"They bound and spat upon—they scourged and crucified and speared Him; but for two thousand years you have been roasting Him before a slow fire—before the fire of your lies and misrepresentations; of your treachery and arrogance; of your cruelties and perversions; of your pomp and oblations; of your transgressions, and of your attacks upon and strivings against the God who is Truth.
"You are commanded to serve your Father in spirit and in truth, and you have served Him with the letter and with lies.
"His prophets, who loved the truth better than their lives, you have burned at the stake, and have made them martyrs.
"Yet you have bent your proud neck to the world which you affect to despise. In the name of the Father you have burned and imprisoned sages; but at last you were forced to eat the bread of their wisdom, for the knife of the scornful was at your throat.
"The world you have disdained and denounced is wiser than you—more beautiful and even more holy.
"Black as the raven—black as the beetles, the moles, the creatures that live in the slime—black and vile, you burrow your secret way through the clear, bright world. But in your churches you enthrone yourselves and parade like kings—in violet and yellow and purple, and gold brocade.
"You were not commanded to found a kingdom solely for yourselves—a kingdom of the sacred and the elect in a world of the unholy and immature.
"You were commanded to spread abroad the kingdom of God over the whole earth—over all that weep and are oppressed.
"You were not commanded to despise the world and to forsake it, but you were commanded to hallow the world.
"You rend the world in twain, speaking of the sanctified and the unsanctified. Your Saviour lived among thieves, and died between murderers, nevertheless he promised them Paradise.
"Not until every man is sanctified, until every day is a holy day, and every house a House of God—-not until then may you speak of redemption, and array yourself in white and gold.
"Woe unto you, forsakers of the world! Was not the world bestowed upon you by the Father as the noblest and most precious gift of the dearest of friends?
"How dare you despise it?
"Will you openly preserve the penny of your enemy, and reject the noblest gift of the Most High?
"Do you speak in the name of the Triune God? But you have smitten the Father's face—you have martyred the Son, and the Holy Ghost have you violated.
"You have been told that God is Truth. Yet you have striven against the truth with torture-tongs, with dungeons, and with burnings at the stake.
"You have made the Son of man an object of ridicule—a shield for lying and violence, a pretext for strife and bloodshed, a monstrous idol.
"And of all sins, the worst is the sin against the Holy Ghost—which is the bread that you eat, and the water wherein you swim.
"You shackle and restrain the Spirit. This is of all sins the worst, and this you know.
"Where God alone may reign—in the free human heart—there you establish yourselves with your laws and dogmas, your writings and your imageries.
"Think you, madman, that the wisdom of the Eternal can be comprised within the limits of written or printed pages?
"To Him your sacred books are as cobwebs and sweepings; for He lives and moves eternally, and book nor brain can compass Him. Like to flowing water, you are told, is the wisdom of God. Forever changing, forever the same, no finite word can picture His progressive wisdom.
"There is more of the Father's wisdom in the shy, faltering whisper of a poor heathen child, than in all your bulls and councils and decretals.
"Would you put a tube to the lips of the Father, that He may speak at your pleasure? Yet will He speak as seems best to Himself.
"Would you point with the finger and say to Him: 'Here! These shall speak in thy name, and to these shalt thou give wisdom, and these shalt thou inspire with understanding, and these shalt thou save, and these condemn!'
"But He will reply: 'There!' and will regard your pointings even as the lava of a volcano regards the guide-posts and little crosses on the slopes.
"But your opinions and your pride are avenged, for the world commands you as the hunter his hound, as the show-man his monkey. You pull the carriage of prince and monied man, and make grimaces before the powerful.
"They build you churches, and you say masses for them, although they be Satan himself.
"The world is sanctified without you, and you sanctify yourselves because of the world.
"That your Popes are not more dissolute, your prelates more prodigal, and your friars more slothful, is because the world has constrained you. But you have constrained the world to no purpose.
"You have set yourself against the usurer, but the world will practise usury, and you practise usury with the world. Thus are you the ape and the servant of the world.
"Where you have rivals, you show yourself discreet; but where you are without competitors, there as ever you corrupt the land.
"You follow after the world, as a captive shark follows a sailing ship. You turn and twist, but the world points out the way—not you.
"Like a kettle tied by mischievous boys to the tail of a dog, so do you rattle with hollow menaces behind the course of the world. You scare, but do not guide.
"Yes, you strive against the sanctifying of the world, for with your hands you would conceal the godlike fire of knowledge; but the flame bursts through your fingers, and consumes you.
"What have you done for the sheep committed to your care—for the poor and bereaved—for the oppressed and the disinherited?
"Submission you have taught them—ay—submission to Mammon. You have taught them to bow meekly to Satan.
"God's light—the light of knowledge—you have withheld from them. Woe be to you!
"You have taught them to beg, and to kiss the rod that smote them. You have cloaked the shame of alms-receiving, and have prated of honor in servitude.
"Thus have you humbled man, and disfigured the human soul.
"With the fruit of their hands you have decorated your churches and adorned your unworthy bodies.
"You have aroused the devil in the heart—the devil of fear—fear of hell and everlasting punishment. The aspiration of the free heart toward God you have deadened; and with indulgences and the confessional have you lulled the waking conscience.
"Of the love of the Father you have made commerce—a sinful merchandise. Not because you love virtue do you preach it, but because of the sweet profit. You promise deliverance to all who follow your counsel; but as well can you make a present of moon and stars.
"Are you not told to recompense evil with good? And is God less than man that He should do otherwise?
"It is well for you that He does not do otherwise, for where then were your salvation?
"For you, and you only, are the brood of vipers against whom is kindled the wrath of Him who was gentle with adulterers and murderers."
While speaking, the man had risen to his full height, and he now appeared, to all there assembled, impressively tall.
When he had spoken, reaching his right hand backward he grasped the foot of the great golden crucifix. It snapped off like glass, and he threw it on the marble floor at the feet of the priest. The fragment broke into many bits. It was apparently not wood, but plaster.
"Sacrilege!" cried the priest, in a stifled voice, as if the sound were wrung from his throat. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his great purple face.
The man quietly replied:
"No, but my right; for you are the sacrilegist and the blasphemer who makes of the Son of man a hideous caricature."
Then the priest stepped forward, and gripped Markus by the wrist. The latter made no resistance, but cried in a loud voice that reverberated through the church:
"Do your work, Caiaphas!"
After that he suffered himself to be led away to the sacristy.
While the congregation still sat, spellbound and motionless, Johannes hastily writhed his way out between the benches and the throngs of people.
Father Canisius returned, now quite calm and far less red. And while the sacristan with broom and dust-pan swept up the fragments and put them into a basket, the priest turned toward the audience and said:
"Have sympathy with the poor maniac. We will pray for him."
