Chapter X: Part II: I (5)

The musicians, as if aware of their presence, now played a charming dance-tune, and the two little girls, with both hands clasped together, began playfully keeping time with their slender limbs--_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three--or the "three-step," as children say. And what Johannes experienced when he saw and heard that, I am not going even to try to describe to you, for the reason that he has never been able himself to do it.

Only know that it was something very delightful and very mysterious, for it made him think of Windekind's fairyland. Why, was more than he could understand.

At first, it seemed as if something out of the glorious land of Windekind and Father Pan had been brought to him, and that it was those two little girls upon the mountain-path, keeping time to the music with their slim little feet.

Then, hand in hand, the two children went through the park, chatting as they went--now and then running, and sometimes laughing merrily as they stopped beside a flower or a butterfly, until, through the maze of promenaders, they disappeared in the halls of a large hotel.

Johannes followed after them, wondering what they were so much interested in, observing the while all their pretty little ways, their intonations and winsome gestures, their dainty dress, their beautiful hair and slender forms.

When he was again with Marjon, he could not help remarking how much less pretty she was--with her meagre form and pale face--her larger hands and feet, and short, ash-colored hair. Johannes said nothing about this little adventure, but was very quiet and introspective. Because of this, Marjon also was for a long time less merry than usual.

That afternoon, when they went the round of the place again, trying to collect money from the families who, according to the German custom, were taking cake and coffee in front of the hotels and the pavilions, Johannes felt himself getting very nervous in the neighborhood of the big hotel into which the two little girls had gone. His heart beat so fast he could not sing any more.

And sure enough, as they came nearer, he heard the very same two bird-like little voices which had been ringing in his ears the whole day long, shouting for joy. That was not on account of Little Johannes, but of Keesje. For the first time Johannes was fiercely jealous of him.

In a gentle, quieting way, a musical voice called out two names: "Olga!--Frieda!"

But Johannes was too much confused and undone to note clearly what he saw. It was they--the two lovely children whom he had first seen in the morning--and they came close up, and spoke to Keesje. Their mother called them again, and then the children coaxed and pleaded, in most supplicating tones, that the delightful monkey might be allowed to come a little nearer--that they might give him some cake, and that he might perform his tricks.

It seemed to Johannes as if he were in a dream--as if everything around him were hazy and indistinct. He had felt that way when he stood in Robinetta's house, confronted by those hostile men. But then everything was dismal and frightful, while now it was glad and glorious. He heard, vaguely, the confusing sounds of voices, and the clatter of cups and saucers, and silver utensils. He felt the touch of the children's gentle little hands, and was led to a small table whence the reproving voice had sounded. A lady and a gentleman were sitting there. Some dainties were given to Keesje.

"Can you sing?" asked a voice in German.

Then Johannes bethought him for the first time that the two little girls had been speaking in English. Marjon tuned her guitar and gave him a hard poke in the side with the neck of it, because she found him getting so flustered again. Then they sang the song that Johannes had completed that morning, and which Marjon had since put to music.

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!
Ah, lovely lobelia blue!
Why gaze at me so mournfully?
Why thus bedight,
This morning bright
With glistening tears of dew?

"Ah! is't remembrance of olden days,
When the exquisite nightingale sung?
When the fairies danced, over mossy ways,
In the still moonlight,
'Neath the stars so bright,
When yet the world was young?

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!
Ah, lovely lobelia blue!
The sun is grown dim, and the sky o'ercast,
The winds grow cold,
The world is old,
And the Autumn comes fast--so fast!"

Johannes was singing clearly again. The lump in his throat had gone away as suddenly as it had come.

Then he heard the gentleman say in great astonishment: "They are singing in Dutch!" And then they had to repeat their song.

Johannes sang as he never yet had sung--with full fervor. All his sadness, all his indefinite longings, found voice in his song. Marjon accompanied him with soft, subdued guitar-strokes, and with her alto voice. Yet the music was entirely hers.

The effect upon the family at the table, moreover, was quite different from that which up to this time they had produced. The stylish lady uttered a prolonged "Ah!" in a soft, high voice, and closely scanned the pair through a long-handled, tortoise-shell lorgnette. The gentleman said in Dutch: "Fine! First rate! Really, that is unusually good!" The little girls clapped their hand, and shouted "Bravo! Bravo!"

