And Windekind called Johannes' attention to the fair enthusiasts who attempted not only to kiss the hands of the Five, but also to touch them with their flowers, which, thereby made sacred as relics, were later to be cherished as mementoes. But the sages smilingly motioned these aside, and entered the largest of the music-temples—a mighty structure of smooth, cream-white marble, without ornament, but pure in line, and nobly harmonious in its proportions. It was round in form, having a bronze roof without side-windows, and lighted only from above. Over the entrance, in large gold letters, was the name "Bach."[1]When the Five came in all the people stood up, and waited until they were seated in the chairs reserved for them.
And then Johannes heard exceedingly fine music. And Windekind said, "This fountain is not yet exhausted, nor will it be for ages to come."
When they were again out-of-doors, and Johannes saw the happiness of all those beautiful people, and the mood of solemn devotion into which the music had put them, he suddenly became depressed, and said: "Oh, Windekind, now that I have seen all this, and know what it is possible for people to be if only they are wise and good, what avails it all when I have to return to that pitiful land of ugliness and folly and injustice? And, alas, of what advantage is it to all those poor people who are perhaps preparing for this lovely life, but who yet are never to see it?"
Johannes looked imploringly at his friend, who was silently meditating while they slowly drifted still higher along a dense grove of dark laurel, through which the happy, high spirited people were proceeding to the great, the loftiest temple.
Said Windekind: "You do not yet comprehend the unity of life, Johannes. However beautiful all this appears to you, it is only a short step in advance. These are yet, and will continue to be, human beings—subject to illness and death, to quarrels and misunderstandings, to superstition and injustice. All that now seems to you elevated and marvelous is but a wisp of straw compared with the magnificence of the Father to whom we all return. The victory is not here, but higher. And whoever has made preparation, however humble, shall have his rightful part in the final triumph."
Johannes did not fully understand, but eagerly drank in the comfort of these mysterious words. Still musing upon them, he stepped out of the dark, leafy woods upon an extraordinary plain, and saw before him the great middle temple that formed the summit of the island.
The sight of it was overwhelming, for it was almost frightfully and oppressively grand; and he saw all the oncoming people stop, as though turned to stone. None ventured to speak unless in whispers.
The plain was so large that those who had just reached the border of the woods could not distinguish the hands nor the heads of those who were entering the temple. The plain was utterly bare—upon it was neither plant nor statue. It was the leveled top of the natural rock—a reddish-grey granite, smoothly polished, and rising gradually by low flights of steps each twelve paces wide and one foot high.
The base of the temple was sombrely grand. Its shape was oblong, the greatest length being from north to south, showing an endless series of massive lotus-columns, close together, and all of the same reddish-grey stone. The eye was bewildered by them, as if in a dark forest of pillars. The steady stream of dot-like human forms appeared to be engulfed in their shade.
These mighty columns, resting on straight and flat string-courses, supported a broad terrace that surrounded the entire temple. Upon this terrace was a layer of earth, whence sprang a luxuriant growth of trees and shrubs, wide-spreading sycamores, towering cypresses, and slender palms—all overgrown and bound together by a veil of flowers and leafy vines.
Then succeeded, higher up, a second series of pillars, supporting another terrace covered with smaller shrubs. And above that, still a third, whose columns were of brighter stone—light-green and grey. The topmost row was of pure white, against which the green of the plants was in clear relief.
And above these, delicate and daring, soared a convergence of groinings, with a maze of exquisite spires and pinnacles, resembling a forest of stalagmites. Together they formed an oval whose chief colors—steel-blue, dark and sparkling, light-grey, and silver—resembled a cloud or a glacier; yet all harmoniously fashioned by human hands. Above, on a colossal tripod, glowed the emblem of love and life—the Golden Flame!
Although thousands of people from every side were ceaselessly pouring into the temple, and disappearing amid the dark columns, it was very still there—so still that above the sound of moving feet one could distinctly hear the babbling of the brooks that, coursing through the verdant terraces, flowed thence to the four corners of the plain.
Johannes tried to follow the soft speech of the people, but he did not understand the language. Then Windekind, calling his attention to a trio of persons—a vigorous father about fifty years of age, and his two sons, slender, fine fellows not far from twenty—said, "Listen to them!" It was Dutch they were speaking—pure, mellifluous Dutch.