After that, the service proceeded without further disturbance.
In a dreary district of the city, at the end of a long, lonely street, stands a long, gloomy building. The windows—all of the same form—are of ground glass, and the house itself is lengthened by a high wall. What lies behind this wall the neighbors do not know; but sometimes strange noises are borne over it—loud singing, yelling, dismal laughter, and monotonous mutterings.
On the steps of this house, silent, and with earnest faces, stood Johannes and Marjon. The latter had on a simple, dark gown, and she carried Keesje on her arm.
The door was opened by a porter wearing a uniform-cap. The man gave them, especially the monkey, a critical, hesitating look.
"That will not do," said he, drily. "You must leave your little ones at home when you come here to make visits."
"Come," said Marjon, without a smile at his jest, "ask the superintendent. My brother is so fond of him, and I do not dare leave him at home."
They had to wait awhile in the vestibule. At first they said not a word, and Keesje was very still.
Then, scratching Keesje's head, Johannes quietly remarked, "He has grown thin."
"He has a cough," said Marjon.
At length the doorkeeper came back, with the superintendent. Johannes instantly recognized in the tall, spare gentleman, the slovenly black suit, the gold spectacles, and the bushy white hair, his old friend Dr. Cijfer.
"Whom have they come to see?" he asked.
"The new one who was brought in yesterday—working-class," said the doorkeeper.
"Violent?" asked the doctor.
"No, quiet, Doctor. But they want to take their monkey with them."
"Why so, young people?" asked Dr. Cijfer, frowning at the monkey over the top of his spectacles in a most objectionable manner, to the discomfiture of Keesje.
"Doctor Cijfer, have you forgotten me?" asked Johannes.
"Wait," said the doctor, giving him a sharp look, "are you the boy who assisted me some time ago, and then ran away? Your name, indeed, was Johannes, was it not?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Ah, yes," said the doctor, reflecting. "A rather queer boy, with some talent. And there is a brother of yours here? I always thought there were hereditarymomentsin your family. You were a queer boy."
"But it can't do any harm if our monkey goes with us, Doctor," said Marjon. "He is quite still and obedient."
Slowly shaking his head, the doctor made a prolonged "m-m-m" with his compressed lips, as if to say that he did not himself think it so hazardous.
"I have not yet seen the patient. We will ask the junior physician if he may receive callers. But only ten minutes—not longer, mind."
Dr. Cijfer vanished with the doorkeeper, and again the trio waited a considerable time.
Then the doorkeeper returned with a man-nurse in white jacket and apron. The latter led them down long halls, three times unlocking different doors and gratings with the key that he carried in his hand, until it seemed to Johannes as if they were pressing deeper and deeper into realms of error and constraint.
But it was still there—sadly still—not, as Johannes had expected it to be, noisy with ravings. Now and then a patient in a dark blue uniform came toward them, carrying a pail or a basket. He would look back at them suspiciously, and then go farther on, softly muttering.
At last they came to a dismal reception-room with a little wooden table and four rush-seated chairs. It was lighted from above, and there was no outlook. There they were left by themselves in painful suspense.
After what again seemed to be a very long time a different door of the same little room was opened by another nurse; and then, at last, Little Johannes could rest again on the bosom of his beloved brother.
But even before Johannes could reach him, Keesje had sprung to his shoulder and received the first greeting.
"Hey, Markus, do you greet Kees before you do us?" said Marjon, laughing through her tears.
"Are you jealous?" asked Markus. "He has become such a good comrade of mine."
Drawing Keesje up to him, he sat down, while Johannes and Marjon kneeled, one on each side. The two young people regarded him a long while without saying anything; yet it did them good.
"Only ten minutes," sighed Johannes, "and I have so much to ask and to say."
"Do not be uneasy," said Markus. "I shall not be here long.
"Is it not frightful here?" asked Marjon.
"It is the most sorrowful place on earth. But it is without deceit; and I am happy here, for I can do much to comfort."
"But it is fearfully unjust to put you here, with crazy folks," said Marjon. "Those miserable creatures!" and she clenched her slender little hand.
"It is only a small part of the great wrong. They act according to their understanding."
"Markus," said Johannes, "I want to ask you this: I saw poor Heléne in the kingdom of the Evil One. Do you know whom I mean? You do? What does that signify? And will she be saved?"
"I know whom you mean, Johannes; but do not forget that we are all in the kingdom of the Evil One. Only in the heart of the Father are we free. The Father allows Waan to have power over all who are away from Him—even over me.
"But not for ever, Markus."
"How can that which is evil avail for ever? The melancholy seem to be the chosen ones. The burden they bear is a precious one, but only if they realize that it is of the Father. Then it sanctifies; otherwise it crushes. Some learn this first through death, as did Heléne."
"Markus," said Marjon then, "we both have had such wicked things in our heads. Shall we ever be forgiven them?"
"Tell me about them," said Markus. "I know indeed, but yet tell me."
"We have wanted to murder, out of jealousy—he and ... and I."
"That is the way with stags and buffaloes and cocks," said Markus. "They kill one another on account of their love. The strongest survives, and feels not the least remorse. And he is forgiven."
"But we are human, Markus," said Johannes.
"That is fine, dear Johannes, that you should say it of yourself. And yet you have not murdered anybody, have you?"
"No, but I have wanted to."
"Truly and with all your heart?"
"Not that way," said Johannes.
"No, for in that case you would not now be asking forgiveness. Forgiveness is already there, because insight is forgiveness."
The two disciples were silent, and looked at him thoughtfully through half-closed eyes. At last Marjon said:
"But then if we had done it we would have been forgiven all the sooner; for then we should have perceived the sooner that it was wrong."
"You would then have experienced the desire for, and the satisfaction in, the deed, and have lost the fear of it. That would have been two more fetters for you, with the power to understand reduced."
"But yet there are things which we have to do in order to know that they are wicked," said Johannes.
"Are there such things?" asked Markus. "Well, then, do them; but do not complain if the lesson is a hard one. There are children, also, who do not believe their parents when they tell them that fire will burn, and that burns are painful. And yet such children cry if they burn themselves."
"But why is it so intolerable to think that another will obtain that which we hold dear? Is that wicked?" asked Marjon.
"It is not wicked to long for love or power or honor, when those things are our due because of our being wise and good. But that which he covets comes not to the jealous one, nor power to him who thirsts for it, nor honor to the over-ambitious. The things longed for will not satisfy them. Nor are eating and drinking bad in themselves, but they are only for those who have need of them."
At that moment the door was unlocked. As it swung open the nurse said that the time was up, adding:
"Perhaps you may come again to-morrow."