Johannes felt his face glowing with pleasure and satisfaction. Then the stylish lady, placing her lorgnette in her lap, said:

"Come up nearer, boys." She, too, now spoke in Dutch, but with a foreign accent, that sounded very charming to Johannes.

"Tell me," she said kindly, "where did you come from, and where did you find that beautiful little song?"

"We came from Holland, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, still a trifle confused, "and we made the song ourselves."

"Made it yourselves!" exclaimed the lady, with affable astonishment, while she exchanged a glance with the gentleman beside her. "The words, or the music?"

"Both," said Johannes. "I made the words, and my friend the music."

"Well, well, well!" said the lady, smiling at his pretty air of self-satisfaction.

And then they both had to sit at the table and have some cake and coffee. Johannes was gloriously happy, but the two dear little girls had eyes only for Keesje, whom they tried cautiously to caress. When Keesje turned his head round rather too suddenly, and looked at them too sharply out of his piercing little brown eyes, they quickly withdrew their small white hands, making merry little shrieks of fright. How jealous Johannes was of Keesje! Marjon wore the serious, indifferent expression of face that was native to her.

"Now tell us a little more," said the charming lady. "Surely you are not common tramps, are you?"

Johannes looked into the refined face, and the eyes that were slightly contracted from near-sightedness. It seemed to him as if he never before had seen such a noble and beautiful lady. She was far from old yet--perhaps thirty years of age--and was very exquisitely dressed, with a cloud of lace about her shoulders and wrists, pearls around her neck, and wearing a profusion of sparkling rings and bracelets. An exquisite perfume surrounded her, and as she looked at Johannes, and addressed him so kindly, he was completely enchanted and bewildered. Acceding to her request he began, with joyful alacrity, to tell of himself and his life, of the death of his father, of his Aunt Seréna, and of his meeting with Marjon, and their flight together. But still he was discreet enough not to begin about Windekind and Pluizer, and his first meeting with Markus.

The circle gave close attention, while Marjon looked as dull and dejected as ever, and busied herself with Keesje.

"How extremely interesting!" said the children's mother, addressing the gentleman who sat next her. "Do you not think so, Mijnheer van Lieverlee?--Very, very interesting?"

"Yes, Mevrouw, I do, indeed--very peculiar! It is a find. What is your name, my boy?"

"Johannes, Mijnheer."

"Is that so?--But you are not Johannes, the friend of Windekind!"

Johannes blushed, and stammered in great confusion: "Yes,--I am he, Mijnheer!"

Suddenly Keesje gave an ugly screech, causing the lady and gentleman to start nervously. Evidently, Marjon had pinched his tail--a thing she rarely did.

XVI

See, now, what comes of not doing what I expressly desired! Mijnheer van Lieverlee knew very well that I did not wish Little Johannes to be taken in hand; and yet now it happened, and, as you are to hear, with disastrous consequences.

Mijnheer van Lieverlee was not more than six years the senior of Johannes. He had large blue eyes, a waxy white face with two spots of soft color, a scanty, flax-like, double-pointed beard, and a thick tuft of sandy hair artfully arranged above his forehead. A scarf-pin of blue sapphires was sparkling in his broad, dark-violet scarf, a high, snow-white collar reached from his modish coat-collar up to the hair in his neck, and his hands--covered with rings--were resting on the exquisitely carved, ivory head of an ebony walking-stick. On the table, in front of him, lay a fine, light-grey felt hat, and his pantaloons were of the same color.

All were silent for a moment after Johannes' acknowledgment. Then Mijnheer van Lieverlee pulled out a handsome pocket-book, bearing an ornamental monogram in small diamonds, made in it several entries, and said to the lady:

"We can say to a certainty that this is not an accident. Evidently, his 'karma' is favorable. That he should have come directly here to us who know his history, and comprehend his soul, is the work of the highest order of intelligences--those who are attending him. We must heed the suggestion."

"It surely is an important circumstance, and one to be considered," said the lady, irresolutely. "Where do you live?"

"Over there by the railway--in the lodging-house," replied Marjon.

Mevrouw looked rather coldly, and said: "Well, boys, you may go home now. Here are three marks for each of you. And, Johannes, will you not write out that little song for me? There really was a charming melancholy in it. 'Twas sympathetic."

"Yes, Mevrouw, I will do so. And then may I come and bring it to you myself?"

