beneath their broad-brimmed white beach-hats—against the delicate blue of the horizon; the still deeper blue of the sea wherein could be seen the bright figures of the bathers in their red and blue bathing-dresses; and right and left the pure white sand, and the snowy foam.
Johannes had indeed become quite accustomed to what had so pained him at first—the profanation of the sea by human beings—so they were happy hours.
He resolved this morning to resume his inquiries after Markus, as soon as he was at liberty to do so.
They had not been sitting long on the beach when Van Lieverlee came sauntering-up, arrayed in white flannel. He was without a waistcoat, but wore a lilac shirt, and a wide, black-silk girdle, and had on a straw hat.
He gave the countess a graceful cordial greeting, and immediately said to Johannes, this time without irony:
"I sent to my uncle, this morning, for information. Your friend is not there now. He received his discharge last Saturday on account of his disorderly conduct."
"What had he done?" asked Johannes.
"He had delivered an address at the exchange when, mark you, he had gone there on a matter of business. Now," said Van Lieverlee, looking at the countess with a smile, "it is quite obvious that a man of affairs could not retain such a clerk as that. It takes my uncle Van Trigt, who is so jealous of his good name, to deal with such cases."
"Yes, I understand," said Dolores.
"It depends, though, upon what he said," ventured Johannes.
"No! One talks about business at the exchange—not about reason and morality. There is a time and a place for everything. My uncle was well satisfied with him in all else. He had taken him for a rather well-bred person, he said. But the man has a remarkable propensity for discoursing in public places."
"Where is he now?"
"Where is any idler who has received his discharge? Off looking for an easy berth, L should say."
"Is your friend so very poor?" asked the countess, in a serious whisper, as one would speak over the shame of a kinsman.
"Of course," replied Johannes, with a positiveness that was a challenge. "Indeed, he would be ashamed not to be poor."
"I think such men insufferable!" exclaimed Van Lieverlee. "As Socrates said, their conceit can be seen through the holes in their clothes. Without even opening their mouths they—every one of them—seem to be forever preaching morals and finding fault. I hate the tribe. They are of all men the most turbulent and dangerous."
Johannes had never yet seen Van Lieverlee so angry, but he remained cool throughout the tirade, and kept his temper.
The countess said in a languid voice:
"He certainly is very immoderate. I cannot say, either, that such pronounced types are to my taste."
Johannes was silent, and the other two talked together a while longer. The children came up nearer, and lying down in the clean, clear sand, they listened to the conversation. It was a bright group, for they were all dressed in white, except Johannes.
At last Van Lieverlee rose to go, and the countess, clinging to his hand, with a certain warmth of manner said:
"Of course you are coming to dinner?"
"Most assuredly!" replied Van Lieverlee.
After he had gone, there were several moments of constrained silence—a sort of suspense so obvious that even the children did not resume their chatter as usual, but continued silently playing with the sand, as if waiting for something to be said.
Johannes also began to comprehend that something was pending, but he had no idea of what it could be.
At last the lady said, rather hesitatingly, while tracing all kinds of curious figures in the sand, with her parasol:
"Have you not observed anything, Johannes?"
"Observed anything? I? No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, with some discomposure. He surely had observed nothing.
"I have!" said Olga, decidedly, without looking up.
"I, too!" lisped Frieda after her.
"Hear the little smarties!" said Mevrouw, laughing in confusion, and blushing. "Well, what have you observed?"
"A new papa!" replied Olga.
"A new papa!" repeated Frieda.
Johannes looked up in some surprise and perplexity, into the beautiful, laughing eyes, and exquisite, blushing face of his friend.
Her laugh was a confirmation; and accompanying her question with a shake of the head, she continued:
"Really, do you not understand yet?"
"No," replied Johannes, in all seriousness. "Who is the new papa?"
"There he goes," said Olga, pointing with her little white finger after Van Lieverlee. And Frieda, too, stretched out her little hand in his direction.
"Fie, children! Do not point," said Mevrouw.
And Johannes began to comprehend—much as one does who has fallen out of a window, or has been struck on the head with a stone. As in the latter case, his first thought was astonishment at the cause of the blow, and that he could possibly survive it.
The blue air, the sea, the sand, the series of light-green dunes, the houses, the white figures—everything reeled and whirled, and then grew altogether black. He could not think, but only felt that he was extremely uncomfortable and qualmish. He was obliged to go.