The father said: "Look, Gerbrand; the lowest columns are so large that ten men could not encircle them. But within the temple, in the great oval centre, there are a hundred columns, far larger, that reach to the floor of the third terrace. On the groined arches resting upon those columns stand twice as many smaller pillars, which, rising somewhat higher than the gallery of the third terrace, are attached thereto by a system of buttresses. On these two hundred smaller pillars rests the enormous middle dome which over-arches the oval hall. The dome is entirely of metal. The dark blue is steel; the grey, aluminium; the bright green, bronze. The pinnacles, arches, and ornamentations are all of silver or silver-plated steel. In the four corner-spaces, between square and oval, stand four towers, having small gold-covered cupolas. Within these, elevators move up and down, and through them the water also is raised for the terraces.
"The tall tripod at the top of the dome is of bronze, and the flame is gilded bronze. The flame itself is twelve metres long, and its tip is a hundred and eighty metres above the plain."
Gerbrand, the younger son, knitting his brows as he regarded the awe-inspiring spectacle, asked: "How many people have worked upon it, father?"
"Oh, more than a hundred thousand, for nearly a century. But if the temple should again collapse, as once it did, ten times as many more would eagerly come, to rebuild it in less than half that time."
Drawing nearer, Johannes discerned, on the stone band beneath the first terrace, colossal silver letters, in plain Roman form. On the front a portion of a proverb was legible. The rest of it probably ran around the entire temple. Johannes retained the majestic tenor of it, although he did not comprehend the full meaning. Facing him was:
REDEUNT SATURNIA REGNA
and on the eastern side he read the first words,
IAM NOVA PROGENIËS....
This was all he could distinguish.
They entered the forest of columns, and Johannes continued to follow the trio closely. Through the solemn semi-darkness all pressed gently on toward the steps that led to the higher terraces.
On the second terrace stood thousands of statues, representing the great and famous of all the ages. Johannes was delighted to hear what the sons and their father said about them. They seemed best acquainted with the composers, then with the dramatic poets, the sculptors, the painters, and the scholars. They were most at a loss concerning the statesmen.
Gerbrand said, "Here is a warrior, father—Bismarck is his name. When did he live, and what did he do?"
Then the father said to his elder son, "Do you not know when Bismarck lived, and what he did, Hugo?"
Hugo replied, "I think he lived in Bach's time, father; but what he did I do not know."
"Yes, he lived about the time of Bach, or rather, that of Brahms. He created the German Empire."
Said Gerbrand, "The German Empire, father! Where is that?"
"There is no longer a German Empire, Gerbrand, although there are millions of Germans. Such empires do not now exist; but in that day they were thought to be something very admirable."
And Hugo: "Was it as fine as the Chromatic Fantasie, father, or the Pyramids?"
"It was something very different, my boy, but certainly not so fine, for it was less lasting."
On the third and highest terrace, beneath the loftiest of the white marble columns, and running around the entire temple, was a frieze, sculptured in bas-relief. Upon it were groups of figures, cut with most wonderful art, giving representative scenes from the whole history of mankind. Among them, the spectacle of the battles held the youths the longest.
"Look, father! Here again is a man being killed. Why was that? What harm did he do?"
"That is Pertinax," replied the father, "a king of Rome, killed by his soldiers because he was just."
"A man killed for being just! What strange people!" said Hugo, smiling.
"They killed Socrates also, because he was wise, did they not, father? We saw that a little while ago," said Gerbrand.
"Yes, Gerbrand," said Hugo; "but indeed they also fought for good reasons, did they not, father? Socrates himself fought, and Sophocles."
"And Æschylus," added the father. "He lost his hand at Marathon. And Dante fought, and so did Byron."
"Shelley too, father?" asked Hugo.
"No, my boy."
"But, father," asked Gerbrand, "when is it right to fight, and when is it not?"
"It is right, my boys, when that which is the dearest and most sacred must be protected from attack—whatever is dearer to us than our lives. That is what Æschylus and Socrates and Dante conceived to be their duty. They fought for freedom—the greatest freedom of their time. And should any beings come now and try to attack what we term our liberty and our rights, we also would fight for them."
"I wish that would happen," said Gerbrand.—And the others laughed.
"Did Beethoven fight, father?" asked Hugo.
"No, although his life, as well as that of Shelley, was a struggle in the cause of true liberty—at least for what he held to be true liberty."