"Will he have to stay here?" asked Marjon, as they were on their way down the long hall.
"Well," replied the nurse, "they may indeed shut up quite a lot more. He can deal with the violent ones better than the professor can. There was one here who gave us a lot of trouble, because he wouldn't eat. He'd thrown his plate at me head. Look here! What a cut! But your brother had him eating inside of ten minutes."
"Will he soon be free?" asked Johannes.
"They ought to make him a professor," was the reply. "I've heard they're to examine him to-morrow."
Little was said while Johannes was accompanying Marjon to the boarding-house in which she now lived. It was kept by one of Markus's friends, a workman in the iron foundry. The man was called Jan van Tijn, and was foreman of the hammer-works. He earned sixteen guldens a week, and had nine children. His dwelling had three small rooms and a kitchen, and there twelve persons had to sleep—father, mother, nine children, and the boarder. But Juffrouw van Tijn was still young, with a fresh face and a pair of strong arms, and she made light of her work.
"If there are to be still more of us," said Jan, "we must begin to lie in a row—spoon-fashion."
Jan had a long blonde moustache and a pair of shrewd eyes, and his manner of speech was coarse—terribly so. Marjon slept in the little kitchen, and, as Jan's eldest girl was not yet sixteen, Marjon could be of great service in the family.
"Did you get him out?" asked Jan, who had come in his working-blouse to meet them. And when they shook their heads, he began cursing, tremendously.
"Well-! Did ye ever see such scoundrels? I'd like to pitch into the loons! Can't that perfesser see that Markus knows more in his little finger than the whole scurvy lot of them—patients, doctors, perfessers, and all? And because he's given the priest a dressing-down, and broken an image worth a nickel, must he be shut up in a mad-house? Well-!!!"
Jan was furious, and proposed, with the aid of a sledge-hammer, to convince the learned gentlemen that they had made a blunder.
"He is to be examined to-morrow," said Johannes, thinking to calm him.
But Jan retorted scornfully, "Examined! Examined! I'll examine their own cocoanuts with a three-inch gimlet! If anything comes out but sawdust I hope to drop dead."
He said much more that I will not repeat.
Johannes stayed away from the Villa Dolores the entire day, for it was too dreary for him there. He would now far rather be in this poor household with its many children. He noticed how the young mother managed her uproarious little troop, how constantly and cheerfully busy she was the whole day long—bearing, and getting the better of, difficulties which would have dismayed and discouraged many another.
Johannes ate with them, and although not very hungry, because of his anxiety, he enjoyed his food. And after they had had their late afternoon coffee, and the younger children had gone to bed—when Van Tijn had returned from his work, and with a certain solemn thoughtfulness had filled his pipe and was silently smoking it—then Johannes felt wonderfully at peace. He had not known such peace in a long time. Very little was said. Outside, the twilight was falling; indoors, the only light was from the little flame under the coffee-pot. The women, too, were tired, and sat listening to the sounds in the street. And Johannes knew that they were all thinking of the friend in the asylum.
That evening, when he was again in the handsome, luxurious villa, everything seemed strange and distasteful. In the brightly lighted drawing-room, chatting in a low tone, Van Lieverlee sat close beside the lady of the house, with an intolerable air of being the rightful lord of the manor. Johannes merely wanted to bid them good-night.
"Have you found your poor friend?" asked Van Lieverlee, in his most condescending manner.
"Yes, Mijnheer," replied Johannes. And then, after some hesitation: "Can anything be done to get him out promptly?"
"My dear boy," said Van Lieverlee, "it is not to be desired, either for his own sake or that of society. I am not a doctor, but that he belongs where he is I can see at once, as could any layman. What do you think, Dearest?"
Dolores nodded languidly, and said: "My heart was touched for the man—he has a fine face. And have you noticed, Walter, what a splendid baritone voice he has?"
"Yes," said Van Lieverlee; "it is a pity he is out of his head. What a good singer of Wagner he might be! An excellent Parsifal! Do you not think so, Dolores?"
"A splendid Parsifal! Perhaps he may get well yet," added the countess.
"Oh, no," said Van Lieverlee. "That sort of prophet-frenzy is incurable. I know indeed of so many cases."
For an instant Johannes stood hesitating. Should he give vent to what was boiling in his breast?
But he was older now, and he curbed himself. Before he went to sleep he resolved: "This is my last night here."
Again they stood on the steps of the gloomy building—the three—Johannes, Marjon, and Keesje. It was a bleak day, and Keesje's thin little black face peeped out from under a thick shawl.
"Just go into the doctor's room, will you?" said the doorkeeper. "The doctor wishes to speak with you. The professor is there, also," he added, importantly. And when Marjon would have gone with them, he extended his hand as if to stay her, saying, "Pardon, but the lady and the little one weren't invited."
Without replying, Marjon turned round to Johannes and said, "Then I'll wait for you at the house. Will you come soon?"
In the tiresome, pompous quarters of the doctor, with its bookcases draped in green, its white gypsum busts of Galenus, Hippocrates, and other old physicians, sat two dark-coated gentlemen. They were vis-à-vis, each in an office-chair, and deep in conversation.
On the large writing-table lay several open books, and some shining white metal instruments for measuring and examining.
"Sit down, my friend," said Professor Bommeldoos, in his loud voice and brusque manner. "We all know one another, do we not? We have already made an examination together."
Johannes silently took a seat.
"Let me explain to you, Johannes," said Dr. Cijfer, in more soft and moderate tones. "We—Professor Bommeldoos and I—have been charged by the judicial commission to make a medical investigation of the mental condition of your brother. He has committed a crime—not a heavy one, but yet not without significance, and one for which he ought to have been placed under arrest. Yet the clergyman thought him irresponsible, and summoned a physician from the asylum. Your brother simply would not reply to the latter. He was stubbornly silent."
Johannes nodded. He knew it already.
"That was the reason for his being temporarily secluded here. Now I have seen the patient myself once, but I am sorry to have to say that I can get no further than the other physician. When I interrogate him he looks at me in a very peculiar way, and remains silent."
"I do not understand, Colleague," said Bommeldoos, "why you did not instantly diagnose this as a symptom of megalomania."
"But, worthy Colleague," replied Dr. Cijfer, "he does talk with the nurses and his fellow patients, and he is obliging and ready to help. They all wish him well—yes, they are even singularly fond of him."
"All of which comports very well with my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos.
"Does he often have those whims, Johannes," asked Dr. Cijfer, "when he will not speak?"
"He has no whims," said Johannes, stoutly.
"Why, then, will he not reply?"
"I think you would not answer me," returned Johannes, "if I were to ask you if you were mad."
The two learned men exchanged smiles.
"That is a somewhat different situation," said Bommeldoos, haughtily.
