"I ought to explain to him who Windekind, Wisterik, or—What is his name? Wistarik?... and Pluizer, are, Mevrouw. You know, do you not, those characters in Johannes' life?"
"I—I—do not recall them," said the lady, "but that is nothing—speak out. Do not mind me. I do not count. I am only a silly creature."
"Ah! If people in general were similarly silly! Windekind, Wisterik, and Pluizer, then Johannes, are nothing other than "dewas," or elementals, materialized by a supreme effort of the will. They are personified, or rather impersonated, natural power—plasmatic appearances from the crystal-clear, elementary oneness. Windekind is harmonic poetry, or, rather, poetic harmony—the original dawning, or, rather, the dawning originality, of our planetary aboriginal consciousness. Wistarik, on the contrary, or Pluizer, is demoniacal antithesis—the eternally skeptical negation, or negative skepticism. They are like all ebb and flow, like the swinging pendulum, like winter and summer, eternally struggling with each other—continually destroying and forever reviving, the indispensable, mutually excluding, and yet again mutually complementing, first principles of dualistic monism, or of monistic dualism."
"How interesting!" murmured the countess; and turning to Johannes, she asked very seriously: "And have you really met with these elementals?"
"I—I believe I have," stammered Johannes.
"But, Van Lieverlee, then he truly is a medium! Do you not think so?"
"Of the second grade, Mevrouw, undoubtedly. Perhaps, with study and proper culture, he will attain the first rank."
"But would it not be well for us to introduce him to the Pleiades?"
And turning toward Johannes, she said affably: "We have a circle, you know, for the study of the higher sciences, and for the general improvement of our 'Karma.'"
"An ideal society, with a social ideal," supplemented Van Lieverlee.
That sounded very alluring to Johannes. Would Frieda and Olga belong to it also? he wondered.
He said, however, as politely and modestly as possible: "But, Mevrouw, would I really be in place there?"
His manner pleased the countess. Smiling most sweetly she said: "Surely, my boy! Rank has nothing to do with the higher knowledge."
Then to Van Lieverlee, in English, with that characteristic, cool loftiness of the English, who suppose the hearer does not understand their language: "Really, he is not so bad?—not so very common!"
But Johannes had learned English at school; yet, because he was still such a mere boy, with so little self-consciousness, he felt flattered rather than offended. He said—using English now, himself: "I am not good yet, but I will try my best to become so."
This word fell again upon good ground, with mother and daughters. There came to Johannes that exhilarating sensation of making conquests; he, Little Johannes—a brief while ago the scissors-grinder boy—at present a singer of street songs—he, in a world of supremely refined spirits, with a beautiful countess, all decked with glittering jewels, and her two enchanting little daughters! And that, not on account of birth or patronage, but through his own personal powers. If he could only see Wistik again, now—how he would boast of it!
But, suddenly, to his honor be it said, something else occurred to him:
"My comrade, Mevrouw! May we both go?"
"Who is your comrade? How did you meet him?"
Whoever had heard Johannes then would not have said that, only so short a time ago, he had thought slightingly of his little friend. He stood up for her warmly, described her natural goodness and her unusual talents,—yes even drew on his imagination for her probable noble origin, until it ended in his having touched the heart of Countess Dolores. But, in his enthusiasm, he said, by turns, "he" and "she," so that one of the little girls, being observing, as children usually are, abruptly asked: "Why do you say 'she'? Is it a girl?"
Then Johannes confessed. It could do no harm here, he thought—among such high-minded people. Blushing more deeply than ever, he said: "Yes, it is really a girl. She is disguised, so as not to fall into anybody's hands."
Van Lieverlee looked at Johannes very sternly and critically, without making any comment. The little girls, with a serious air, said: "How lovely!" Mevrouw laughed, rather nervously:
"Oh, oh! That is romantic. Almost piquant. Then let her come, but in the clothing that belongs to her, if you please."
"And the monkey, Mama? Will the monkey come, too?" asked Olga, the elder.
"Oh, lovely, lovely!" cried Frieda, clapping her hands.
"No, children; it is not to be thought of. Of course, you understand, Johannes, that the monkey cannot come with you. He would have a very bad influence. Would he not, Van Lieverlee?"
Van Lieverlee nodded his head emphatically, and, with an expressive gesture of refusal, said: "It would simply nullify all the higher influences. We must exclude carefully all low and impure fluids. The monkey, Johannes, has in general a very low and unfavorable aura, or inimical sphere, as you may always perceive from his fatal odor."
"It would make me ill," said the countess, putting her handkerchief to her face at the very thought of it.
So Johannes walked home that evening, proud and happy, with his head full of brilliant fancies; but at the same time burdened with a charge—a message to Marjon—which grew more and more heavy as the distance between him and the grand hotel increased, and the distance between him and the small lodging-house lessened.
You will be sure to think matters went hard that night, in the rank little room, and that there was a scene between Marjon and Johannes, involving many tears. If so, this time you have made a mistake.
Even before he reached the house, the task had become too difficult for him. When he saw Marjon, with her stolid face, sitting as she probably had been sitting the entire evening—listless and lonely, his own joyful excitement vanished, and with it went the inclination to be outspoken and communicative. He well knew in advance that he should meet with no response nor interest. And what chance would there be of inducing Marjon to give up Keesje for the Pleiades, so long as he could not convey to her even the slightest spark of that ardent admiration for the beautiful and worthy of which he himself had become conscious.
Therefore, he said nothing, and, as Marjon asked no questions, they went calmly and peacefully to sleep. Johannes, however, first lay awake a long time, musing over the splendid worldly conquest he had made, and the distressing difficulties into which it had led him. Marjon would not go with him, that was certain; and ought he to desert her again? Or must he renounce all that beauty—the most beautiful of all things he had found in the world?
You must not suppose, however, that he had such great expectations from what Van Lieverlee had pictured to him. Although looking up with intelligent respect to one so much older than himself, so elegant and superior in appearance, and who professed to be so traveled, well read, and eloquent, Johannes in this instance was clever enough to see that not all was gold that glittered.
But the two dear little girls and their beautiful mother drew him with an irresistible force. If there was anything good and fine in this world, it was here. Should he turn away so long as he could cling to it? Had the supremely good Father ever permitted him to see more beautiful creatures? and should he esteem any faith more holy than faith in the Father of whom Markus had taught him, and who only made himself known through the beauty of his creation?
The following day he found himself no nearer a solution of his difficulties. Marjon still asked no questions, and gave him no opportunity to tell anything.
Keesje sipped his sweetened coffee out of Marjon's saucer with much noisy enjoyment, carefully wiping out what remained with his flat hand, and licking it off, while he kept sending swift glances after more, as calmly and peacefully as if the Pleiades and the higher knowledge had no existence.