"But Beethoven wore a high, black hat, did he not, father? And Bach had his hair cut off, and wore a wig," said Gerbrand.
"Mozart also," added Hugo. "I do not understand how kings could do such queer things."
"How was it possible," exclaimed Gerbrand, "for these people in their high hats and silly black clothes to look at one another and not burst out laughing?"
"My dear boys," said the father, "there is not a thing so foolish, so ugly, or so bad, but even the best of men will do it, or tolerate it, if only many take part in it, and it is a common error of their time. But that was a very queer age. At the time such great and wise kings as Goethe, Shelley, and Beethoven lived, ninety out of every hundred men lived like the very beasts. Some never bathed their entire bodies....
"Thinkof it!" cried the youths.
"They wore soiled, hideous clothing, were rude and ill-mannered, and had no conception of music nor of poetry."
"How could that be?" exclaimed the two young men.
"Because it was thought that the best human living was possible for only an occasional exception—for one in a hundred, or one in a thousand. You think that very stupid, do you not? But at that time everybody felt so, even the kings."
"Not Shelley, though," exclaimed Hugo.
"No, not Shelley," said the father. "But it is now nearly noon. We must not miss the Hall of the Hundred Pillars. We agreed to go there, you remember, while we were still at home with mother and the children."
The halls were decorated with inscriptions in many languages—each with its own ornate characters. Johannes recognized Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. He could read only a few of the sentences; but these he retained, without understanding them:
"IN LA SUA VOLONTADE E NOSTRA PACE," and "MITE ET COGNATUM EST HOMINI DEUS."
The Hall of the Hundred Pillars had entrances from all sides, on the same level, through the lowest and heaviest colonnades, and also along stairways descending from all the terraces. The floor of the hall looked like a vast, snow-covered plain, so white was the marble, and the astronomical figures with which it was inlaid were all of silver. The hundred pillars that gave the hall its name were of red granite, and supported the central dome, which, spanning the imposing space by arch on arch, stood like a miracle of art. There were no windows, but the light streamed in through the open arches, and past the white and light blue pillarets of the dome. Yet it was not possible, from below, to see the sky.
The hall was already filled with people—thousands upon thousands. Whispering softly, all pressed forward, and at last stood still in silent expectation. Johannes followed his fellow-countrymen.
"Look, boys," whispered the father, "these pillars are of one piece—the largest stone columns in the world. In remote antiquity, when, also, men were able to build great structures, there were two like them in Rome; and we found another one, half hewn, on the coast of Corsica. Then we ourselves made ninety-seven others, and placed them all here, to the honor of God."
"Father," whispered Gerbrand, "surely we are now the happiest and the mightiest beings in the universe, are we not?"
But the father looked at him reprovingly, and said: "For shame, boy! We are only poor blind earth-worms, and all our happiness is misery, and all our magnificence is a sham, compared with the splendor of the Truth. It is but a feeble glimmering of the reality. To express this, we come hither yearly; and it was to teach you this that I brought you with me. Look up, and read what is written there."
Johannes' eyes followed the direction of the upraised hand, and he saw a Greek proverb that ran around the dome in colossal letters of gold. As interpreted by the father of the two youths it read thus: "To the only God, who alone is the Truth and the real Existence—our Father, whom we love with all our hearts and all our understanding, and for whose sake we love one another as we love ourselves."
Then the man showed his children a gold figure, at the northern end of the hall, at which the eyes of all the people were now directed, and said:
"Notice! There is the number of the hour; but beneath, it says: 'There is neither hour nor time.' Do you see? Remember that as long as you live. And now consider why we have come here to-day. For a few moments the sun stands at the summer solstice—its highest point. The temple is so built that just at that instant the sun's light comes through the opening in the dome and touches the golden figure of the hour. Then all of us—thousands on thousands from every region of the world—will again in song solemnly pledge ourselves to faithful love toward one another, and toward the Father of us all."
After this the boys were silent, gazing with all the people at the golden figure. And now that innumerable throng, in the whole, vast space, became as still as death—as still as some great forest before a storm, when not a leaf stirs.
Then, in mighty, resounding tones, a great bell began to strike the hour; while the people, all in the utmost suspense, counted the strokes. Before the last stroke fell, the golden figure burst into flame, in the bright light of the sun.
Then, in unison, without any pause, all joined in one mighty chorus, stately, solemn, and simple, that soared into the spacious vault like a song of thanks and of promise in one—a renewal for the year to come of the bond of love between God and man.