"He was not questioned in such a blunt manner as that," explained Doctor Cijfer. "I asked about his extraction, his age, the health of his father and mother, about his own youth, and so forth—the usual memory promptings. Will you not give us some further information concerning him? Remember, it is of real importance to your brother."
"Mijnheer," said Johannes, "I know as little as yourself about all that. And even if I knew more I would not tell you what he himself thought best not to tell."
"Come, come, my boy," said the professor, "are you trying to make sport of us? Do you not know whence you came? Nothing of your parents, nor of your youth?"
Johannes hesitatingly considered whether or not he should do as Markus had done, and answer no questions whatever. But still he might reply to those that concerned only himself.
"I do, indeed, know all that about myself, but not about him," said he.
"Then you are not brothers?" asked the doctor.
"No, not in the sense you mean."
Dr. Cijfer looked at Bommeldoos as if to see what he thought of this reply. Then he touched a bell-button, saying:
"It seems to me, Colleague, that we might better see him face to face. We can then, perhaps, get on better than when apart."
Bommeldoos nodded solemnly, and passed his hand over his mighty forehead. A servant came in.
"Will you bring the patient Vis from the ward of the calm patients, working-class?"
"Very well, Doctor."
The servant vanished, and for several minutes afterward it was as still as death in the study. The two learned men stared at the carpet quite absorbed in thought—not minding delay—after the manner of deep thinkers. Johannes heard the clock ticking on the mantel, the faint music from an out-of-doors band playing a merry march, the sound of hurrahs, and the clatter of horses' hoofs on the cobblestone pavement. The royal wedding-festivities were still in progress, and Johannes could mentally see the two people who at that moment were bowing and waving as they sat in their carriage. There was a knock at the door. The nurse came and said, "Here is the patient." Then he let Markus in, remaining himself to look on.
"I will ring for you," said Dr. Cijfer, with a gesture. The nurse disappeared.
Markus had on a dark-blue linen blouse, such as all the patients of the working-class wear. He stood tall and erect, and Johannes observed that his face was less pale and sad than usual. The blue became his dark curling hair, and Johannes felt happy and confident as he looked at him—standing there so proud and calm and handsome.
"Take a seat," said Dr. Cijfer.
But Markus seemed not to have heard, and remained standing, while he nodded kindly and reassuringly to Johannes.
"Observe his pride," said Professor Bommeldoos, in Latin, to Dr. Cijfer.
"The proud find pride, and the gloomy, gloom; but the glad find gladness, and the lowly, humility," said Markus.
Dr. Cijfer stood up, and took his measuring instrument from the table. Then, in a quiet, courteous tone, he said:
"Will you not permit us, Mijnheer, to take your head measure? It is for a scientific purpose."
"It gives no pain," added Bommeldoos.
"Not to the body," said Markus.
"There is nothing in it to offend one," said Dr. Cijfer. "I have had it done to myself many a time."
"There is a kind of opinionativeness and denseness that offend."
Bommeldoos flushed. "Opinionativeness and denseness! Mine, perchance? Am I such an ignoramus? Opinionated and stupid!"
"Colleague!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer, in gentle expostulation. And then, as he enclosed Markus's head with the shining craniometer, he gave the measurement figures. A considerable time passed, nothing being heard save the low voice of the doctor dictating the figures. Then, as if proceeding with his present occupation, taking advantage of what he considered a compliant mood of the patient, the crafty doctor fancied he saw his opportunity, and said:
"Your parents certainly dwelt in another country—one more southerly and more mountainous."
But Markus removed the doctor's hand, with the instrument, from his head, and looked at him piercingly.
"Why are you not sincere?" asked he then, with gentle stress. "How can truth be found through untruth?"
Dr. Cijfer hesitated, and then did exactly what Father Canisius had done—something which, later, he was of the opinion he ought not to have done: he argued with him.
"But if you will not give me a direct reply I am obliged to get the truth circuitously."
Said Markus, "A curved sword will not go far into a straight scabbard."
Professor Bommeldoos grew impatient, and snapped at the doctor aside in a smothered voice: "Do not argue, Colleague, do not argue! Megalomaniacs are smarter, and sometimes have subtler dialectic faculties, than you have. Just letmeconduct the examination."
And then, after a loud "h'm! h'm!" he said to Markus:
"Well, my friend, then I will talk straight out to you. It is better so, is it not? Then will you give me a direct reply?"
Markus looked at him for some time, and said: "You cannot."
"I cannot! Cannot what?"
"Talk," replied Markus.
"I cannot talk! Well, well! I cannot talk! Colleague, you will perhaps take note of that. You say I cannot talk. What am I now doing?"
"Stammering," said Markus.
"Exactly—exactly! All men stammer. The doctor stammers, and I stammer, and Hegel stammers, and Kant stammers...."
"They do," said Markus.
"Mijnheer Vis, then, is the only one who can talk. Is it not so?"
"Not with you," replied Markus. "In order to talk one must have a hearer who can understand."
Dr. Cijfer smiled, and whispered, not without a shade of irony, "Take care, Colleague! You also err in dialectics." But Bommeldoos angrily shook his round head with its bulbous cheeks, and continued:
"That is to say that you consider yourself wiser than all other men? Note the reply, Colleague."
"I think myself wiser than you," said Markus. "Decide yourself whether this means wiser than all other men."
"I have made a note of the reply," said Dr. Cijfer, while a sound of satisfaction came from his pursed-up lips.
Yet the professor took no notice of these ironical remarks, and proceeded:
"Now just tell me, frankly, my friend, are you a prophet? An apostle? Are you perhaps the King? Or are you God himself?"
Markus was silent.
"Why do you not answer now?"
"Because I am not being questioned."
"Not being questioned! What, then, am I now doing?"
"Raving," said Markus.
Again Bommeldoos flushed, and lost his composure.
"Be careful, my friend. You must not be impertinent. Remember that we may decide your fate here."
Markus lifted his head, with a questioning air, so earnest that the professor held his peace.
"With whom rests the decision of our fate?" asked Markus. Then, pointing with his finger: "Do you consider yourself the one to decide?"
Both of the learned ones were silent, being impressed for the moment. Markus continued:
"Why do notyounow reply? And would you have decided otherwise had I not been what you term impertinent?"
Here Dr. Cijfer interposed:
"No, no, Mijnheer, you mistake. But it is not nice of you to offend a learned man like the professor here. We are performing a scientific task. You impress us as being a person of refinement and advancement, aside from the question of your being ill or not. For all that, it behooves you to have respect for science, and for those who are devoting all their efforts and even their lives to its development."