How, then, could Johannes now accompany her to their daily work? He did not feel himself in a condition to do so; and, since they had received six marks extra, the day before, he said he was going out to take a walk, alone, in order to think. "Perhaps I may come home with a new poem," said he. But he had slight hope of doing so. He would be so glad if he could find a way out of his difficulties. He went to seek help in the mountains. Was there not there an undefined bit of nature, the same as on the dunes of his native land—beside the sea?
Marjon's pale face wore a really sorrowful look, because he wanted to go without her. Her obstinacy gave way, and she would have liked to question him, but she held herself loftily and said: "Have your fling, but don't get lost."
Johannes went up the mountain path where he had first seen the two little girls. It was a still, beautiful September day—a little misty. Here and there, beneath the underwood, the ferns had become all brown; and the blackberries, wet with dew, were glistening along his way amid their red-bordered leaves. How many spider-webs there were amidst the foliage! There was a solemn stillness over all; but, as Johannes climbed farther up the mountain dell, he heard the constant rushing of water, and in the small mountain meadows—the open places in the woods—he saw many little rivulets glistening in the grass, gurgling and murmuring as they flowed.
Still farther, where the woods were denser and the mountains more lonely, he heard now and then the sound of a fleeing deer; and he saw too a fine roe, with fear-filled eyes and large ears directed toward himself from the forest's edge.
At last he came to a narrow path bordering a small brook. To right and left were dark rocks glistening with moisture and beautifully overgrown with fantastic lichens; and there were little rosette-like clumps of ferns, and exquisite, graceful maiden-hair, gently quivering in the spray of the waterfall. Higher up began the overhanging underwood, and thorny bramble-bushes, while only now and then were there glimpses of the steep mountain sides, with the knotty roots of dense firs and beeches.
There seemed no end to that path. It wound all through the bottom of the ravine, following the brook—sometimes crossing it by a couple of stepping-stones, and thence again continuing to the other bank. And it grew stiller in the mountains. The blue sky above could seldom be seen, and the sunlight sifted only dimly through the leaves of the mountain ash and the hazel tree. Tall digitalis, with its rows of red and yellow bells, looked down upon Johannes out of the shadowy depths of the thicket with venomous regard, as if threatening him.
Where was he? An agitation, half anxious, half delightful, took possession of him. It was like Windekind's wonderland here!
He went on and on, wondering how much farther he could go without there being a change. He grew very tired, and then quite distressed.
Out of the general stillness a vague, indefinable sound now proceeded. At first it seemed to be the throbbing and rushing of his blood, and the heart-beats in his ears; but it was stronger and more distinct—a roaring, with an undertone of melancholy moaning like continuous thunder or ocean surf, constant and regular, and, also, a higher note sounding by fits and starts, like the ringing of bells borne by a high wind.
And listen! A sound loud as the report of a cannon, making the ground tremble!
Johannes ran about in his agitation, looking on all sides. But there was no wind—every leaflet, every blade of grass, was still as death. The sound of water, alone—the rush of water—grew louder!
Then he saw, in front of him, the small cascade which caused the sound. The brook was flowing over the face of a rock, down amid the ferns. The path seemed to come to an end, and lose itself in the darkness.
Behind the waterfall, hidden by the foaming flow as by a veil, was a grotto, and the path entered it.
And now Johannes heard the sounds clearly—as if they were coming out of the earth: the deep resounding, the short intermittent thunderclaps, and the ringing of bells—incessant and regular.
He sat down beside the path much agitated, and panting from his rapid movement, and gazed through the veil of water into the cool, dark grotto. He sat there a long time, listening, hesitating, not knowing whether to venture farther or to turn back.
And slowly—slowly—a great mysterious sadness began to steal over him. He saw, too, that the mists were still rising from the valley, and that a mass of dark grey clouds was silently taking the place of the glad sunlight.
Then he heard near him a slight sound—a soft, sad sighing—a slight, gentle wailing—a helpless sobbing.
And, sitting on the rock next to him he saw his little friend Wistik. He was looking straight at Wistik's little bald head, with its thin grey hair. The poor fellow had taken off his little red cap, and was holding it, with both hands, up to his face. He was sobbing and sniveling into it as if his heart would break, and the tears were trickling down his long, pointed beard to the ground.
"Wistik!" cried Johannes, filled with pity and distress. "What is it, little friend—my good mannikin? What is the matter?"
But Wistik shook his head. He was crying so hard he could not speak.
At last he controlled himself, took his cap wet with tears away from his face, and put it on his head. Then, sobbing and hiccoughing, he slid from his seat, and stepped upon the stone in the brook. With both hands he grasped the sparkling veil of falling water, tore a broad rent in it, turned round his whimpering little face, and silently beckoned Johannes to follow him.
The latter went through the dark fissure while Wistik held the water aside, and reached the interior quite dry. Not a drop fell upon his head. Then they went farther into the cavern, Wistik taking the lead, for he was used to the darkness and knew the way. Johannes followed, holding him by the coat.
It was totally dark, and continued so a long time while they walked on, perceptibly downward, over the smooth, hard way.
The sombre sounds grew louder and louder about them. The echoing, the peals of thunder, the ringing of bells—all these overwhelmed now the babbling of the water.
In the distance the light was shining—a grey twilight, pale as the misty morning. The day shone in, making the wet stones glimmer with a feeble sheen. A tumultuous noise now penetrated the rocky passage, and the screaming and bellowing of the wind-storm greeted the ear.
Soon they were standing outside, in sombre daylight. There was nothing to be seen save a desolate heap of mighty rocks, grizzly and water-stained. No plant—not a blade of grass—was growing in its midst.
Just before them an angry sea was roaring and raving, casting great breakers upon the strand. Once in a while Johannes saw the white foam tossing high. Great, quivering flakes were torn away by the storm, and driven from rock to rock.
Iron-grey clouds, in ragged patches, were chasing along the heavens, transforming themselves as they sped. They scudded close to the boiling sea, and the white foam torn from the mighty breakers seemed almost to touch them. The earth trembled as the waves broke on the rocks, and the wind howled and shrieked and whistled amid the uproar, like the baying of a dog at the moon, or the yell of a man in desperation.
Wherever the dark clouds were torn apart an alarmingly livid night sky was exposed.
Oppressed by the high wind, blinded by the spray, Johannes sought shelter with Wistik in the lee of a rock, and looked away, over the open country.
It appeared to be evening. Over the sea, but at the extreme left, where Johannes had never seen it, the sunlight was visible. For one instant the face of the sun itself could be seen—sad, and red as blood—not far from the horizon. Beneath it, like pillars of glowing brass, the rays of light streamed down to rest upon the sea.
And now and then, on the other side, high up in the ashen sky, appeared the pale face of the moon—deathly pale, hopelessly sad, motionless and resigned—in the midst of the furious troop of clouds.
Johannes looked at his friend in indescribable anguish.
"Wistik, what is this? Where are we? What is happening?—Wistik!"