And so strong and deep was their emotion that some sank to their knees as if overcome, while others rested head or hands upon the shoulders of those standing in front of them. But the greater number stood erect, and sang loudly and clearly, regarding the scene with bright, joyful, and spirited looks.
Johannes himself felt thankful and happy beyond words—like a child under his Father's blessing, in the heart of his home.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!!! went the alarm-clock on the black mantel-shelf above the Dutch oven in Marjon's small kitchen. The iron bed shuddered and creaked; and Marjon sprang up, with the sleepy, mechanical haste of one accustomed to begin work at dawn, to stop the alarm.
There stood the unpainted table, the oil-lamp, and the unwashed coffee-set, and Marjon began to put things in order.
And out from the stifling, dark alcove came, one by one, the seven children of Van Tijn—to wash themselves at the kitchen pump and to dry themselves with one and the same old hand-towel.
[1]Bach = Fountain.
[1]Bach = Fountain.
Already they had been twice to the hospital, on visitors' days—Wednesday and Saturday—but they had not been permitted to see Markus.
He still lay unconscious, and the doctor did not yet know whether an operation would be necessary.
And when Johannes implored that they might only look upon the face of their friend, to know if he was still alive, it availed nothing. Their acquaintance with Dr. Cijfer or with Professor Bommeldoos had no influence here. There was no disposition to be indulgent. The feeling of hostility toward his Brother was general, and permeated the humane, scientific atmosphere of the hospital to such an extent that Johannes also was received more coldly because he appeared to be a relative of this man. For not even doctors and nurses are exempt from the suspicion of being sensitive to the opinions of others.
The strain of their sorrow was so great that Johannes and Marjon each feared lest the other would be ill—they ate so little and looked so worn, and their cheeks, although never very round and blooming, grew so pale and sunken.
At last—at last, they might go, for their third call, and join the stream of callers on Wednesday afternoon, from two o'clock until four. Marjon carried some white and purple asters; Johannes, a bunch of grapes bought with money carefully saved, cent by cent.
Entering the ward, they looked in great anxiety over the two long rows of beds. They searched for the face they knew so well, but did not find it. Timidly, they made inquiry of the nurse who sat writing, in the middle of the ward, at a little table covered with bandages and remedies. Without replying, she pointed to a bed. Then they saw the dark eyes, turned toward them with a kind smile.
They had not recognized him, for his beard was gone, his head enveloped with wrappings, and his face covered with plasters.
He beckoned them, and extended his emaciated white hand. They flew to him.
Two young men stood beside his bed. They were students. One of them, who seemed to have just made an examination of Markus, was rather gross in appearance, and had a flushed, uneasy face. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead. The other stood by, indifferently, his hands in his pockets.
"Have you got at it?" asked the latter.
"Confound it, no," replied the other, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "It's a thundering complicated case. There's a fracture of the skull; but the paralysis I can't account for. It's a mean trick of Snijman's to pick out such a business for me, just to pester me. I'll be sure to fail in the examination.
"Come, come, old fellow, you're in a pet. It's a pretty little chance for you—one to brag about. Come to-night to the quiz, and go through the brain anatomy again with me. Bring yourHenlealong. I'll give you such a lift you'll astonish them, old man. But we must be off now, for it's visiting-day."
And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his instruments, he led him out of the ward.
"What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?" asked Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon's flowers—with his left hand, because he could not move the other.
But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand.
Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words; but he could not.
"Children," said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, "I notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when you sat down in the street beside the scissors'-wheel, and how I reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him bathed in tears, both day and night."
At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon said:
"But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you."
"It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen.Thatis frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted, is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping."
Then said Johannes:
"But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it? No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your words."
Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to urge upon him a deeper reflection, said:
"But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed—the most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground—is trodden under foot—no one sees it—it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes forgotten me and my words?"
Johannes shook his head.
"Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed lies in the dark ground, and waits its time."
Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children, little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled with the sharp scent of the disinfectants.
"Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it vibrates."
"Are you going to leave us, Markus?" asked Johannes, setting his teeth to keep command of himself.
"I have performed my task," said Markus.
"Already? Already?" they both asked. "We cannot spare you. We might for a little while, but not for always."
"Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I shall be still closer to you than I now am."