"Do you know," asked Bommeldoos, in a voice now near to breaking, "do you know what the man whom you have scoffed at as opinionated, stupid, and a ranter—what that man has written and accomplished?"
Then Markus's stern features relaxed, assuming a softer, more companionable expression, and he took a chair and sat down close beside his two examiners.
"Look," said he, showing both of his open palms, "your naked sensibilities protrude on all sides—from under the cloak of your wisdom. How otherwise could I have touched you?"
"Your wisdom—so much greater—does not, however, make you invulnerable to our opinion and stupidity," said Professor Bommeldoos, still tartly, indeed, but yet with far more courtesy.
"The most high wisdom of God does not make Him invulnerable to our sorrows and sins," returned Markus. "Wisdom is a covering which makes its wearer not insensible to suffering, but able to support it."
"Forever that speaking in metaphor!" exclaimed Bommeldoos. "Figures of speech do not instruct. A weak and childish mind always makes use of metaphors. Science demands pure speech and logical argument."
"Forgive me if I offend still further," said Markus, gently now and kindly, as he laid his hand on the black cloth enveloping the arm of the professor, "but it is exactly your own weakness that you cannot question. Science is the light of the Father. Why should not I respect it? And I know also what you have written and accomplished. But the most you did was to question imperfectly, and then to assume the complete reply. That one should find it so difficult and unsatisfactory to reply amazes you, because you do not realize the imperfection of your questions. But the finest and clearest responses—those that are most satisfying and intelligible to all—await those who have learned better how to question. If I esteem myself wiser than you, it is solely because I realize that we have nothing but metaphors, and that we must patiently and unpretendingly decipher as a communication from the Father the meaning of all these metaphors. While you imagine that, from your words and documents, one may comprehend His living Being."
"With your permission," interrupted the professor. "You seem not to have read what I have written concerning the logical necessity of an incomprehensible basis for reality. Did you consider me such a dunce as not to have perceived that?"
"To speak of things is not necessarily to understand them," replied Markus. "And so to speak of them is proof of not understanding."
"I know very well what the human mind can compass, and what not; and in my last work, 'On the Essence of Matter,' I think I have defined the utmost to which the human mind can attain," said Professor Bommeldoos.
"So did the Egyptians place the farthest reaches of the earth at the first falls of the Nile, to which the river was said to have flowed from heaven. And thousands and thousands of years passed away before they ventured to step beyond that boundary. And now the world is beginning to fraternize, and men to co-operate—now the barriers of the world are being removed to infinite distance. Who then shall term that which the human intellect can grasp, the extreme limit?"
"There remains a barrier, constituted by our material structure, just as there is a barrier because of our confinement to this terrestrial ball which we cannot leave," declared Professor Bommeldoos, loudly and oracularly, encircling his chin with his hand, as was his habit when in learned discussions. He seemed to have quite forgotten that he had before him a patient for examination.
"You read the book of life from the end toward the beginning," said Markus, "and see the world upside down. Why do you babble of a dead dust which would establish a limit to the life of the soul? But all matter is made of living thought, and nothing is lifeless, or formed without life. Mountains and seas are thoughts of the earth; and planets and suns, and all life, are the thoughts of God. The stone at your feet seems to you dead; but neither does the ant that creeps over your hand perceive the life of it. You have built up your own body—"
"Out of existent material," cried the professor.
"There is nothing existent as the effect of other life, that you cannot search into. And the operations of your life meet on all sides the counter-influences of other lives. But all is spirit and life. Shall, then, a builder say that the house he has built defines the boundary outside of which he cannot go?"
"But a race like the human race preserves its permanent characteristics," interpolated Dr. Cijfer.
"Why do we term permanent the creatures of one day? There is nothing permanent, and there are no persistent races. Life is a flowing water, a flaming fire—never the same from one second to another. But in your ignorance you make fixed definitions, write dead words and dead books, and imagine that you understand the things that live."
There was an instant of silence. Then Markus added:
"You have yourselves created death, and placed the barriers. Your words are diseased and rotten; and with those words you would analyze life. Would you perform an operation with unclean knives? But with your dead words you cut into life, and thus spread death."
Another silence, and then:
"Purify your thoughts and your words. Put away that which is impure—that is, the superfluous. Make a science of words, as you have made a science of the stars—as exact and as sacred.
"Through co-operation and fellowship among scholars you have created a system of relations called mathematics. Make also such a system of significations, for you miss your mark with words, and fail to find that life which is the most beautiful and exquisite, as children miss the moths they would catch with their caps and with bags. And through co-operation and fellowship you shall create a demand, the response to which shall ring out like a revelation and an evangel—full, joyous, marvelous."
Markus ceased speaking, and gazed as though into the far distance. For a while they all waited, respectfully, to see if he was going to say more, for they had been listening eagerly.
Then Dr. Cijfer said, in a gentle tone: "Your views are surely worthy of consideration. Neither did I make a mistake when I thought you a person of advancement and refinement. But let me remind you that we are here for the purpose of making a medical examination. Without doubt you will now indeed reply to the simple questions that I shall put to you."
Markus, throwing a glance and a smile to Johannes, who had been listening with breathless attention, said to the learned men:
"I spoke not for you; that were fruitless. I spoke for him."
After that he uttered not a word. Dr. Cijfer questioned with gentle stress, Professor Bommeldoos with vehement energy; but Markus was silent, and seemed not to notice that there were others in the room.
"I adhere to my diagnosis, Colleague," said Bommeldoos.
Dr. Cijfer rang, and ordered the nurse to come.
"Take the patient to his ward again. He will remain, for the present, under observation."
Markus went, after making a short but kindly inclination of the head to Johannes.
"Will you not tell us now, Johannes, what you know of this person?" asked Dr. Cijfer.
"Mijnheer," replied Johannes, "I know but little more of him than you do yourself. I met him two years ago, and he is my dearest friend; but I have seen him rarely, and have never inquired about his life nor his origin."
"Remarkable!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer.
"Once again, Colleague, I stand by my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos. "Initial paranoia, with megalomaniacal symptoms, on the basis of hereditary inferiority, with vicarious genius."
In all this time the King and Queen were not yet married. That was the way of things in such lofty circles. They were still to attend many more banquets, to listen to many more speeches, and to make a great many more bows. I should judge, indeed, that they were just about half-way through.
And while most of the people acted as if they thought the ceremonies proper and pleasant, and took their part in the celebrations, there were others, who met to say that they were not altogether pleased. Such gatherings are called "indignation meetings." Of course they do not protest against the marriage of those two people—they have nothing to say against that—but only against the prolonged ceremonials. They consider the banquets, the fine array, the wine-drinking and the feasting occasioned thereby, both costly and unnecessary. They also consider the maintenance of a king and queen costly and unnecessary.