"Certainly, certainly!" said the lady; but, at the same time, she closely scrutinized his clothing, through her lorgnette.

When they had turned away, and were out of sight, Marjon ran straight back again to the rear of the hotel, and began making personal inquiries, and kept busy as long as she could find any one who knew anything about the household of the stately lady, and the two lovely little girls.

"Do you mean the Countess?" asked a conceited head-waiter, with scornful emphasis. "Do you perchance belong to the family?"

"Well, why not?" retorted Marjon, with great self-assurance. "All the same, there have been countesses who eloped with head-waiters."

The cook and the chambermaids laughed.

"Clear out, you rascal!" said the waiter.

"What country is she from?" asked Marjon, undeterred.

"She? She has no native country. The Count was a Pole, and the Countess came from America. At present she is living in Holland."

"Widow--or divorced?" asked one of the chambermaids.

"Divorced, of course! That's much more interesting."

"And that young Hollander? Is he related to her?"

"What! He's a fellow-traveler. They met there."

"Shall we not start out again, Jo?" asked Marjon, as they sat together eating their supper of brown bread and cheese, in the same cramped, smoky room where the humble Hercules and his little daughter were also sitting--dressed, at present, in shabby civilian clothes, and each provided with a glass of beer.

"I am going to take my song," said Johannes.

"Manage it some way, Jo; I'll have nothing to do with those people."

Johannes ate his supper in silence. But, secretly, his feeling toward Marjon grew cooler, and she dropped in his estimation. She was jealous, or insensitive to what was beautiful or noble in people. She had also lived so long among dirty and rude folk! Oh, those two dear little girls! They were nobler and more refined beings. Softly--fervently--Johannes repeated their names: "Olga! Frieda!"

Then, as true as you live, there came a gold-bebraided small boy from the big hotel, bearing a note so perfumed that the close little room was filled with its sweetness; and the beer drinkers sniffed it with astonishment.

It was from Mijnheer, requesting Johannes to come to him, but without the monkey.

"Go by yourself," said Marjon. "Kees mustn't go along because he has an odor of another sort. You may say that I prefer that of Kees."

Mijnheer van Lieverlee was drinking strong black coffee from small metal cups, and smoking a Turkish pipe with an amber mouthpiece. At each pull of the pipe the water gurgled. He wore black silk hose and polished shoes, and he invited Johannes to a seat beside him on the broad divan.

After a pause he addressed Johannes as follows: "There--that's it, Johannes! Sit quite still, and while we talk try to maintain yourself in the uppermost soul-sphere." Then, after a period of pipe-gurgling, Mijnheer van Lieverlee asked: "Are you there?"

Johannes was not quite sure about it, but he nodded assent, being very curious concerning what was to follow.

"I can ask you that, Johannes, because we understand each other instantly. You and I, you know--you and I! We knew each other before we were in the body. It is not necessary for us to make each other's acquaintance after the manner of ordinary, commonplace people. We can instantly do as you and Windekind did. We are not learning to know, but we recognize each other."

Johannes listened attentively to this interesting and extraordinary statement. He looked at the speaker respectfully, and tried indeed to recall him, but without success.

"You will already have wondered that I should know about your adventures. But that is not so very marvelous, for there is some one else to whom you appear to have told them. Do you know whom I mean?"

Johannes knew well whom he meant.

"Really, you ought not to have done it, Johannes. When I heard of it I said at once that it was a great pity. The world is too coarse and superficial in such matters. People do not comprehend them. You must not permit that which is rare and delicate to be desecrated and contaminated by the foul touch of the indifferent public--the stupid multitude. Do you understand?"

Johannes nodded, the pipe gurgled, and Mijnheer van Lieverlee took a sip of coffee. Then, in a lighter tone, and gesticulating airily with his slender, white hands, he resumed:

"The veil of Maja, Johannes, obscures the vision of all who are created--of all who breathe and have aspirations--of all who enjoy and suffer. We must extricate ourselves from it. Will you have some coffee, too?"

"If you please, Mijnheer," said Johannes.

"A cigarette? Or do you not smoke yet?"

"No, Mijnheer."

"It is true, Windekind did not like tobacco smoke. But I do not smoke as common people do, for the fun of it or because it is pleasant. No! I permit myself to do so through my lowest qualities--the eighth and ninth articulations of Karma-Rupa. My higher attributes--the fourth and fifth --remain apart; just as a gentleman from the balcony of his country-seat views his cattle grazing. The cows do nothing but eat ravenously, digest, and eliminate. The gentleman makes of them a poem or a picture."