But Wistik shook his head, lifted up his swollen eyes toward the sky, and, in mute anguish, clenched his fists.
Above the roar of wind and sea could still be heard the deep-toned sound, like the report of cannon or the booming of bells. Johannes looked around. Behind him rose the mountains—black and menacing—their proud, heaven-high heads confronting the rushing swirl of clouds that were piled up, miles high, into a rounded black mass. At times it lightened vividly and then followed a frightful peal of thunder. And when one of the highest peaks was freed from its mantle of mists, Johannes saw that it was afire with a steady, orange-colored glow which grew ever fiercer and whiter.
The tolling of bells came from every direction, as if thousands on thousands of cathedral bells were ringing in unison.
Then Wistik and Johannes took their way inland, clambering over the jagged rocks, clinging to each other in the wild wind. The sea thundered still louder, and the wind whistled as if in utter frenzy—like an imprisoned maniac tugging at his bars.
"It is no use," wailed Wistik. "It is no use. He is dead, dead, dead!"
Then Johannes heard the winds speaking as he had formerly heard the flowers and animals talk.
"He shall live!" shrieked the Wind; "I will not let him die!"
And the Sea spoke: "Them that menace him shall I destroy—his enemies devour. The hills shall I grind to powder, and all animals o'erwhelm."
Then spoke the Mountain: "It is too late. The time is fulfilled. He is dead."
Now Johannes knew what it was the bells were sounding. They cried through all the earth, and the darkened heavens:
"Pan is dead! Pan is dead!"
And the pale Moon spoke softly and plaintively:
"Alas! poor earth! Where now is thy beauty? Now shall we weep—weep—weep!"
Finally, the Sun also spoke: "The Eternal changes not. A new day has come. Be resigned."
And all at once it grew still—perfectly still. The wind went suddenly down. The air was so motionless that the iridescent foam-bubbles floated hither and thither as if uncertain where to alight.
A silence, full of dread, oppressed the whole dreary land.
The waste of waters only, could not so suddenly subside, and still pounded in heavy rollers upon the shore.
But it also grew still and calm—so calm that the sun and the moon were reflected in it, as perfectly as in a mirror.
The thunder was silenced about the volcano, and everything was waiting. But the bells pealed on, loud and clear:
"Pan is dead! Pan is dead!"
And now the clouds formed a dark, fleecy layer above the mountains—soft and black, like mourning crepe. From it there fell perpendicularly a fine rain, as if the heavens were shedding silent tears.
The air was clearer above the sea, and moon and evening star stood bright against a pale, greenish sky. Glowing in a cloudless space, the red sun was nearing the horizon. When Johannes turned away and looked toward the mountains, now veiled in leaden mists, a marvelous double rainbow, with its brilliant colors, was spanning the ashen land.
Out of a deep valley that cleft the mountains like the gash of a sword, and upon whose sides Johannes thought to have seen dark forests, approached a long, slow-moving procession.
Strange, shadowy figures like large night-moths hovered and floated before it, and flew silently like phantoms beside it.
Then came gigantic animals with heavy, cautious tread—elephants with swaying trunks and shuffling hide, their bony heads rolling up and down; rhinoceri, with heads held low, and glittering, ill-natured eyes; snuffling, snorting hippopotami, with their watery, cruel glances; indolent, sullen monsters with flabby-fleshed bodies supported by slim little legs; serpents, large and small, gliding and zig-zagging over the ground like an oncoming flood; herds of deer and antelopes and gazelles—all of them distressed and frightened, and jostling one another; troops of buffaloes and cattle, pushing and thrusting; lions and tigers, now creeping stealthily, then bounding lightly up over the turbulent throng, as fishes, chased from below, spring out of the undulating water; and round about the procession, thousands of birds—some of them with slow, heavy wing-strokes—alighting at times upon the rocks by the wayside; others, incessantly on the wing, circling and swaying, back and forth and up and down; finally, myriads of insects—bees and beetles, flies and moths—like great clouds, grey and white and varicolored, all in ceaseless motion.
And every creature in the throng which could make a sound made lamentation after its own fashion. The loudest was the worried, smothered lowing of the cattle, the howling and barking of the wolves and hyenas, and the shrill, quivering "oolooloo" of the owls.
The whole was one volume of voiced sorrow—an overwhelming cry of woe and lamentation, rising above a continual, sombre humming; and buzzing.
"This is only the vanguard," said Wistik, whose despair had calmed a little at the sight of this lively spectacle. "These are only the animals yet. Now the animal-spirits are coming."
Then, in a great open space respectfully avoided by all the animals, came a group of wonderful figures. All had the shapes of animals, only they were larger and more perfectly formed. They seemed also to be much more proud and sagacious, and they moved not by means of feet and wings, but floated like shadows, while their eyes and heads seemed to emit rays of light, like the sea on a dark night.
"Come up nearer," said Wistik. "They know us."
And it really seemed to Johannes as if the ghosts of the animals greeted them, sadly and solemnly; but only those of the animals known to him in his native land. And what most impressed him was that the largest and most beautiful were not those esteemed most highly by human beings.
"Oh, look! Wistik, are those the butterfly-spirits? How big and handsome they are!"
They were splendid creatures—large as a house—with radiant eyes, and their bodies and wings were clearly marked in brilliant colors. But the wings of all of them were drooping as though with weariness, and they looked at Johannes seriously, silently.
"Are there plant-spirits, too, Wistik?"
"Oh, yes, Johannes, but they are very large and vague and elusive. Look! There they come—floating along."
And Wistik pointed out to him the hurrying, hazy figures that Johannes had first seen in front of the procession.
"Now he is coming! Now he is coming! Oh! Oh! Oh!" wailed Wistik, taking off his cap and beginning to cry again.
Surrounded by throngs of weeping nymphs who were singing a soft and sorrowful dirge—their arms intertwined about one anothers' shoulders—their faded wreaths and long hair dripping with the rain—came the great bier of rude boughs whereon lay Father Pan, hidden beneath ivy and poppies and violets. He was borne by young, brawny-muscled fauns, whose ruddy faces, bowed at their task, were distorted with suppressed sobs. In the rear was a throng of grave centaurs, shuffling mutely along, their heads upon their chests, now and then striking their trunks and flanks with their rough fists, making them sound like drums.
Curled up, as if he intended to stay there, a little squirrel was lying on the hairy breast of Pan. A robin redbreast sat beside his ear, mournfully and patiently coaxing, coaxing incessantly, in the vague hope that he might still hear. But the broad, good-natured face with its kindly smile never stirred.
When Johannes saw that, and recognized his good Father Pan, he burst into tears which he made no effort to restrain.
"Now the monsters are coming," whispered Wistik. "The monsters of the primal world."