Such an opinion is, indeed, very uncommon, if not unheard of; for you remember that even the creatures of the pond into which Johannes dived with Windekind had found the need of a king who could eat a great deal. So, when Jan van Tijn and his wife got ready to attend that indignation meeting, Johannes wished to accompany them; for he was curious to hear what would be said there.
Like Marjon, Johannes was now in a boarding-house. He was with some friends of Jan—a worthy couple without children—who kept a total-abstinence coffee-house. The man was named Roodhuis, and he was tall and stout. He had a large, forceful face, light-colored eyes, and a small, fair moustache. He said little, and had a great dislike of alcohol and of soldiers. His wife, too, seldom spoke, but was very kindly and industrious. Through their little business they made a livelihood, and no more. They were interested in everything that concerned the labor movement, and received in their small assembly-place all of the leaders and speakers prominent in the struggle. In that little hall, too, choir rehearsals were held, and little plays were given—as often as possible, adverse to war and to alcohol, and in favor of the so ardently desired Freedom and Fraternity.
Here Johannes found board and lodging, for which he did not need to pay, because he lent a helping hand in the work of the place.
He had just been having a hard experience: he had bidden his little friends good-by. Although they had grown larger and stronger, and were therefore no longer so tender and delicate as when he first saw them, yet the parting was full of sadness.
"Why do you go away, Johnny, and where are you going to live?" they asked.
"I am poor, and must work to earn my bread," replied Johannes.
"Oh, but Mama will give you money—will you not, Mama? And you can always eat and live here. Then you will not need to work," said Olga.
"You can have half of my share of oatmeal every time," said Frieda; "I get more than I want, though."
"No, children," said the mother, "it is not nice nor well to live upon what one gets from another, without working one's self. That is parasitism, and sinful before God. Johannes knows this, and being poor he is good to wish to work."
"Well, then, dear Johnny," said Olga, "I shall pray that God will make you rich quickly—as rich as we are; and then you will not need to work, and will come back again."
"I don't think it nice of God to make Johnny poor and us rich," said Frieda, pouting.
"Fie, Frieda, you must not say that," said Mevrouw. And then Johannes went away swiftly and bravely before the tears came.
Later, he heard that Van Lieverlee, whom he had not bidden good-by, had told everybody that Johannes had left in a pet to live with some proletarians because of his having been repeatedly rebuked by himself on account of his excessive vanity.
In the little public room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house, "The Future," a large circle of congenial spirits sat waiting. Jan van Tijn was there, his wife, an infant, and the oldest girl. Marjon was there also, a neighbor having volunteered to care for the other Van Tijn children. Besides those named, there were about twenty other men and women in the little hall with its dirty, dingy hangings. On small tables in front of the visitors were cups of tea and chocolate. Many mothers had brought their infants. There was a dearth of talking and a deal of smoking; for it would have been too much, at the outset, to put a ban upon both alcohol and tobacco.
"Well, what did they find with their examination?" asked Jan van Tijn, as Johannes entered the smoky hall.
"He is not free yet," replied Johannes, "but he talked with them so finely and sanely they are bound to let him go."
"Good!" said Jan.
"Come here, Jo. Here's a cup of comfort for you, then," said Vrouw Roodhuis.
"But all the same," cried a man with a hoarse voice, a sallow face, and black beard, dressed in a brown Manchester suit, with a loose scarf around his sweater, and a pair of sandals on his bare feet, "you needn't think he will be set free. As soon as you begin to oppose that pest of hypocrites, you'll have the whole crew at your throat. That sort knows it all, every time—whether it be the pastor, or the dominie, or the general, or the professor—always the same pack; and if they once get you into their clutches you never get out again, whether in jail or in the madhouse or in the hospital; you never get out till they've given you a good start toward kingdom-come."
"Are they goin' to poison 'im?" asked a woman, in alarm. "What with? Ratsbane?"
"They'll poison him, for sure," answered the man in brown, "or they'll nag him to death, or starve him. They have methods and tricks enough—the villains!"
It was scarcely half-past eight o'clock yet, and the indignation meeting was to begin at nine. So it was proposed to shorten the time with recitations and singing. And this was done. First some one sang alone—the song of a poor conscript who was forced to go to war, and had conscientious scruples about it. Then they all sang a song of freedom.
After that, a very young typographer recited, with great fervor, a poem describing the way the Jews made merry at the crucifixion of Jesus on Golgotha; how they even took their little children with them, and hoped the anguish would be prolonged, that they might have the more pleasure.
The description of that cruelty, vehemently expressed, made a deep impression, and they sat listening with open mouths notwithstanding that they had heard it many times before. When it was over they all stamped uproariously on the floor.
At that moment the door opened, and Markus stood at the threshold of the little hall.
"Hurrah!" cried Johannes; and the others, who had just before been shouting; "Hurrah for Golgotha!" now shouted "Hurrah for Markus!" They were all greatly excited and glad to see him free.
"Good-evening," said Markus, without giving token, himself, of being particularly glad. He wore again his customary workman's suit. From all sides hands were held out to him.
"I hadn't thought it," said Jan, "that they'd let you out of their clutches again. How did you manage it?"
"Let 'im have something to eat, first," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "Aren't you hungry, man? You couldn't have been in clover there."
"I shouldn't have had any appetite with all those mad folks about," remarked another woman. "And then, too, when they wanted to poison you!"
"Yes, I am hungry," said Markus. And then bread and milk were given him.
"Why did you come here again?" asked Marjon.
Markus replied simply, "I had something more to say."
After he had eaten, he asked, "Is there a meeting to-night? Who called it?"
"The politicians," replied the young typographer.
"Felbeck wants to be President of the Republic," said the man in brown.
"Is there to be a debate?" asked Markus.
"Listen! Hakkema is coming, too. Oh, there'll be a racket!" said Jan.
"You might say a little something, too, Markus," said Roodhuis. "You must give that confounded military set a good thrashing, just such as you give the pious."
"I never have given the pious a 'thrashing,'" said Markus.
"That's a damn shame!" said the man with the sandals. "Religion is the root of all evil."
"No, it's militarism," said Roodhuis.
"No, alcohol," said the young typographer.
"Neither of them! It's eating meat that does it," said a pale, slim little woman, not yet twenty. "First you slaughter animals, then you eat them, then you drink, and then you murder and steal. One thing leads to another."
"So long, I say, as the people let themselves be taxed and fleeced by kings and priests, so long as they bow to a boss—whether they call him patron or God makes no difference—so long shall we remain in misery."
"Now, Markus," said Jan, "put in an oar yourself. You know better how to pull than the rest of 'em, I should say."
"Well, I will tell you a story," said Markus, "if you will promise to remember it, and not ask an explanation."