"But, Markus, how can I, without you, help people in their sorrow? Indeed, I am far from knowing the way yet. It seems as though I ought to be asking the way, for weeks to come, day and night."
"Dear Johannes, I have said enough. To ask day and night would help you no more than to think day and night upon what I have already said to you. It seems—does it not—as if I had spoken little, and done little, among men. But recall how the same was said of old, and how it has never, through many words, become clearer, but always more dim. Where the plain commandments have not enough weight, much speaking has not a particle of effect. Has not the best already been said—two thousand years ago? Millions have torn and martyred one another on account of additions, because of misinterpretations, explanations, and commentaries; but the simple commandment, known of all, they have not kept. Concerning the swaddling-cloths they have fought bitterly; but the babe itself they have left to the swine and the dogs."
They were permitted to stay throughout the time of visiting, and Johannes related where he had been during the night of his betrothal.
Marjon, having listened, asked:
"Markus, if he really saw the whole world as it is to be, why did he neither see nor hear anything of Markus himself?"
But Markus closed his eyes, as if weary of listening, laid back his head with a contented smile, and said, gently:
"The faithful architect is not concerned about his own renown, but about the work itself."
Then he indicated that he wished to rest; and, exchanging looks, they slowly stood up, and with reluctant steps, absorbed in deep thought, they turned away.
On Saturday, when they came again, they looked straight over to Markus' bed, for now they knew where he lay. But an icy fear came upon them when they caught sight of his face, below the white swathing-cloths. It was like sallow wax, with insunken eyes, and lay pressed into the pillow. They thought he was dead.
And when they stopped, hesitating and trembling, the patient in the cot next that of Markus motioned to them to come nearer.
"Come on, you," said the man, a disreputable old fellow with a bandage around his bald head, a crooked nose, and a shaggy beard stained a yellow-brown with tobacco-juice. "He isn't cold yet, but he's snoozin' away's steady's a new-born babe. Isn't that so, Sjaak?"
And Sjaak, the patient on the other side—a drunkard with a broken leg, and a face full of red pimples—cried out: "Hear me! I couldn't sleep better meself—after a couple o' drinks."
"Just make yerselves easy," said the old fellow. "Don't be upset about it. He'd be sorry if you went away again."
"A little less noise, number eight," called the nurse. "Talk quietly."
"Is he your brother?" asked Sjaak, in a whisper this time. Johannes nodded.
"They've given him the very devil," said the old man, "just as they gave it to me. Though I believe they served me about right."
"I'm askin' a great deal," said Sjaak; "but if we've both always got to stay in this here boardin'-house—him and me—why, then, I'd like to ask the good Lord not to let him kick the bucket before I kicks it. Because if I've got to stay here alone with that old red-nose there, and my own damn wicked carcass, then—hi! hi! hi!"
Then came a sudden outburst of maudlin sobs, due, no doubt, to a condition of enforced abstinence.
"Silence!" called the Sister, sternly.
Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his neighbors, right and left, and asked:
"Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram—if you take care from now on to drink water only, and not gin."
"I swear I will, Marrakus—swear it by God!" said Sjaak, striking himself on the breast.
"You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of beer you will have forgotten all your vows."
"No beer, either," said Sjaak. "So help...."
"Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone."
"Mar-r-akus," said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the woollen covers, "tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I'm shy of the priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can't get no booze here, I settle down in me bed o' nights with the jim-jams, and shake like an earthquake. But ifIdon't have to go to the devil, they can go to blazes with their bloomin' damnation! They can use their fires to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes!—it's all the same to me."
"Listen, my man," said Markus, kindly. "I am going to speak to you from my heart. Will you believe me?"
"That I will, Marrakus," replied the old man, seriously, holding up a withered talon.
"When I stand before the Father above—if He let me into heaven—I shall say, I will not enter in until Old Bram also is redeemed from hell—even if he be the very last one."
For a time the old fellow continued to gaze into the earnest eyes of Markus. Then his grotesque face assumed a whimsical grin, and he let himself fall back on his pillow, with a thud. There he lay, dumbfounded, staring at the ceiling—grinning, mumbling, and shaking his head. Johannes heard him whisper, "God-a-mighty!—Jesus Christ—Jesus Mary—God-a-mighty forever—" and so on and on.
Gently, yet not without some bitterness, Marjon asked:
"But, Markus, is he worthy of that? The fellow is half-witted."