Ugh! That was a spectacle to turn one into ice! Dragons, and horrid shapes bigger than ten elephants, with frightful horns and teeth, and armor of spikes; long, powerful necks, having upon them small heads with large, dull eyes and sharp teeth; and pale, grey-green and black, sometimes dark-red or emerald-green, spots on the deeply wrinkled, knotty or shiny skin. All these now went past with awkward jump or trailing body; most of the time mute, but sometimes making a gruff, quickly uttered, far-sounding howl. And then odd creatures like reddish bats, having hooked beaks and curved claws, flashed through the air with their black and yellow wings, chattering and clumsily floundering in their flight.
At last, when the entire multitude had come to the broad, rocky strand, thousands upon thousands of little and big rings were circling over the mirror-like surface of the water, as far as eye could see; swift dolphins sprang in and out of the water, in graceful curves; pointed, dorsal fins of sharks and brown-fish cut the smooth surface swiftly, in straight lines, leaving behind them widely diverging furrows. The mighty heads of shining black whales pushed the water from in front of them, spouting out white streams of vapor with a sound like that of escaping steam.
The sun neared the horizon, the rain ceased falling, and the mists melted away, disclosing other stars. Above the crater of the mountain stretched a dark plume of smoke, and beneath it the fire now glowed calmly, at white heat.
Then all that din of turbulent life grew fainter and fainter, until nothing was audible save a faint sighing and wailing. At last—utter silence.
The bier of Pan was resting upon the seashore, encircled by all the living.
The red rays of the sun lighted up the great corpse, the tree-trunks upon which it rested, and the dark heaps of withered leaves and flowers. But also they shot up the mountain heights, sparkling and flaming in glory there—over the rigid, basaltic rocks.
Wistik stared at the red-reflecting mountain-top, with great, wide-open eyes, and a pale, startled little face, and then cried in a smothered voice:
"Kneel, Johannes, Kneel! She comes! Our holy Mother comes!"
Trembling with awe, Johannes waited expectantly.
He could not begin to comprehend that which he saw. Was it a cloud? a blue-white cloud? But why was it not red, in the glow of that sunset? Was it a glacier? But look! The blue-and-white came falling down like an avalanche of snow. Steel-blue lightning flashed in sharp lines upon the red mountain-side.
Then it seemed to him that the descending vapor was divided. The larger part, and darker—that at the left—was blue, and blue-green; that at the right, a brilliant white.
He saw distinctly now. Two figures were there, in shining, luminous garments; and the light of them was not dimmed by the splendor of that setting sun. Rays of green shone from the garment of the larger, but around the head was an aureole of heavenly blue. The other was clothed in lustrous white.
They were so great—so awful! And they swept from the mountain in an instant of time, as a dove drops from out a tree-top down upon the field!
When they stood beside the bier, Johannes looked into the face of the larger figure, and he felt that it was as near and dear to him as a mother. It was indeed his mother—Mother Earth.
She looked upon the dead, and blessed him. She looked at all the living ones, and mused upon them. Then she looked into the face of the sun ere it disappeared, and smiled.
Turning toward the volcano, she beckoned. The side of the crater burst open with a report like thunder, and a seething stream of lava shot down like lightning.
After that everything was night, and gloom, and darkness to Johannes. He saw the bier on fire—consumed to a pile of burning coals—and the thick, black smoke enveloped him.
But also he saw, last of all, the shining white figure moving beside Mother Earth, irradiating the night and the smoke. He saw Him coming—bending down to him His radiant face until it embraced the entire heavens.
Then he recognized his Guide.
The warm tears for Father Pan were still flowing down his cheeks, when Johannes lifted up his eyes with the consciousness of being awake. That which met his gaze was exactly what he had last seen—the comforting face of his exalted Brother enveloped by a dun swirl of smoke. But now it looked different, or else it was perceived through another sense—like the same story told in another tongue—like the same music played upon an instrument of different timbre: neither finer nor more effective, but simpler and more sober.
He found himself sitting on the slope of a mountain, and saw Markus bending over him. The sun had set, and the valley lay in twilight, yet in the dusk one could see the glow of fiery furnaces—could see tall factory-chimneys out of whose huge throats there rolled great billows of murky smoke, like dirty wool. The whole valley and everything that grew on the mountain-side was smirched with black. A constant humming and buzzing, pounding and resounding, rose up from that city of bare, blackened buildings. At intervals there flared up from the furnace bluish yellow and violet flames, like glowing, streaming pennants. The land looked gloomy and desolate, as if laid waste by lava; yet now and then, as a rotary oven belched out a flood of brilliant sparks, the grey air was lighted up for miles beyond.
"Markus," said Johannes, his heart still heavy with sorrow, "Pan is dead!"
"Pan is dead!" said Markus in return. "But your Brother lives."
"Thank God for that. What brought you here?"
"I am among the miners, Johannes, and the factory operatives. They need me."
"Oh, my Brother! I too need you. I do not know where in the world to go ... and Pan is dead!"
Johannes embraced the right arm of Markus, and rested his head against his Brother's shoulder. Thus sitting, he was a long time silent.
He gazed at the clouded valley with its colossal mine-wheel, the black chimneys and ovens, the black, yellow, and blue-white wreaths of vapor, the great iron sheds, and the many-windowed buildings devoid of ornament and color.
All about him he could see the sides of the mountains severed as by great, gaping wounds; the trees prostrate; all nature, with its beautiful verdure, burned to cinders; and the rocks cleft and crushed. Upon the top of the mountain, at the very edge of the chasm—an excavation resembling the hole made by fruit-devouring wasps—several pine-trees were still standing. But these last children of the forest were also soon to fall. And in the distance the echo of explosions reverberated through the mountains, followed by the loud sounds of falling stones, as the rocks were shattered with dynamite.
"Pan is dead!" His beautiful wonderland was being destroyed; and in the new life which was to be founded upon the ruins of the old one, Johannes knew not where to go. He was frightened and bewildered.
But had he not found his Brother again, and for the second time beheld him in a glorified form, clothed in shining raiment? And was he not, even now, in his warm, comforting presence?
The thought of this composed and strengthened Johannes.
"My Brother," he asked, "who killed Pan?"
"No one. His time had come."
"But why, then, was he so sad when I asked him about you?"
"The flower must perish if the fruit is to ripen. A child cries when night comes and it is time to sleep, because he wants to play longer and does not know that rest is better for him. All people who continue to be like children cry about death, which is only a birth and full of joyful anticipations."
"Have Pan and Windekind known you, Brother?"
"No, but they have feared me, as the lesser fears the greater."
"Will your kingdom, then, be more beautiful than theirs?"
"As much more beautiful as the sun is brighter than the moon. But the weak, the frail and timid ones who live in the night-time, will not perceive this, and will fear the glorious sun."
For a long time Johannes thought this over. In the far, smoky valley with its mines and factories, a clock struck—farther away another—in the distance still another. Thereupon followed the shrill screaming of steam-whistles, and the loud clanging of bells, and people could be seen pouring out of the workshops.