"Why not an explanation?" asked the man in brown. "What does that mean? Is it a riddle?"
"I would just as soon be silent," said Markus.
"Come, now, Markus, pitch in! We won't ask you any more than you want to tell us."
"Listen, then," said Markus; and he began his story in a tone which constrained them all to silence.
"Once there were some field-laborers who were very poor—so poor that when they were asked how, with all their children, they could make both ends meet, they replied, 'The churchyard helps us out.'
"They had a rich landlord, and there was an abundance of land. But they were obliged to work so long every day, and so many days in succession, that they had no time to learn anything—not even the best way to plow and sow and reap. They did only the work they were bidden to do. So they remained dull because they were poor, and poor because they were dull. It seemed as if it would stay thus until eternity.
"But the landlord grew richer and richer, through the toil of his many laborers, and according to the increase of his wealth did he become more covetous and dissolute and indolent. And he demanded that his laborers work still harder because his desires were greater.
"But that they could not do. And the help of the churchyard was so very great that they were filled with fear.
"Then, through their great need, there came to one of them a little spark of light, and he said to the others: 'Brothers, this is all wrong. At this rate we shall very soon perish ourselves. We have hungered long enough. Let us slay him and seize the treasure we have collected for him.'
"That seemed to the others a good plan, and they wondered they had not thought of it before. Thereupon they slew the rich landlord, and divided his wealth. But, because he had lived a prodigal life, and since they themselves knew not the best way to plow, to sow, and to reap, they were in a short time still poorer than before.
"Then the son of the landlord, who had escaped, returned to them, and said:
"'You see it was stupid of you to kill your master, for now you are bound to starve, because you cannot manage for yourselves.'
"Then they replied: 'Be to us then a better master, and we will let you live.'
"And the son of the landlord, who had the knowledge of his father, directed their work. And he became rich, and they remained poor—so poor that the churchyard had to help, although not to the former extent. Yet was there land in abundance.
"But the spark of knowledge which that extreme need had awakened continued to shine, and that one laborer said to his fellow-workers: 'Brothers, still is it not well, for, although we do not yet die ourselves from want, our children die. And although it is not right to slay one's lord, why should it be right to make him so rich that he becomes idle and lewd and wanton? We labor hard, and our toil enriches him. But he saves nothing. When we struck down his father we did not find enough to feed us for a week. We must not suffer this, for our wives and children can live upon what he wastes.'
"Then said another: 'We have no need of the landlord, but of his knowledge. For when we had slain our lord we found ourselves no richer. Nor had we the skill to create new wealth. Therefore are we even more miserable than before.'
"At that, a third one said: 'Lacking our labor, must he die; but without his knowledge we must starve. Let us go to him, and say that we will not give him our labor unless he give us his knowledge. If he refuse, then we shall die with him; if he assent, then we shall all live.'
"This the laborers did. And the young landlord, fearful lest he die, taught all who asked him with what they must fertilize the land, and what to sow, and how to irrigate, and all the secrets of tilling the soil, so that they might live. And he also gave to every one that asked it some land to cultivate, and a handful of grain. 'For my forefathers also began with no more than this,' said he.
"Then some of them took the handful of grain and ate it up, because they were so poor and so greedy. And they squandered away their piece of land, and asked not for the knowledge wherewith to till it.
"But others, accepting the knowledge, cultivated their piece of land with the mouthful of grain. But because they had for so long suffered a scarcity they were overjoyed at the harvest. And those—the first—who had again become poor, they pressed into their service. So each became a landlord, and they each gave to the first landlord a share of what was theirs. Thus the first landlord remained very rich, while the others were even richer, and the very poorest remained as miserable as before. All that resulted was the renewal of slothfulness, prodigality, and killing. And the churchyard had to keep on helping.
"But the spark of knowledge, once lighted, continued to burn, and one laborer said to the others: 'Brothers, still it is not well, for we remain unhappy beings. The rich are unhappy through their over-abundance, and the poor through their poverty. What, then, shall be done that it be otherwise?'
"Then said another: 'Brothers, we have taken away from our landlord both his power and his knowledge. We have no further need of him. But what master is it then of whom we have need? For we are as miserable as before.'
"Then said another: 'Brothers, we still need a master, but one who will teach us wisdom and charity; for is it not ignorance through which some have eaten up their seed-grain; and a lack of charity that has caused others to waste all their harvest, and compelled the poorest to serve them?'
"Then they chose a master who taught them wisdom and charity, and that master said: 'You shall not give full possession of the land, for it is lent to all; and of your harvest shall you not—you and your household—consume more than is good for your health. And all the surplus shall you sow again; for there is land enough. And no man shall work for another who can himself work and yet does not.'
"And they did according to this command. And under that master they founded a realm of plenty that was called 'Freedom.'"
Markus was silent, and so for a while were his listeners. At last, the man in the brown suit said:
"Well, now, but they might have done that just as well without master or mandate."
"Say, Markus," said Jan van Tijn, "if you happen to know of such a gentleman, just quietly set me down on the waiting list. My word for it, if he's boss, I'll not go on a strike."
"Well, heaven help us! Are you an anarchist?" asked the other. "You throw the whole principle overboard."
Jan just glanced at him. "I don't hear anything fall yet," said he, drily. And then, looking to right and left at his neighbors:
"D'ye hear anything?"
The company laughed. Markus, looking earnestly at him, said:
"You can at once enter that service, Jan, as can every one."
"What a silly gull!" said he in the brown suit.
On the way to the Assembly-room they passed the Royal Residence. The windows were a blaze of light, for another banquet had just been held, and the marriage was thus brought a step nearer. The lackeys looked down at the thronging multitude, and smiled disdainfully. In front of the palace, erect upon their horses, their carbines at their hips, sat the hussars. The people shouted. They wanted to see the bridal pair do some more bowing.
And, verily, after a while, open flew the balcony doors, and out came the King and Queen—for all the world like the cuckoo of a clock at the stroke of the hour; and there they bowed and bowed—many times more than the hours that were struck by the clock. Thus the crowd had its will, and shouted to hearts' content. At the same time Johannes also felt, distinctly, a thrill of enthusiasm, although it was mingled with pity; for it did seem as if the crowd found delight in keeping those two poor people bowing, without asking if they had the least desire to do so, so soon after dinner, and after a busy day.
At the indignation meeting it was very warm and crowded. People stood packed at the entrance. Inside, above a haze of tobacco smoke, Dr. Felbeck could be seen sitting at a table covered with green. In front of him were a black hammer, a carafe, and glasses. The table stood on a little stage between side-scenes that represented a forest by moonlight.