Markus replied, "And Keesje, then? Have you not shed tears over him? There is more need for them here."
Thereat the two lapsed into thoughtful silence. At length Johannes, sighing deeply, exclaimed, "Oh, how many enigmas there are! The golden key seems farther away than ever."
"Yet it is nearer," said Markus. "Because you have chosen Me and Life, instead of Windekind and Death.
"The lily of eternal wisdom is a tender flower, which needs to grow slowly, and of itself.
"The Father hath sent us all forth to search for it; but no one findeth it alone.
"Eternal wisdom is like a bashful maiden: she flees from him who pursues too recklessly; but that one who turns aside, and first follows after love—him she coyly comes to find."
When Markus had said this, Marjon blurted out:
"Johannes and I are husband and wife."
Markus nodded, without appearing at all surprised.
"Will you join us in truth, Markus?" asked Johannes.
"Can I give truth, Johannes, where it is not?" asked Markus.
"That is not what I mean," said Johannes, in confusion; "but I will promise to be true to her, in the sense you mean."
"Consider your words, Johannes. A promise is a prophecy. Who can prophesy without full knowledge? This man beside me here promised not to drink. He intended not to; but what is his promise worth, without knowledge? Have you knowledge of your lasting faith? Then say, 'I desire to be true,' and show it. But make no promises; for whoever makes an idle promise is guilty; and whoever keeps a false promise is more guilty than he who breaks it."
Then said Marjon to Johannes: "I do not wish you to make any promises, but I want your loyalty. If you will not remain true without promises, I do not wish them. Can you love only because you have promised to? For such love as that I would not thank you."
"Then I will say that I feel true, so far as I know myself," said Johannes, "and I will promise that I will do everything in my power to remain true."
"That is more considerately said," added Markus.
"But where we are to set up housekeeping I cannot yet see—he apiccolo, and I only a housemaid! That doesn't bring in much. I think we shall yet fetch up in a tingel-tangel."[1]
"It cannot make any difference to me where we find ourselves, if only I know I am contributing something toward the good life—toward the happiness of all those fine and dear people whom I have seen. But there will be small chance of that, either aspiccoloor in a tingel-tangel."
"Children," said Markus, "out of the word springs the deed, and out of the deed springs life. And every one who speaks the good word creates the deed and fosters life."
"Good," said Johannes. "We will speak the word to all who have ears, so long as we shall live; and even if in prison, we shall speak it. And I have not only a mouth, but hands also that are willing to do."
"Such hands will always find something to do—with more to follow; for the word and the deed are like the forest and the rain: the forest attracts the rain, and the rain makes the forest grow."
"But how, then," cried Johannes, "how? I see no way, no opportunity for my deeds."
"Do you remember what I told you about the field-laborers? That tells it all. And this I say to you, Johannes: constant love makes one invincible; love, a sure memory, and patience. For him who draws nigh to the Father, and who forgets not, who remains always the same,—for such a one, although he still be weak, God always opens the way through every obstruction and perplexity. He is like one who continues to urge gently, in one direction, through throngs that go—they know not whither. He will make progress where others lag behind. And think of it, children, the highest and noblest thing you can long for is still only sad and inferior compared with what you can attain through a calm and steadfastly determined love."
The bell which warned the visitors that it was four o'clock, and time to leave, had sounded some time ago, and the ward was nearly empty. The head nurse softly clapped her hands, to indicate to Johannes and Marjon that they must pass on. They were obliged to rise.
Then the door opened, and Professor Snijman came in with two assistants. The professor was a tall man, with a beardless face, and brown hair which curled behind his ears and about his carefully shaven neck. He had a hard and haughty look, with an assumption of stately condescension. With short steps he walked up to Markus' bed, followed by the two young men—his assistants—with little pointed, blonde beards, and in spotless white linen coats.
"Well, well! Come! Visitors still? Not getting on very fast, are you?" said the professor.
At the same time he studied Markus with the cool calculation of a gardener considering whether he will uproot the shrub or let it remain. Then he took Markus' paralyzed hand in his own, and moved it meditatively.
"It seems to me, gentlemen—don't you think?—that we'll have to try what the knife can do here. Don't you think so? It's acasus perditus, anyway, isn't it? And who knows?... removal of the bone splinter—relieving the pressure on the motor-centre.... Possibly splendid results, don't you think?"