"How gloomy!" exclaimed Johannes.
Markus smiled. "The black seed also, in the dark ground, is gloomy, yet it grows to be a glad sunflower."
"Brother," said Johannes, imploringly, "advise me what to do now. The beautiful is of the Father, is it not?"
"Yes, Johannes."
"Then must I not follow after that which is the most beautiful of all I have found in this human world? Do tell me!"
"I only tell you to follow the Father's voice where it seems to call you most clearly."
"And what if I am in doubt?"
"Then you must question, fervently, and, still as a flower, listen with all your heart."
"But if I must act?"
"Then do not for an instant hesitate, but venture in the name of the Father, trusting in your own and His love, which is one and the same."
"Then suppose I make a mistake?"
"You might do that; but if the error is for His sake, He will open your understanding. Only when you fear for your own sake, and forget Him, can you be lost."
"Show me then, Brother, whatyourway is!"
"Very well, Johannes. Come with me."
Together they descended to the valley. The ground was everywhere black—black with coal and slag and ashes, and the puddles of water were like ink.
From all sides came the sound of heavy footfalls. It seemed as if the black town would empty itself of all its people. Hundreds of men ran hither and thither, all of them with heavy, weary, yet hurried steps. Apparently, they were all running over one another—each one in the others' way—but yet there was no disorder, for each seemed to know where he wished to go.
Most of them looked black—completely begrimed with coal and smoke. Their hats and blouses were shiny with blackish water. Usually they were silent; but now and then they called to one another roughly and to the point, as men do who have spent all their strength, and have none left for talking or jesting.
Several were already leaving the wash-houses, cleansed and in their customary sober garments. Their freshly washed faces looked conspicuously pale in the twilight, amid those of their unwashed comrades; but their eyes bore dark rims that could not be cleaned.
Johannes and Markus went past the mines, the coal pits, and the smelting works, until they came to long rows of little houses where the families of the laborers lived. Thitherward also the people were now streaming. Behind the small windows where wives were waiting with supper, little lights began to twinkle everywhere.
Markus and Johannes entered a large, dreary hall having a low wooden ceiling. In the front part of it two lighted gas-jets were flickering. The rest of the place was in semi-darkness. There were a good many benches, but no one had yet arrived. The walls were bare and besmirched, and upon them were several mottoes and placards.
For a half-hour the two sat there without speaking. A dismal impression of the gloom and ugliness of this abode took possession of Johannes. It was worse than the tedium of the schoolhouse. It seemed more frightful to have to live here than in the wildest and most desolate spot in Pan's dominion. There it was always beautiful and grandiose, though often also terrible. Here all was cramped, uninteresting, bare, and ugly—the horrors of a nightmare, the most frightful Johannes had ever known.
This lasted an hour, and then the great hall gradually filled with laborers. They came sauntering in, somewhat embarrassed, pipes in their mouths, hat or cap on head. At first they remained in the dark background; then, seating themselves here and there upon the benches, they glanced to right and left and backward, occasionally expectorating upon the floor. Their faces looked dull and tired, and the hands of most of them—rough and broad, with black-rimmed nails—hung down open. They talked in an undertone, at times laughing a little. Women also came in with children in their arms. Some were still fresh and young, with a bit of color about their apparel; some, delicate little mothers in a decline, with deformed bodies, sharp noses, pale cheeks, and hollow eyes. Others were coarse vixens, with hard, selfish looks and ways.
The hall filled, and the rows of faces peered through the tobacco smoke, watching and waiting for what was to take place.
A laborer—a large, robust red-bearded man—came forward under the gaslight, and began to speak. He stammered at first, and pushed his right arm through the air as if he were pumping out the words. But gradually he grew more fluent; and the hundreds of faces in the hall followed his attitudes and gestures with breathless interest, until one could see his anger and his laughter reflected as if in a mirror. And when he broke off a sentence with a sharp, explosive inquiry, then the feet began to shuffle and stamp with a noise which sometimes swelled to thunder, in the midst of which could be heard cries of "Yes! Yes!" while laughing faces, and looks full of meaning, were turned hither and thither as if searching for, and evincing, approval.
Johannes did not very well understand what was said. He had, indeed, learned German; but that did not avail him much here, on account of the volubility of the speaker and his use of popular idioms. His attention, too, was given as much to the listeners as to the speaker.
Nevertheless, the great cause which was being agitated grew more and more clear to him.
The speaker's enthusiasm was communicated to his audience, becoming intensified a hundred-fold, until a great wave of emotion swept over all present, Johannes included.
He saw faces grow paler, and observed signs of heightened interest. Eyes began to glisten more and more brightly, and lips were moving involuntarily. Now and then a child began to whimper. But it disturbed no one. On the contrary, the orator appeared to utilize the occurrence for his own purposes. Two tears rolling down the ruddy moustache riveted Johannes' attention, and he heard a quiver in the rough voice as the speaker pointed with both hands toward the wailing infant, in such a way as to remove from the incident all that was comic or annoying.
It was apparent to Johannes that these people suffered an injustice; that they were about to resist; and that this resistance was perilous—yes, very perilous—to the point of involving their lives and their subsistence, and also that of their wives and children.
He could see the evidences of long-suffered injustice, in their passionate looks and eager gestures. He saw breathless fear at the thought of the danger which menaced them and their dear ones if they should offer resistance. He saw the proud glitter in their eyes, and the high-spirited lifting of their heads as the inner struggle was decided, and heroism triumphed over fear. They would fight—they knew it now. The great rising wave of courage and ardor left no irresolute one unmoved. Johannes looked the faces over very carefully, but there was not one upon which he could still read the traces of anxiety and hesitation. One kindled soul illuminated them all, like a mighty fire.
Then Johannes' soul grew ardent, and he too waxed strong at heart; for there began to touch him the first rays of the beauty which lay slumbering beneath that sombre veil of ugliness.
After this speaker there were others, who rose in their places without coming forward. Not one of them hazarded the quenching of the sacred fire. They all spoke of the coming struggle as of an inevitable event. But Johannes, with a sensation that made him clench his fists as if the enemy's hand were already at his throat, now saw a heavy, burly fellow stop, stammering, in the middle of his speech, and begin to sob; not from fear—no!—but from keen anger, on account of suffered scorn and humiliation, and because of the insupportable suspicion that he had been disloyal to his comrades. Johannes guessed the details of that story, even although he did not understand the words. The man had been deceived; and, in a time of deep misery, when his wife was ill, he had been seduced, by promises, from joining his comrades in this struggle.
Johannes was glad to see actions, fine in themselves, proceed from a burst of pure emotion, when the whole earnest assemblage, in one unanimous spirit of generosity, forgave the seeming traitor, and reinstated him in their regard.