As he stood up, he heard the words: "How pale you are!" That was the last. Then he walked away, beside the sea, hearing nothing save the washing of the waves upon the sand and the rushing of the blood in his ears.
He staggered a little back and forth, as if he had been drinking too much, and he wondered how that could be.
At last he could no longer see the people or houses—only water, sky, and sand.
It seemed to have been his intention; for, weak and limp, he went and lay down in the loose sand, and fell into a drowse.
Such drowsing is not real sleep, neither does it refresh. When Johannes awoke after a quarter of an hour, his throat was parched, and he felt as if his heart were shriveled in his breast. He essayed to think over what had happened, but it was too bitter and too frightful. He looked at the imprinted sand where he had been lying, as if he would go to sleep again. But now he could not sleep, and must stay awake.
He sat up and stared at the sea, and then again at the dunes. What was it that had befallen him? A very long time—he knew not himself how long—he sat looking. Then he stood up, feeling stiff and sluggish, as if dead tired from a long journey. Slowly and aimlessly he dragged himself into the dunes, and tried to take an interest in the beetles and the flowers. Sometimes, from force of habit, he succeeded; but immediately there returned the shudderings which that cruel blow had caused.
It had never entered his head that he himself would marry his friend. Why, then, should it go to his heart as if he were flung aside and trampled upon, now that another was about to take the place of her husband?
"It must not—mustnot be!" was all he could say. He very well knew that the world did not always concern itself with his thoughts, and that his day-life was conducted quite differently from his night-life where everything proceeded from his will and wish. But this was so squarely against his desires and ideas that it seemed to him as if the worldmustcare about it.
Naturally, the world continued not to mind anything about it, because the world is a far greater and stronger thought than that of Little Johannes.
And if he had been sensible he would have modestly admitted it, because it is true. Then, at the most, that truth would only have saddened him.
But he was not yet very wise, and he did not wish to admit that his mind and thought were still weak and small compared with the great world-thought. And therefore he was not only sad, but angry as well.
Do not judge him too harshly, for he was still more boy than man. And how fewmeneven there are with such clear good sense that they impute the variance solely to their own weakness and stupidity, and do not become dismayed and embittered when the world differs from them.
Johannes, then, was angry—furiously angry. That surely was not sensible, but yet it proved that he had more stamina than had Labbekak and Goedzak.
And all his anger was directed against that person who had thrust him aside from the place which he had so long, without being aware of it, considered his own. He thought Van Lieverlee not only a tiresome fool, but also an odious, abominable monster that ought to be exterminated.
And as his fancy pictured other figures, and he thought of that other hated being, Marjon's sister, and then again of Van Lieverlee, and his dear, beautiful, winsome friend, he found himself closely and frightfully besieged by insupportable thoughts—as if in a fire-begirt city, all aglow and scorching, with ever narrowing streets.
It was impossible to cry. At other times, as you surely must have observed, his tears came quickly enough. But now his eyes seemed to have been cauterized. Eyes, heart, brains, and ideas—all were equally hot and dry, and strained and distressed.
He went home at night with no idea of the hour. He had eaten nothing, but felt neither hunger nor thirst. Where he had been for so long, he was unable to tell. He went to his room and began trifling with his knickknacks—his souvenirs, books, and little treasures—for he was a collector.
His hostess came to rap at his door and to ask what was the matter—where he had been, and why he had been absent from his afternoon lessons. But Johannes did not invite her in, and said that he wished to be alone. And she, half surmising the truth, and distressed about it, did not insist.
Then, among his treasures, Johannes found a pair of compasses—a large pair, one arm of which could be loosened for the attachment of a tracing-pen. And that single, loosened compass-arm was a shining, three-cornered bit of steel, about a finger long, and as sharp as a lancet.
With some wood and leather he contrived a handle for that bit of steel, and then he had a dagger—a real, wicked, dangerous dagger.
Apparently he did this merely to pass away the time, but after it was finished he began to think what could be done with it. Then what hewishedto do with it. And at lasthowhe should do it,if, indeed, he was to do it.
Thus, he was already a good bit on in an ugly way.
The octopus that he had defied so bravely had laid for him a trap of which he was not aware; for it has many more than eight arms, and there are many more demons than those whose acquaintance Johannes had already made.
He was going to step up to Van Lieverlee and say to him, "You or I." And if Van Lieverlee should then laugh at him, as he most likely would, he would stab him to death.