There was a great deal of bustle and noise in the hall. Above the clamor rose the cries of the colporteurs reiterating the virtues of their weeklies and pamphlets: "Buy the Pathfinder—three cents!" "Throne, Exchange and Altar; or the Robber Conspiracy Unmasked—one cent!" "Hypocrisy; or the Source of all Depravity—one cent!" "Who are the Murderers?—two cents!"
Dr. Felbeck looked around the hall, casting piercing, frowning glances, like a general surveying the field of battle. At times he chatted with the associate chairman who sat beside him, apparently about this or that advocate or opponent whom he observed in the hall. At times, also, he nodded smilingly to some one in the audience.
The doors were closed, and no one else was permitted to enter. A few helmeted policemen took their stand at the entrance.
The chairman—a spruce young gentleman—after straightening his eye-glasses, grasped with his left hand the old speaker's hammer, rapped upon the table with it, and spoke a few words. Gradually it grew more still. Then Dr. Felbeck stood up, resting upon the table with both hands—his head between his shoulders like a cat about to make a spring. Then, rising to his full height, and glancing several times at his audience—challenging, and certain of success—he began: "Comrades!"
The speech lasted an hour and a half. What he said accorded very well with that which Johannes had heard him say when they first met. The downtrodden proletarian must in the end gird himself against the oppressor—against the rotten civic society, against the gentry of the safety-box, who are supported by the soldiers, assisted by priests, and represented by the Crown. The people must become conscious of their power, for the people are the source of all wealth, and to the people belongs the future. If only the laborers would act in unison, they would be able to make the laws. They were by far the majority. They might compose the Parliament, command the military, possess the collective wealth. Then they could make better laws, and could take from the rich their unmerited privileges. Then would come a time of real liberty and fraternity.
Thereupon Dr. Felbeck made an estimate of the number of guldens a minute that the King had to spend; adding the statement that whole families of laboring men must live for a week upon no more. He showed how many people must work hard, continually, to pay for all that festivity and magnificence. He showed in detail how the rich live, and what splendor was theirs; and he claimed that such beauty and pleasure were the right of each and all. And with tears in his voice, he told them how, with his meagre wages, the poor wage-earner must make both ends meet.
He said the laborer must learn to hate his enemy, and not let himself be deluded by oily-tongued preachers of peace who were paid by the rich; for then he would surely remain in his misery. And yet, in the end, they must certainly have a share of the pleasure—they who had heretofore always come out of the little end of the horn.
All that Dr. Felbeck said was listened to with avidity. The listeners grew more and more attentive, and the speaker more and more vehement. There were frequent outbursts of laughter from the audience, and the hall trembled with the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. Sometimes there was cheering to the echo. And when the speaker ended—with a fiery, well-turned clause in which all were urged to join the International Social Democratic Labor-Party—Grand Army of Laborers—there followed such an uproar that Johannes lost all sense of sight and hearing.
His duty done, the speaker sat down, yet he looked around with some anxiety at the succeeding speakers.
Again the hammer sounded: "Would any one like to add a few words?"
Three—four—hands went up.
"Hakkema has the Boor."
"Oh, indeed!" said Jan. "Now for a Punch-and-Judy session!"
Hakkema was a small, stocky man, with long hair combed straight back to his neck. His voice was rough and harsh from much speaking, and as he spoke he dropped his head back, in such a way that his shaggy beard stuck out in front. He began very softly, almost hesitatingly—apparently to flatter the former speaker. But very speedily the audience observed—what every one had expected—that he was deriding him. His deep voice grew steadily louder and rougher, and his jokes tarter and tougher. Part of the audience, carried away, and agog for fresh taunts, burst out in loud, insulting laughter, while another part enlivened itself by hissing and whistling, and by shouts of derision.
The irony chiefly concerned the fact that the former speaker termed himself a proletarian, while at the same time he owned a villa at Driebergen, and had a son preparing to be a lawyer. Of course, he appeared to be quite disinterested and would fight for the people, if only the people would be so good as to send him to the House of Representatives, with a salary of forty guldens a week. Certainly, if the King should make Dr. Felbeck Minister to-morrow, with a salary of eight thousand guldens, Dr. Felbeck would accept it out of sheer self-sacrificing devotion to the people. And then the laborer could demand audience of Dr. Felbeck, and ask why the portion on the table of the laborer should still remain so small, and also when the general national distribution would begin.
After a half-hour of such talk, the speaker ended with a stimulating appeal for a purified class struggle in which no little lords among the proletarians should be tolerated, and in which—pointing at Dr. Felbeck, who, smiling scornfully, sat sharpening a lead-pencil—the wolves in sheeps' clothing should be restrained; a struggle in which war should be declared, not only against all tyranny, all coercion, but also against the despotism of party; a struggle in which there should be strife until men had a free society where each might take what he pleased, without lords, without bosses, without safety-boxes, without gods, and without laws.
The applause for this speaker was none the less thundering, mingled, however, with shrill whistlings, and cries of "Throw him out!"
But Felbeck was a match for the man. With furious gestures and banging of his fists on the green-covered table, he called his opponent a deceiver of the people, a man without judgment or conscience, an enemy of the laborer, a sower of discord who would never bring anything to pass save disorder and confusion.
The audience grew more and more excited. Ten, twenty speakers at once, stood up in their places. Angry words were shouted back and forth. Everybody thought it time to say something. The women grew nervous, and the policemen looked at their chief as if only awaiting a signal to put an end to the row.
All this time, Markus, without having made a sign either of approval or of censure, had been sitting between Marjon and Johannes, with the family of Van Tijn.
"Have you been listening, Markus?" asked Marjon, for it seemed to her as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But he nodded "Yes."
"Say something, then," said Marjon.
"Yes, do," urged Johannes. "Tell them which one is right."
"Speak out, Markus. The one who knows ought to tell," said Van Tijn.
"That is not easy to do," said Markus. Then he stood up.
His figure now, as always, riveted attention, and the adroit leader of a tumultuous meeting felt instantly to whom he must yield the floor in order to re-establish calm.
Thus Markus' first words rang out, amid the lessening uproar, as in a subsiding storm. And as he spoke it finally grew very still. But there was no sign either of assent or of disagreement.
"There are fathers and mothers here," said Markus, "who know what spoiled children are. The spoiled child that is always coaxed and indulged, like the one that is always constrained, becomes at last capricious, malicious, and sickly.
"Shall we then treat one another as we may not our children? People are flattered by undue praise of their power and influence—are carried away by the sweetness of fine words concerning the injustice they have too long endured and concerning their right to property and to happiness. You all listen to that eagerly, do you not?
"But that to which one listens most eagerly, it is not always best to say. There are things hard to hear, which must, however, be said and be listened to.