And as the workmen were about to take their leave, with the stern yet cheerful earnestness of those who are committed to a righteous struggle, Johannes saw, with great pleasure, that Markus was going to speak. They knew him, and instantly there was absolute silence. There was something in the pleased readiness with which these German miners took their places again to listen—a childlike trust, and a good-natured seriousness—that Johannes had never seen among the Fair-people; no, nor anywhere in his own country.
As Markus spoke German with the careful slowness and the purity of one who did not belong to the land, Johannes understood it all.
"My friends," said Markus, "you have been taught in your schools and churches of a Spirit of Truth, which was to come as the Comforter of mankind.
"Well, then, this which has now taken possession of you, and which has strengthened all your hearts and brightened all your eyes—even this is the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Holy Ghost.
"For Truth and Righteousness areone, and proceed from One. From your cheerful and courageous eyes I see that you know surely, with a full conscience, that it is the truth which has stirred you, and that you are to risk your lives in the cause of justice.
"And that this spirit is a Comforter you will find by experience; that is, if you are loyal.
"But this I now say to you, because you do not know as I know, that truth is like a mountain-path between, two abysses, and that it is more difficult to maintain than the tone of a violin.
"You have suffered injustice; but you have also committed injustice. For the act of oppression is injustice, and it is also injustice to permit oppression.
"You have been taught otherwise, and have been told it is written that injustice will be permitted. But even if this were written, the Spirit of Truth would cause it to be erased. I say to you that whoever practices injustice is an evil-doer, and whoever permits injustice is his accomplice.
"There is a pride which in God's eyes is an honor to a man, and there is also an arrogance which will cause him to stumble and to be crushed.
"The Spirit of Truth says this: 'Acquaint yourselves with your own value, and endure no slight which is hostile to the truth.' But he who overestimates himself will have a fall, and God will not lift him up."
After these powerful and penetrating words, which sounded like a threatening admonition, Markus sat down, resting his head upon his hand. After waiting awhile in silence, the whispering crowd dispersed with shuffling footsteps, without having made a sign of approval or acquiescence.
"May I stay with you, Markus?" asked Johannes, softly, afraid of disturbing his guide. Markus looked up kindly.
"How about your little comrade?" he asked. "Would she not grow uneasy? Come with me. I will show you the way back again."
Together they found the way in the night through the woods to the little resort and the lodging-house. But excepting an exchange of "Good-nights" not another word was spoken. In his great awe of him, Johannes dared not ask Markus how he knew all about his adventures.
The next morning, in the dirty little breakfast-room of the lodging-house, there mingled with the usual smell of fresh coffee and stale tobacco smoke the fragrance of wood-violets and of musk; for a pale lavender note, written with blue ink, was awaiting Johannes.
He opened it, and read the following:
Dearly beloved Soul-Brother:
Come to me to-day as soon as you can, upon the wings of our poet-friendship. Countess Dolores went yesterday, with her little daughters, and her servants; but she left something for you which will make you happy, and which I myself will place in your hand.
The following is the first delicate and downy fruit of our union of souls:
HYMEN MYSTICUMTo Little JohannesIn solemn state swim our two souls,Like night-black, mystic swans.O'er passion-seas profoundly deep—Of briny, melancholy tears.Oh! Thou supremely bitter ocean!All wingless, bear we with us, thro' the sky's dark courses,Thy ceaseless, lily-sorrow—And the fell weight of this sad world's woe.Entwine with mine thy slender throat, my brother,That, swooning, we may farther swim,And with our song the dazzled race amaze.Let us, in sensuous tenderness,Like faded lilies intertwine,With a death-sob of supremest ecstasy.
Would not your friend be able to compose music for this? And I hope soon to know her better.
Your soul's kinsman,Walter v. L. T. D.Kurhotel,8th Sept. (Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest).
Just here, I wish I could say that Johannes immediately let Marjon read both the letter and the verses, and that, with her, he made merry over them. But that, alas! the truth will not permit. And now, for the sake of my small hero, I confess I should be heartily ashamed if I thought that none of you, in reading the above, would be as ingenuous as he was, in regarding the poem with the utmost seriousness—even hesitating, like himself, to doubt its quality, concluding that it must indeed be fine though a little too high for understanding, and, for that very reason, not at first sight so very striking and intelligible.
Are you certain that none of you would have been so stupid as to be deceived by it? Quite certain? Well, then, please do not forget how youthful Johannes still was; and consider, also, the wonderful progress of the age, due, no doubt, to the zealous and untiring efforts of our numerous literary critics.
Johannes did not mention the letter; but when he saw Marjon, he said:
"I saw somebody, yesterday. Can you think who it was?"
Marjon's pale, dull face lighted up suddenly, and she stared at Johannes with fixed, bright eyes.
"Markus!" said she. Johannes nodded assent, and she continued:
"Thank God! I felt it. I heard that the laborers about here were soon to go on a strike, and then I supposed-well—Now everything will be all right again!"
Then she was silent, eating her bread contentedly. A little later, she asked:
"Where are you going? Is it far? What have you agreed to do?"
"I have settled nothing," said Johannes. "But I will go to him with you before long. It is not far." Then, affecting to make light of it, he said: "I have had an invitation to the hotel."
"Gracious!" said Marjon, under her breath. "The deuce is to pay again."
In the park Johannes met Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He stood on the grass in front of a thicket of withered shrubs, gazing at the mountains; and was clad in cream-white flannel, with a bright-purple silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. One hand rested upon his ebony walking-stick; with the other—thumb and forefinger pressed together, and little finger extended—he was making rhythmical movements in the air.
When he saw Johannes, he greeted him with a nod and a wink, as if there were a secret understanding between them.
"Superb! Is it not? Superb!"
Johannes did not exactly know what he meant—the verses he had received, the mountains opposite, or the fine, September morning. He selected the most obvious, and said:
"Yes, sir! Glorious weather!"
Van Lieverlee gave him a keen look, as if uncertain whether or not he was being made sport of, and then leisurely remarked:
"You do not appear to be impressed by the combination of white, mauve, and golden brown."
Johannes thought himself very sensitive to the effect of color; so he felt ashamed of not having noticed the color-composition. He saw it now, fully—the white flannel, the purple pocket-handkerchief, and the faded, yellow-brown shrub. That Van Lieverlee should thus include himself in this symphony of color seemed to him in the highest degree pertinent.
"I was engaged in making a 'pantoem' in harmony with that color-scheme," said Van Lieverlee; and then, seeing the blank look on Johannes' face, he added, "Do you know what a 'pantoem' is?"
"I do not, sir."
"Oh, boy! boy! and you call yourself a poet! What did you receive this morning? Do you know whatthatis?"
"A sonnet," said Johannes, eagerly.
"Is that so? Did you think it a fine one?"
That was a disquieting question. Johannes was quite at a loss about it; but it seemed that poets were wont to ask such questions, so he overcame what he considered his childishness, and said:
"I think it is splendid!"