The assistants nodded, and whispered to each other and to the professor. Markus said:
"Professor, will you not let me rest in peace? I am quite resigned to my condition. I know that it will be labor lost; and I am not willing to be made unconscious."
"Come, come," said the professor, half commanding, half in pretended kindness. "Not so gloomy, not so crest-fallen. We'll just see if you can't have the use of this arm again, shall we not? You need not be afraid. Everything is safe, and no pain. Would you not like to be able again to draw on your own blouse, to cut your meat, and to fill your pipe? Come, come! Keep up courage—keep up courage. Sister, to-morrow—ten o'clock—on the operating-table."
Then to Marjon and Johannes:
"Hello, young folks, it's after four. Out of the ward, quick!"
Markus put out his hand, which they both kissed, and said: "Till I see you again."
[1]A kind of cheap music-hall.
[1]A kind of cheap music-hall.
The next Wednesday, at two o'clock, when they came again with the stream of visitors, and, with the eagerness of those who thirst and know where they will find water, hastened to the ward where Markus lay, they saw, as they entered, three green screens around his bed.
They had not yet learned what that means in a hospital ward, and they stepped up to the bed as hastily as ever, expecting that Markus might now be able to speak to them with more privacy. But Sjaak, at number six, saw them coming, and, thrusting out his lower lip compassionately, he shook his red head.
"Gone!" said he.
And Old Bram, on the other side:
"Just missed him! Gone—this mornin'!"
"Gone!" exclaimed Johannes, terrified and not understanding. "Where?"
"Well," replied Sjaak, "if he'd only come back and tell me where, I'd know more than I do."
And Bram, whom Sjaak could not see, on account of the screen, said to Marjon:
"He promised me," striking the woolen covers with his fist, "that I'll not be lost. He promised it, and I count on it. I just do!"
"What has happened to him?" asked Marjon, gradually comprehending.
"They operated on him," said Sjaak. "They got the ash-can out of his brains. If he'd lived, then he'd 'a' walked again. He'd 'a' left the premises now, if he'd only lived."
"Come with me, Marjon," said Johannes; and he led her away. Then softly, "Shall we ask to see him—now?"
Marjon, pale as death, but calm, replied: "Not I, Jo. I want to keep the living picture before me as a last remembrance, not the dead one."
Johannes, as pale as she, silently acquiesced.
Then he went to the head nurse and asked, softly and modestly:
"When is the funeral to be, Sister?"
The Sister, a small, trim, pale and spectacled lady, with a rather sour but yet not heartless face, gave the two a swift glance, and said, somewhat nervously and hurriedly:
"Oh, you mean number seven, do you not? Yes? Well, we know nothing about him. There is indeed no family, is there? There was no statement of birth—no ticket of removal—nothing. There is—ah ... there is to be no funeral."
"No funeral, Sister!" exclaimed Marjon. "But what then? What—what is to be done with ... with him?"
Then the nurse, with a scientific severity probably more cruel than she purposed, said:
"The cadaver goes to the dissecting-rooms, Miss."
For a time the two stood speechless—completely dismayed and horrified. They had not thought of that possibility—they were not prepared for such a thing. They both felt it unbearably gruesome, now that they faced the fact, and were without advice.
"Is there no help for it, Sister?" asked Johannes, stammering in his confusion. "Can it not ... can it not ... from the poor fund...?"
He comprehended that it would be a question of money, but he could see no relief.
More practical, Marjon immediately asked, "What would it cost, Sister?"
"I am sorry, Miss," replied the nurse, her feelings now really touched for them, "but I fear you have come too late. You ought to have asked about that in advance. The professor has given express orders."
"Twenty-five gulden, Sister? Would that be enough?" asked Marjon, perseveringly.
The Sister shrugged her shoulders.
"Possibly, if you ask the professor, and if you can prove that you belong to the family. But I am afraid it is too late." The two turned away in silence.
"What shall we do, Marjon?" asked Johannes, when they were in the street.
"There is no use in going to that professor," said Marjon. "He's a conceited fool—bound to have his own way. But it's a matter of money."
"I have nothing, Marjon," said Johannes.
"Neither have I, Jo—at least, nothing to begin with. But we must go after the people whodohave something. You know who."
"It is miserable work, Marjon."
"It is that; but we shall maybe get still harder work on his account. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, of course; but neither will I shun it. I am going, now. I know well where you want me to go."
"Good! They are the richest, are they not? But I, too, am going out to get something. You might not succeed there."