Such thoughts as that actually took possession of Little Johannes' head; for, I have told you, indeed, that Love is nothing to be ridiculed. Fortunately, a wide gulf yawns between thought and deed, otherwise there would be a great many more accidents upon this earth.
It was already past midnight, and he still sat pottering and burnishing and sharpening, when he heard again the creaking of the stair, that he now instantly recognized, and Marjon's step at the door.
She opened the door, and Johannes looked into her distended, anguished eyes. Her blonde hair fell straight and free over her shoulders, and her long white night-dress reached down to her bare feet.
"What are you doing, Jo?" she asked. "You make me so anxious! What has happened? Where have you been the whole long day? Why do you eat nothing? And why are you still sitting up, with a light, till after midnight?"
Startled and distressed, Johannes made no reply. The dagger was still in his hand. He tried to hide it, without being observed, under his handkerchief. But Marjon saw it, and asked excitedly:
"What is that?"
"Nothing," said Johannes, in shame and confusion, like a detected child.
Marjon snatched away the handkerchief, and looked from the shining little object to Johannes with an expression of mingled pain and fright.
In silence they looked into each other's eyes a long time—Marjon with a searching, beseeching gaze, until Johannes lowered his lids and let his head droop.
"Who is it for?" she whispered. "Yourself?"
Without speaking or looking up, Johannes shook his head. Marjon sighed deeply, as if relieved.
"For whom, then?" again she asked. "For ... him?"
Johannes nodded. Then she said:
"Poor Jo!"
That sounded strangely to him, for when irritated one is not apt to be compassionate toward others nor toward one's self. He thought, rather, to find abhorrence of his blood-thirsty plan. But she said it so sincerely and fervently that he began to weaken, although not to the point of crying.
"You will not do it, will you? It would not help at all. And you would ... you would make me so frightfully unhappy."
"I cannot endure it, Marjon—Icannotendure it!"
Marjon kneeled down by the table, and rested her chin in her hands. Her clear, true eyes were now looking steadily at Johannes, and as she spoke they grew more tranquil. Johannes continued to look at her with the irresolute expression of one in despair who yet hoped for deliverance.
"Poor Jo!" repeated Marjon. And then, slowly, with frequent pauses, she said: "Do you know why I can speak so?... I know exactly how you feel. I have felt that way, too. I did not think that this would be the way of it—the way it now is. I only thought, 'She is going to have him, not I.' And then I too said, 'It cannot—cannotbe!' But yet it might have been. And nowyousay, 'It cannot be.' But it can, just the same."
Here she waited a while, and Johannes looked at her more attentively, and with less irresolution.
"And now listen, Jo. You want to stab that prig, don't you? And you well know that I never had any liking for him. But now let me tell you that I myself, for days and for weeks, have wanted to do the same thing."
"What!" exclaimed Johannes, in astonishment.
Marjon hid her face and said: "It is the truth, Jo. Not him, of course, but ... but her."
"You do not mean it, Marjon," said Johannes, indignantly.
"I am in earnest, Jo. I am not even sure whether I came into her service for that very reason, or for a better one."
"My God! How frightful!" exclaimed Johannes, deeply moved.
"There you are—alarmed and probably angry. Naturally you think her lovely, and are fond of her. And I am ashamed of myself—heartily ashamed."
Again they were silent, and in both those young heads were many turbulent thoughts.
"And do you know what helped me most to give it up? Not fear of punishment, nor of judgment, for I dreaded nothing so much as, worst of all, that she might succeed in getting you. But it helped me when I thought how much you loved her, and how you would cry and suffer if you should see her lying dead."
Again they looked at each other, steadily and frankly, and their eyes were dimmed with tears. Then said Marjon:
"And now, Jo, think of this. I care nothing about that man, nor do you; and doubtless he would not be a great loss. But to her he would be, and indeed if you should kill him, you would bring it about that she would see him dead, and would have to cry. Do you wish to do that?"
Johannes' eyes opened wide, and he looked into the lamplight.
"Yes," said he, deliberately. "He deceives her and she deceives herself. He is altogether different from what she fancies."
Then Marjon, taking both hands from the table, and resting them upon Johannes' arm, said with rising voice:
"But Jo, Jo—indeed everything is different from what we think! Who can see just how and what people and things are? I thought that woman hateful, and you thought her lovely. You think that fellow odious, while she thinks him charming. Really, only the Father, knows how things are. Believe me, the Father only. We are poor, poor creatures. We know nothing—nothing."