A pause, accompanied by the gurgling of the pipe.

"Well, as I have said, we should not cast before swine the pearls of our higher sensations and states of mind. We, Johannes--you and I, who have already passed through many incarnations--we are aged souls--we have already worn the veil so long that it is beginning to wear out. We can see through it. Now, we must not have too much to do with those young novices who are just setting out. We should decline, retrograde, and lose the benefit of our costly conquests."

That all seemed quite just to Johannes, and very flattering moreover. And it was also now made clear to him why he got on so poorly with people. He was of age, among minors.

"We, Johannes," resumed Van Lieverlee, "belong, so to speak, to the veterans of life. We bear the scars of countless incarnations, the stripes of many years--or, rather, let me say ages--of service. We must maintain our rank, and not throw to the dogs our dignity and prestige. This you will do if you continue to noise abroad all your intimate experiences; and I believe you still have a childish and quite perilous tendency that way."

Johannes thought of his many faults and blunders--of his stupidity in asserting his wisdom at school, and in blurting out Windekind's name before the men. Ashamed, he sat staring into his empty coffee cup.

"In short, it evidently was intended that you should find me, this time--me and Countess Dolores. For you must know that you have found two souls of the supremest refinement. Exactly what you need."

"Yes, how charming she is, and how lovely the children are!" chimed in Johannes, enthusiastically.

"Not on account of her being a countess," said Van Lieverlee, with a gesture of disdain. "Titles signify nothing with us. My family is perhaps more distinguished than hers. But she is the sister of our souls--a blending of glowing passion and lily-white purity."

At these fine words of Van Lieverlee, uttered with great care and emphasis, Johannes felt himself coloring with embarrassment. How did any one dare to say such words as if it were nothing?

"Are you a poet?" he asked bashfully.

"Certainly, I am. But you are one also, my boy. Did you not know it? Well, then, let me tell you, you are a poet. You see, at present you are the ugly duckling that for the first time meets a swan. Do you understand? Do not be afraid, Johannes. Do not be afraid, brother swan! Lift up your yellow beak--I shall not oppress you, but embrace you."

Johannes did lift up his yellow beak, but, instead of embracing him, Van Lieverlee took out the diamond-bedecked pocket-book, and began writing in it, hurriedly. Then, as he put away book and pencil, he smilingly said: "One must hold fast to good ideas. They are precious."

"Well, then," he resumed, drawing at his pipe again, while again it gurgled loudly, "you really could not have managed better, in the pursuit of your great aim, than to have come to us. We know the explanation of all those singular adventures with Pluizer and Windekind, and we can show you the infallible way to what you are seeking. That is, we go together."

Now was not that good news for Johannes? How stupid of Marjon not to be willing to go too! He listened thoughtfully to what followed.

"Give me your attention, Johannes, and I will tell you who all those beings are that you have encountered. I will also solve the riddle of their power, and tell you what there remains for us to do."

At that moment the door opened, and Countess Dolores came in with the children. She was dazzling, with magnificent jewels sparkling on her bare neck and arms. The children were in white. The grand table-d'hôte was over, and the countess had now come to drink her Arabic coffee with Van Lieverlee.

"Ah!" said she, looking at him through her lorgnette, "Have you a visitor? Shall we disturb you? But, really you can make such delicious coffee, and I cannot endure the hotel coffee!"

"Where is the monkey? Where is the monkey?" cried the two children, running up to Johannes.

Johannes stood up, in confusion. The two winsome children encircled him. He scented the exquisite perfume of their luxuriant hair and their rich dress. He felt their warm breath, their soft hands. He was charmed, through and through--possessed by delightful emotions. The little girls caressed him while they, asked after the monkey, until the gently reproachful "Olga!--Frieda!" sounded again.

Then they went and sat with Johannes on the sofa, one each side of him. The mother lighted a cigarette.

"Now proceed with your talking," said she, "so that I can be learning a little." Then in English: "If you listen quietly, girls, and are not troublesome, you may stay here."

Van Lieverlee had risen, put aside his Turkish pipe, grasped the lapel of his skirtless dinner coat with his left hand, and was gesticulating with the right, in front of Johannes and the countess.

"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.

XVII

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.