"Where are you going?"
"Where there is money, Jo,—to the circus, and to Vrede-best."
"Have you enough to get there with?"
"Yes. I've enough for that."
Great was the indignation in the Roodhuis and Van Tijn households when they heard of the event. Sentimentality, the enjoyment of the sensational, and attachment to tradition—all this so moved the good women that their meagre purses contributed, without delay, three gulden and twenty-four cents.
In the meantime Johannes dragged himself to Dolores' villa. In the drawing-room, beside a brightly flaming wood fire, sat Van Lieverlee engaged in lively conversation with two young-lady callers, for whom the countess was pouring tea. Into this circle came Johannes, with his sad heart and his lugubrious petition.
He entered hurriedly, awkwardly, abruptly, without heeding the astonished and disdainful looks of the visitors, nor the very evident consternation which his poverty-stricken appearance, his untoward entrance, and his melancholy tidings made upon host and hostess.
"But, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, "I thought you were more philosophical and had higher ideas than that. It seems to me that—for your friend who claimed to be a magician, and for yourself who believed in him—it makes a sad lot of bother what happens to the dust out of which his temporal presence was formed."
"I thought," replied Johannes, "that as you are now a Catholic, you might perhaps feel that you could do something for...."
"Certainly," said Van Lieverlee, scornfully, "if your friend also were a Catholic. Was he?"
"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes.
"But, Johannes," said the countess, "why was not your friend in a burial club? Nowadays all people of his class belong to such clubs. Is that not so, Freule?"
"Of course," replied the Honorable Lady. "Every decent poor person belongs to a club. But it's astonishing how people will complain of their poverty and yet besothoughtless and careless."
"Yes, astonishing," sighed the other visitor.
"Then you will do nothing for me?" asked Johannes, not without a touch of bitterness in his tones.
The countess looked at Van Lieverlee, who frowned and shook his head.
"No, dear Johannes. For anything else, quite willingly; but for this there seems to be no justification."
A whole night and day passed in which nothing could be done, since Marjon had not yet returned; and the three gulden and twenty-four cents had only increased by very slow degrees to about five gulden.
At last, on Saturday forenoon, a carriage drew up to the door of the little coffee-house, and out stepped a stately figure in black, which, with its old-time jetted bonnet, heavy rustling black-silk skirt, full mantilla, and a dainty, lavenderlike suggestion of linen chests, and of choice silken souvenirs, entirely filled the narrow entrance.
"Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. And in a quick impulse of warm affection he threw his arms around her.
"It is herself!" said Marjon, excited by her success. "And I've got ten gulden from the dark woman, who is not so bad as I thought she was."
Aunt Seréna received a cup of coffee, and was soon on good terms with the Roodhuis family.
In the same carriage that had brought her, Marjon and Johannes drove with her to the hospital. They were sure of success, now, relying upon Aunt Seréna's wealth.
But you will not be surprised to hear that they arrived too late—that the doorman, and the doctor on duty, gave them positive assurance that, for all the gold in the world, there could now be no question of burial—because no one could reassemble what had once been the body of their friend.
"Wretches!" muttered Marjon, as they went homeward. But Johannes cried out: "Oh, Marjon, Marjon, the time is not yet come for men to honor their kings."
There was mourning only in the dark alcove behind the drinking-room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house; but there the mourning, the sobbing and the sighing, were genuine.
Before going away, Aunt Seréna remarked:
"You see, the golden apples of my little tree were good for something, after all."
"Ah, Aunt Seréna," replied Johannes, "do not think me proud. I did not come to you before, because I was ashamed, even though you had said I need not be. Buthehas cured me of looking down upon others because they do not yet think as I do."
"Then you will not be too proud to cherish my little apple-tree, if I leave it for you to transplant into your own garden?"
And she laughingly continued:
"That is not so kindly intentioned as it appears to be. I have a mischievous pleasure in thinking of your embarrassment at not knowing how to use it better than I did."
"That is naughty of you, Aunt Seréna," said Marjon.
"One thing I know," said Johannes. "I shall spread broadcast, the 'little apples,' that from them new trees may grow; forhetaught us that."
"Good! You must come, some time, and explain that to me. God bless you both! And God bless your work, my children."
"God bless you, Aunt Seréna! Give Daatje our greetings."
And now I have told you all that I had to tell about Little Johannes.