Then, resting her head, with its fair, fine hair, upon his arm, she sobbed bitterly; and Johannes, now completely broken down and mollified, wept with her.
Then they heard a door open in the hall. Probably, in their agitation, they had been talking too loudly.
Marjon took flight. In a moment of less excitement she would have been too shrewd for that. Johannes did indeed quickly put out the light, but he saw, through the crack of the door, that some one with a candle was standing in the hall. There was a meeting, and Johannes overheard a brief exchange of angry words, in vehement, suppressed tones.
The last he understood was: "To-morrow morning you leave."
About the time all this was taking place, something else occurred which most of you will readily recall. It happened at the time the King and Queen were married.
That was a time of many processions, when arches of honor were erected in all the squares, and when there arose, everywhere, the peculiar odor of spruce-boughs and of burning illuminants.
And the life of the King and Queen was far different from that of Little Johannes. They had to be decked often with beautiful clothes, and then as often to be undressed, to parade, to sit in state, to listen to wearisome harangues, to live through long dinners, and to be forever bowing and smiling. Such was their life.
To Johannes all this excitement and these joyful festivities seemed but a motley background against which his own sombre trouble was all the more sharply in relief. Although everybody was concerned about the King and Queen, and no one at all about Little Johannes, he yet found himself and his own sorrow none the less important.
You are aware that these festivities lasted for several weeks, and took place in every town in the land. In the evening of the day about which I last told you, there was a great display of fireworks on the beach, and Johannes, with the entire household, went to see it.
And there, in the midst of all that crowding and shouting, he had, for the first time, a chance to speak with the beloved friend who had caused him so much suffering. Marjon he had not seen, and he knew not if she was gone; but the countess seemed as friendly and as cheerful as ever, and she had not questioned him.
On the terrace from which they watched the golden columns rush skyward with a hiss, and the "pin-wheels" sizzle and fizz, accompanied by the "a-a-a-ahs!" of admiration from the dark, moving mass of people—there, he ventured in an undertone to speak to her.
"What did you really think of me yesterday, Mevrouw?"
"Well," replied the countess, rather coldly, continuing to look at the fireworks, "you have not come up to my expectations, Johannes."
"What do you mean? Why not?" asked Johannes, sick at heart.
"Oh, you know very well. I was aware that you had plain connections, and were not descended from a distinguished family; but I hoped to make that good, in some degree, through my own influence. Yet I had not thought you so ordinary as that."
"But what do you mean?"
The lady cast a disdainful glance upon him.
"Would you care to hear it spoken, word for word? Liaisons, then—with inferiors. And at your age, too. How could you?"
In a flash Johannes comprehended.
"Oh, Mevrouw—but you mistake—completely. I am not in the least enamored of that girl, but formerly she was my little comrade, and she thinks a great deal of me. She saw that I was unhappy yesterday, and then she came to sympathize with me."
"Sympathize?" asked the countess, hesitatingly, and not without irony, of which Johannes, however, was unconscious.
"Yes, Mevrouw. But for her, I should have done desperate things. She prevented me. She is a brave girl."
Then he told her still more of Marjon.
Countess Dolores believed him, and became more friendly. In that caressing voice which had caused Johannes so much unhappiness, and which even now completely fascinated him, she asked:
"And why were you so desperate, my boy?"
"Do you not understand? It was because of what you told me yesterday."
She understood well enough, and Johannes thought it charming in her to be willing to listen so kindly. But although she felt flattered she pretended not to know what he meant—as if such an idea were unthinkable.
"But how can that make you feel so desperate, my boy? I have not said, however, that you must leave my house on account of it."
"If that should take place, Mevrouw, do you fancy that I could remain with you? Did you think I could endure that? But it is not going to be, is it? It was only a jest. Tell me that it was! You were only teasing me! Tell me that you were only teasing me!"
It was all too clear now, and she could dissemble no longer. Half in kindness, half in compassion, she said:
"But, my boy, my boy, what has got into your head?"
Johannes rested his hand on her arm, and asked, imploringly:
"You were not in earnest, were you?"
But she freed her arm gently, saying:
"Yes, Johannes, I was in earnest."
And now he knew that he was hoping against hope.
"Is there no hope for me?"
The countess smilingly shook her head.
"No, dear boy, not the least. Put the thought quite away from you."