"You think so! Well, Iknowit. There is no need to make a secret of it. I call what is good,good, whether it was I who made it, or somebody else."
That seemed both just and true to Johannes. Now that he was again with Van Lieverlee, and heard him talk in such a grand style, with that easy, fluent enunciation, and those elegant gestures, he found him, on the whole, not bad, but, on the contrary, attractive and admirable. He knew that Marjon would think otherwise; but his confidence in her judgment declined as his confidence in Van Lieverlee augmented.
"Now, Johannes, I have something for you which ought to make you very happy," said Van Lieverlee, at the same time taking from a pretty, red portfolio, that smelled delightfully like Russia leather, a note embellished with a crown and sealed with blue wax. "This was written by Countess Dolores with her own hand, and I know what it contains. Treat it with respect."
Before handing it over to him, Van Lieverlee, with a sweeping flourish, pressed it to his own lips. Johannes felt himself to be a dolt; for he knew it would be an impossibility for him to imitate that.
The note contained a very brief, though cordial, invitation to stay at her home sometime, when she should be with her children, at her country-seat in England. There was, too, within the note, a pretty bit of paper. Johannes had never seen its like. It meant money.
"How kind of her!" he exclaimed rapturously. He felt greatly honored. Immediately, however, his thoughts turned toward Markus—toward Marjon and Keesje. How about them? Something must be done about it; to decline was impossible.
"Well?" said Van Lieverlee. "You do not appear to be half pleased about it. Or do not you believe it yet? It really is not a joke!"
"Oh, no!" said Johannes. "I know it is not ... but...."
"Your friend may go with you, you know; or does she not care to?"
"I have not asked her yet," said Johannes, "for, you see, we have ... we have finally found him."
"What do you mean? w hat are you talking about? Speak out plainly, boy. You need never keep secrets from me.
"It is no secret, sir," said Johannes, greatly embarrassed.
"Then why are you stuttering so? And why do you say 'sir'? Did I not write you my name? Or do you reject my offer of brotherhood?"
"I will accept it, gladly, but I have still another brother that I think a great deal of. It is he whom we are seeking—my comrade and I. And now we have found him."
"A real, ordinary brother?"
"Oh, no!" said Johannes. And then, after a moment of hesitation, softly, but with emphasis, "It is ... Markus.... Do you know whom I mean?"
"Markus? Who is Markus?" asked Van Lieverlee, with some impatience, as if completely mystified.
"I do not know who he is," replied Johannes, in a baffled manner. "I hoped that you might know because you are so clever, and have seen so much."
Then he related what had happened to him after he had fallen in with the dark figure, on the way to the city where mankind was—with its sorrows.
Van Lieverlee listened, staring into space at first, with a rather incredulous and impatient countenance, now and then giving Johannes a scrutinizing look. At last he smiled.
Then, slowly and decisively, he said, "It is very clear who he is."
"Who is he?" asked Johannes in breathless expectancy.
"Well, a Mahatma, of course—a member of the sacred brotherhood from Thibet. We will surely introduce him, also, to the Pleiades. He will feel quite at home there."
That sounded very pleasing and reassuring. Was the great enigma about to be solved now, and every trouble smoothed away?
"But," said Johannes, hesitating, "Markus feels really at home only when he is among poor and neglected people—Kermis-folk, and working men. He looks like a laborer, too—almost like a tramp—he is so very poor. I never look at him without wanting to cry. He is very different from you—utterly unlike!"
"That is nothing. That does not signify," said Van Lieverlee, with an impatient toss of his head. "He dissembles."
"Then you, also, think...." said Johannes, hesitating, and resuming with an effort, "You think, Walter, that the poor are downtrodden, and that there is injustice in wealth?"
Van Lieverlee threw back his head, and made a sweeping gesture with his right arm.
"My dear boy, there is no need for you to enlighten me upon that subject. I was a socialist before you began to think. It is very natural for any kind-hearted man to begin with such childish fancies. The poor are imposed upon, and the rich are at fault. Every newsboy, nowadays, knows that. But when one grows somewhat older, and gets to be-hold things from an esoteric standpoint, the matter is not so simple."
"There you are," thought Johannes. "As Markus told it, it was much too simple to be true."
"Do not forget," resumed Van Lieverlee, "that we all come into the world with an individual Karma. Nothing can alter it. Each one must bring with him his past, and either expiate or else enjoy it. We all receive an appointed task which we are obliged to perform. The poor and downtrodden must attribute their sad fate to the inevitable outcome of former deeds; and the trials they endure are the best medium for their purification and absolution. There are others, on the contrary, who behold their course in life more clear and smooth because their hardest struggles lie behind them. I really sympathize deeply with the unhappy proletarian; but I do not on that account venture to lower myself to his pitiful condition. The Powers hold him there, and me here—each at his post. He still needs material misery to make him wiser. I need it no longer, because I have learned enough in former incarnations. My task, instead, is the elevation, refinement, and preservation of the beautiful. Therefore I am assigned to a more privileged position. I am a watch-man in the high domain of Art. This must be kept pure and undefiled in the great, miry medley of coarse, rude, and apathetic people who compose the greater part of mankind. This cultivation of the beautiful is my sacred duty. To it I must devote myself in all possible ways, and for all time. The beautiful! The beautiful! in its highest refinement—sleeping or waking—in voice, in movement, in food, and in clothing! That is my existence, and to it I must subordinate everything else."
This oration Van Lieverlee delivered with great emphasis while slowly moving forward over the short, smooth grass, accompanying the cadences of the well-chosen sentences with wide time-beats of the ebony walking-stick.
Johannes was convinced—to such a degree that he perceived in it naught else than the complement and completion of that which Markus, up to the present, had taught him.
Yes, he might go to his children now. He was sure of it. Markus would approve.
"I wish that Marjon might hear you—just once," said he.
"Marjon? Is that your comrade? Then why does he not come? Bless me! It was a girl, though, truly! Whatareyou to each other?"
Van Lieverlee stopped, and, stroking his small, flaxen beard gave Johannes another keen look.
"Do you not really think, Johannes," he proceeded, with significant glances, and in a judicial tone, "do you not think ... h'm ... to put it mildly, that you are rather free and easy?"
"What do you mean?" asked Johannes, looking straight at him, unsuspiciously.
"You are a sly little customer, and you know remarkably well how to conduct yourself; but there is not a bit of need for your troubling yourself about me. I am not one of the narrow-minded, every-day sort of people. Such things are nothing to me—no more than a dry leaf. I only wish you to bear in mind the difficulties. We must not expose our esoteric position. There are too many who understand nothing about it, and would get us into all kinds of difficulties. Countess Dolores, for example, is still very backward inthatrespect."
Johannes understood next to nothing of this harangue, but he was afraid of being taken for a fool if he let it be evident. So he ventured the remark:
"I will do my best."