The last of the rockets rushed up with a startling hiss, to burst in the black sky with a soft puff, and expire in a shower of brilliant sparks. Then it was all over. The band played "Wilhelmus of Nassau," and the dark throng surged and pressed more vehemently, while on all sides the street-boys whistled shrilly and shouted to one another: "J-a-a-a-n!" and "Gerrèt!"
Johannes, stunned by renewed pain, passed on through the cheering like one deafened and stupefied.
His hostess, now full of sympathy, said:
"Do you remember, Johannes, what we promised Father Canisius? He was to teach you who Jesus is, was he not? Will you go to church with me to-morrow? That will best console you."
A wicked thought passed through Johannes' head. He wished to ask a question, but he could not utter the hated name.
"Is any one else going?"
"Yes, the man to whom I am engaged. He also is now convinced that peace is only to be found in the Holy Church. He is Catholic, as are myself and my children."
Johannes said not another word that evening; but he slept more peacefully than the night before.
The church was full when Johannes, with the entire family, entered it. He and the others were in their best attire, and Van Lieverlee had on a very long black coat and a high hat. As he passed in he removed his hat respectfully, and his white face, now smoothly shaven, wore a serious, even stern, expression.
It was cool and dark and solemn in the building. The rays of the sun, in passing through the window-glass, were tinged with yellow and blue, and cast queer fleckings over the faces and forms of those who stood waiting or were securing seats. The fragrance of incense floated about the altar, and the organ was playing. It was not really an old church, but, with its paintings and floral adornments, was beautiful enough to move Johannes to tenderness; for he felt so sad and disheartened, listening to the solemn music in that richly-colored twilight, that he had to make an effort to keep from sobbing.
Father Canisius, smiling kindly, and with priestly seriousness in face and tread, although not yet in his robes, stopped on his way to the sacristy to speak with them. Johannes could feel his sharp, penetrating look through the thick glasses of his spectacles.
"You see, Father," said the countess, "we have come to seek Jesus. Johannes, also."
"He is waiting for you," replied the priest, solemnly, pointing out the great crucifix above the altar. Then he disappeared in the sacristy.
Johannes immediately fastened his eyes upon that figure, and continued to contemplate it while the people were taking their places.
It hung in the strongest light of the shadowy church. Apparently it was of wood stained a pale rose, with peculiar blue and brown shadows. The wounds in the side and under the thorns on the forehead were distinct to exaggeration—all purple and swollen, with great streaks of blood like dark-red sealing-wax. The face, with its closed eyes, wore a look of distress, and a large circle of gold and precious stones waggishly adorned the usual russet-colored, cork-screwy, woodeny locks. The cross itself was of shining gold, and each of its four extremities was ornamented, while a nice, wavy paper above the head bore the letters I.N.R.I. One could see that it was all brand-new, and freshly gilded and painted. Wreaths and bouquets of paper flowers embellished the altar.
For a long time—perhaps a quarter of an hour—Johannes continued to look at the image. "That is Jesus," he muttered to himself, "He of whom I have so often heard. Now I am going to learn about Him, and He is to comfort me. He it is who has redeemed the world."
And however often he might repeat this, trying seriously to convince himself—because he would have been glad to be convinced and also to be redeemed—he could nevertheless see nothing except a repulsive, ugly, bloody, prinked-up wooden doll. And this made him feel doubly sorrowful and disheartened. Fully fifteen minutes had he sat there, looking and musing, hearing the people around him chatting—about the price they had paid for their places, about the keeping on or taking off of women's hats, and about the reserved seats for the first families. Then the door of the sacristy opened, and the choir-boys with their swinging censers, and the sacristan, and the priests in their beautiful, gold-bordered garments, came slowly and majestically in. And as the congregation kneeled, Johannes kneeled with them.
And when Johannes, as well as all the others, looked at the incoming procession, and then again turned his eyes to the high altar, behold! there, to his amazement, kneeling before the white altar, he saw a dark form. It was in plain sight, bending forward in the twilight, the arms upon the altar, and the face hidden in the arms. A man it was, in the customary dark clothes of a laborer. No one—neither Johannes nor probably any one else in the church—had seen whence he came. But he was now in the full sight of all, and one could hear whisperings and a subdued excitement run along the rows of people and pass on to the rear, like a gust of wind over a grain-field.
As soon as the procession of choir-boys and priests came within sight of the altar, the sacristan stepped hastily out of line and went forward to the stranger, to assure him that, possibly from too deep absorption in devotion, or from lack of familiarity with ecclesiastical ceremony, he was guilty of intrusion.
He touched the man's shoulder, but the man did not stir. In the breathless stillness that followed, while every one expectantly awaited the outcome, a deep, heart-rending sob was heard.
"A penitent!" "A drunken man!" "A convert!" were some of the whispered comments of the people.
The perplexed sacristan turned round, and beckoned Father Canisius, who, with impressive bearing, stepped up in his white, gold-threaded garb, as imposingly as a full-sailed frigate moves.
"Your place is not here," said the priest, in his deep voice. He spoke kindly, and not particularly loudly. "Go to the back of the church."
There was no reply, and the man did not move; yet, in the still more profound silence, his weeping was so audible that many people shuddered.
"Do you not hear me?" said the priest, raising his voice a little, and speaking with some impatience. "It is well that you are repentant, but only the consecrated belong here—not penitents."
So saying, he grasped the shoulder of the stranger with his large, strong hand.
Then, slowly, very slowly, the kneeling man raised his head from his arms, and turned his face toward the priest.
What followed, perhaps each one of the hundreds of witnesses would tell differently; and of those who heard about it later, each had a different idea. But I am going to tell you what Johannes saw and heard—heard quite as clearly as you have seen and heard the members of your own household, to-day.
He saw his Brother's face, pale and illumined, as if his head were shone upon by beams of clearest sunlight. And the sadness of that face was so deep and unutterable, so bitter and yet so gentle, that Johannes felt forced, through pain, to press both hands upon his heart, and to set his teeth, while he gazed with wide, tear-filled eyes, forgetting everything save that shining face so full of grief.
For a time it was as still as death, while man and priest regarded each other. At last the man spoke, and said:
"Who are you, and in whose name are you here?"
When two men stand thus, face to face, and address each other with all earnestness in the hearing of many others, one of them is always immediately recognized to be the superior—even if the listeners are unable to gauge the force of the argument. Every one feels that superiority, although later many forget or deny it. If that dominance is not very great, it arouses spitefulness and fury; but if it is indeed great, it brings, betimes, repose and submissiveness.
In this case the ascendancy was so great that the priest lost even the air of authority and assurance with which he had come forward, and did that for which, later, he reproached himself—he stopped to explain:
"I am a consecrated priest of the Triune God, and I speak in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ—our Saviour and Redeemer."
There ensued a long silence, and Johannes saw nothing but the shining, human face and the eyes, which, full of sorrow and compassion, continued to regard the richly robed priest with a bitter smile. The priest stood motionless, with hanging hands and staring eves, as if uncertain what next to say or do; but he listened silently for what was coming, as did Johannes and all the others in the church—as if under an overpowering spell.
Then came the following words, and so long as they sounded no one could think of anything else—neither of the humble garb of him who spoke, nor of the incomprehensible subjection of his gorgeously arrayed listener:
"But you are not yet a man! Would you be a priest of the Most High?
"You are not yet redeemed, nor are these others with you redeemed, although you make bold to say so in the name of the Redeemer.
"Did your Saviour when upon earth wear cloth of silver and of gold?
"There is no redemption yet—neither for you nor for any of yours. The time is not come for the wearing of garments of gold.
"Mock not, nor slander. Your ostentation is a travesty of the Most High, and a defamation of your Saviour.
"Do you esteem the kingdom of God a trifle, that you array yourself and rejoice, while the world still lies in despair and in shackles?
"So plays a little girl with a doll, and calls herself a mother. She tosses and pets and prinks her little one, but it is all wood and paint and bran. And the real mother smiles—she who knows the anguish and the gladness.
"But you abandon the naked, living child for the bedizened doll. And the mother sheds tears of blood.
"Like peacocks, you strut through your marble churches, glittering in tinsel; but you let the kingdom of God lie like an uncleansed babe upon unclean linen—naked and languishing.
"And the Devil delights in your churches, your masses, and prayers and psalms—your treasure and fine linen; for the child lies naked at your back door, with the dogs, and it wails for its mother.
"Weep—as do I! Weep bitter tears—for that child is two thousand years old. And still it lies, unwashed and uncherished.
"Why do you vaunt your consecration, and prate of your Redeemer? Your Holy One still toils beneath His grievous cross, yet all your splendid churches have you built upon that heavy cross.
"You bear the mitre of Persians, and Egyptians, and the tabard of the Jews. And you also make use of the scourge wherewith the Jews did scourge Him.