Van Lieverlee burst out laughing, and Johannes laughed with him, pleased that he appeared to have said something smart. Thereupon he took his leave, and went to look up Marjon, that they might go to the city of the miners.
The walls of the little house were much thicker than those of the houses of Dutch laborers. The small sashes, curtained with white muslin, lay deep in the window-openings, and upon each broad sill stood a flowering plant and a begonia.
When Johannes and Marjon looked in through the window, Markus was sitting at the table. The housewife stood beside him, sleeves tucked up, carrying on her left arm a half-sleeping child, while with her right hand she was putting food upon his plate. A somewhat older child stood by his knee watching the steaming: food.
The mother's cheeks were pale and sunken, from sorrow, and her eyes were still full of tears.
"Nothing will come of it, after all," she said with a sigh. "If only he had been wiser! Those miserable roysterers have talked him into it. That's what comes of those meetings. If only he had stayed at home! The husband belongs at home.
"Do not be afraid, mother," said Markus. "He did what he sincerely thought was right. Who does that can always be at peace."
"Although he should starve?" asked the wife, bitterly.
"Yes, although he should starve. It is better to starve with a good conscience, than to live in comfort by fraud."
This silenced the woman for a time. Then she said, "If it were not for the children...." and the tears flowed faster.
"It is exactly on account of the children, mother. If the children are good, they will thank the father who is struggling for their sakes, even though he struggle in vain. And there is something for them still, else you would not have been able to give to me—the stranger."
Markus looked at her smilingly, and she smiled in return.
"You—you should have our last mouthful!" said she, heartily. Then, glancing toward the window, she added: "Who are those young scamps looking in? And amonkeywith them!"
Then Markus turned around. As soon as the two standing outside recognized his face, they shouted "Hurrah!" and rushed in without knocking.
Marjon flew to Markus, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him. Johannes, rather more shy, clung to his hand. Keesje, being distrustful of the children, peered around the place with careful scrutiny.
Then there followed in Dutch a brisk, confused interchange of information. All the adventures had to be narrated, and Marjon was very happy and communicative. The mother kept still, looking on with a discontented air, full of her own troubles. The noise awakened the half-slumbering child, and it began to cry.
Then the husband came home, morose and irritable.
"What confounded business is this?" he cried; and the two were silent, slowly comprehending that they were in a dwelling full of care. Johannes looked earnestly at the weary, care-seamed face of the man, and the pale, anxious features of the mother, wondering if there was any news.
"Hollanders?" asked the miner, seating himself at the table, and holding up a plate.
"Yes, friends of Markus," replied the wife. Then, in assumed calmness, she asked: "Is there any news?"
"We have the best of it!" said the husband, with forced cheerfulness. "We win—we surely win. It can't be otherwise. What have you to say about it, Markus?"
But Markus was silent, and gazing out-of-doors. Swearing because the food was not to his taste, the man then began to eat. Marjon's merriment subsided. The wife shook her head sadly, and kissed her child.
"You need to look out, you young rascals," said the man, all at once. "They are searching for you. Have you been pilfering? Which of you is the girl in disguise?"
"Iam!" said Marjon. "What do they want of me? Now what if I have no other duds?"
"Are you a girl?" asked the wife. "Shame on you!"
"Has not Vrouw Huber a spare garment for her?" asked Markus. "She has so many daughters!"
"We may need to pawn them all," replied the wife. But Johannes, with a manly bearing, cried: "We can pay for them. I have some money!"
"O-o-oh!" said the others doubtfully, while Markus simply smiled. Thus Marjon was soon back again in her girl's apparel—an ugly red-checked little frock. Keesje alone was satisfied with the change.
"Have you been singing much?" asked Markus.
"Yes, we sing every day," said Marjon, "and Johannes has made some nice new songs."
"That is good," said Markus. Then, turning to husband and wife: "May they sing here a little?"
"Sing! A pretty time for singing!" said the wife, scornfully.
"Why not?" asked the husband. "A nice song is never out of place."
"You are right," said Markus. "It is not well to hear nothing but sighs."
Marjon softly tuned her guitar; and while the husband sat beside the brick stove, smoking his pipe, and the wife laid her little one in bed, the two children began to sing a song—the last of those they had made together. It was a melancholy little song, as were all those they had sung during the last weeks. These were the words:
"If I should say what makes me sad,My effort would be all in vain;But nightingales and roses gladThey whisper it in sweet refrain."The evening zephyr softly sighsIn strains one clearly understands;I see it traced high o'er the skiesIn writing made by mystic hands."I know a land where every griefIs changed into a mellow song;Where roses heal with blushing lipsAll wounds and every aching wrong."That land, though not so far away,I may not, cannot enter there;It is not here where now I stayAnd no one saves me from despair."
"Is that Dutch, now?" asked the miner. "I can't understand a bit of it? Can you, wife?"
Weeping, the wife shook her head.
"Then what are you snivelling for, if you don't understand?"
"I don't understand it at all; but it makes me cry, and that does me good," said the wife.
"All right, then! If it does you good we'll have it once more." And the children sang it over again.
When they went away, they left the family in a more peaceful mood.
Markus took his place in the middle, between the two children, Keesje sitting upon his shoulder, with one little hand resting confidingly on his cap, attentively studying the thick, dark hair at his temples.
"Markus!" said Johannes. "I do not understand it. Really, what has my grief to do with theirs? And yet, it did seem as if they were crying over my verses. But my little griefs are of so little account, while they are anxious about things so much more important."
"I understand, perfectly," said Marjon. "Awhile ago, they might beat me as hard as they pleased, and I wouldn't utter a sound. But once, when they had given me a hard whipping, I saw a forlorn little kitten that looked quite as unhappy as I was, and then I began to cry with all my might, and it made me feel better."
"Then you think, children, that all sorrow suffered is one single sorrow? But so is all happiness one happiness. The Father suffers with everything, and whoever comforts a poor little kitten, comforts the Father."
These sayings made things more plain to Johannes, and gave him much to ponder over. He forgot everything else, until they were again in their lodgings—two little rooms in an old, unoccupied mill. Here they were given some bed-clothes, by a girl from a near-by lodging-house. Marjon now slept apart, while Johannes and Markus stayed together, in one room.
The next morning, while they were drinking coffee in the dark little bar-room of the lodging-house, Johannes felt he must speak of what lay on his heart. He brought out the fragrant, violet-colored note, also the one adorned with the crown and the blue sealing-wax; but in his diffidence even his hope of an understanding with Markus drooped again.
"I smell it already!" cried Marjon. "That's the hair-dresser scent of that fop, with his tufted top-piece."
That angered Johannes. "Don't you wish you could make such poems as that 'fop' can?"
And, nettled by this disrespect of his new friend, he sprang to his feet, and began excitedly repeating the verses. He had his trouble for his pains. Markus listened with unmoved countenance, and Marjon, somewhat taken aback, looked at Markus. But the latter said not a word.