PART I (continued 2)

"My poor Johannes. That is human language!"

"Make it be still, Windekind! I like calm and sunshine."

"You ask and wish like a human being; therefore there is neither answer nor fulfilment. If you do not learn better to ask and desire, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will become like the thousands of human beings who have spoken to Wistik."

"Are there so many?"

"Yes, thousands. Wistik pretended to be very mysterious, but he is a prater who cannot keep his secret. He hopes to find that book among human beings, and he shares his knowledge with any one who, perhaps, can help him. And so he has already caused a great deal of unhappiness. Many believe him, and search for that book with as much fervor as some do the secret of the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, and forget all their affairs—even their happiness—and shut themselves up among thick books, and strange implements and materials. They hazard their lives and their health—forget the blue heavens, good, kindly Nature, and even their fellow-beings. Sometimes they find beautiful and useful things, like lumps of gold. These they cast up out of their caves, on the sunny surface of the earth. Yet they do not concern themselves with these things—leaving them for others to enjoy. They dig and drudge in the darkness with eager expectancy. They are not seeking gold, but the book. Some grow feeble-minded with the toil, forget their object and their desire, and wander about in aimless idleness. The goblin has made them childish. They may be seen piling up little towers of sand, and reckoning how many grains are lacking before they tumble down. They make little waterfalls, and calculate precisely each bend and bay the flow will make. They dig little pits, and employ all their patience and genius in making them smooth and quite free from stones. If these poor, infatuated ones are disturbed in their labor, and asked what they are doing, they look at you seriously and importantly, shake their heads and mutter: 'Wistik! Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that wicked little goblin. Look out for him, Johannes!"

But Johannes was staring before him at the swaying, creaking trees. Above his clear child-eyes wrinkles had formed in the tender flesh. Never before had he looked so grave.

"But yet—you have said it yourself, that there was such a book! Oh, I know—certainly—that there is something in it which you will not tell me concerning the Great Light."

"Poor, poor Johannes!" said Windekind. And above the rushing and roaring of the storm his voice was like a peaceful choral-song borne from afar. "Love me—love me with your whole being. In me you will find more than you desire. You will realize what you cannot now imagine, and you will yourself be what you have longed to know. Earth and heaven will be your confidants—the stars your next of kin—infinity your dwelling-place. Love me—love me! Cling to me as the hop-vine clings to the tree—be true to me as the lake is to its bed. In me alone will you find repose, Johannes."

Windekind's words were ended, but it seemed as though the choral-song continued. Out of the remote distance it seemed to be floating on—solemn and regular—above the rushing and soughing of the wind—peaceful as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds.

Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom, protected by the little blue mantle.

Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest.

Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again—in swift, ghostly succession—driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were human beings as they were? Why must he leave them—forego their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers die? Why?—Why?

There were the blue lights again—dancing in the depths of the underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay very still, and fast asleep.

"Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from under the blue mantle.

"Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?"

"Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you answer it?"

"You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you have come for?"

"Who will find that book, Wistik?"

"Ah, yes. That's it; that's it! Will you help me if I tell you?"

"If I can, certainly."

"Listen then, Johannes." Wistik opened his eyes amazingly wide, and lifted his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered along the back of his little hand:

"Human beings have the golden chest, fairies have the golden key. The foe of fairies finds it not; fairies' friend only, opens it. A springtime night is the proper time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way."

"Is that true, really true?" cried Johannes, as he thought of his little key.

"Yes," said Wistik.

"Why, then, has no one yet found it?" asked Johannes. "So many people are seeking it!"

"I have told no human being what I have confided to you, I have never yet found the fairies' friend."

"I have it, Wistik! I can help you!" cried Johannes, clapping his hands. "I will ask Windekind."

Away he flew, over moss and dry leaves. Still, he stumbled now and then, and his step was heavy. Thick branches cracked under his feet where before not a grass-blade had bent.

There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low it looked!

"Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him.

"Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew up with a scream.

There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing.

The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the starlight.

Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound.

Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite sorrow.

VII

The morning was cold and grey. The black, glimmering boughs, all stripped by the storm, were weeping in the mist. Little Johannes ran hurriedly on over the wet, down-beaten grass—staring before him toward the edge of the woods where it was lighter, as if that were the end in view. His eyes were red from crying, and strained with fear and misery. He had been running back and forth the whole night, looking for the light. It had always been safe and home-like with Windekind. Now, in every dark spot lurked the ghost of forlornness, and he dared not look around.

At last, he left the woods and saw before him a meadow over which a fine, drizzling rain was falling. A horse stood in the middle of it near a leafless willow-tree, motionless and with drooping head, while the water dripped slowly from its shining sides, and out of its matted mane.

Johannes walked along by the woods. He looked with tired, anxious eyes toward the lonely horse and the grey, misty rain, and he whimpered softly.

"All is over now," he thought. "The sun will never come out again. After this it will always be with me as it is now—here."

But he dared not stand still in his despair; something more frightful yet would happen, he thought.

Then he saw the grand enclosure of a country-seat, and, under a linden tree with bright yellow foliage, a little cottage.

He went within the enclosure, and walked through broad avenues where the ground was thickly covered with layers of brown and yellow linden leaves. Purple asters grew along the grass-plots, and other brilliant autumn flowers were flaming there.

Then he came to a pond. Beside it stood a large house with low windows and glass doors. Rose-bushes and ivy grew against the wall. It was all shut up, and wore a gloomy look. Chestnut-trees, half stripped of their foliage, stood all around; and, amid their fallen leaves, Johannes saw the shining brown chestnuts.

Then that chill, deathly feeling passed away. He thought of his own home. There, too, were chestnut-trees, and at this season he always went to find the glossy nuts. Suddenly he began to feel a longing—as though he had heard the call of a familiar voice. He sat down upon a bench near the house, and gave vent to his feelings in tears.

A peculiar odor caused him to look up. A man stood near him with a white apron on, and a pipe in his mouth. About his waist were strips of linden bark for binding up the flowers. Johannes knew this scent so well; it made him think of his own garden, and of the gardener, who brought him pretty caterpillars, and showed him starlings' eggs.

He was not alarmed, although it was a human being who stood beside him. He told the man that he had been deserted and was lost, and he gratefully followed him to the small dwelling under the yellow-leaved linden-tree.

Indoors sat the gardener's wife, knitting black stockings. Over the peat fire in the fireplace hung a big kettle of boiling water. On the mat by the fire lay a cat with folded forepaws—just as Simon sat when Johannes left home.

Johannes was given a seat by the fire that he might dry his feet. "Tick, tack!—Tick, tack!" said the big, hanging clock. Johannes looked at the steam which rose, hissing, from the kettle, and to the little tongues of flame that skipped nimbly and whimsically over the peat.

"Now I am among human beings," thought he.

It was not bad. He felt calm and contented. They were good and kind, and asked what he would like best to do.

"I would like best to stay here," he replied.

Here he was at peace, but if he went home, sorrow and tears would follow. He would be obliged to maintain silence, and they would tell him that he had been naughty. He would have to see all the past over again, and think once more of everything.

He did long for his little room, for his father, for Presto—but he would rather endure the silent longing where he was, than the painful, racking return. It seemed as if here he might be thinking of Windekind, while at home he could not.

Windekind had surely gone away now—far away to the sunny land where the palms were bending over the blue seas. He would do penance here, and wait for him.

And so he implored the two good people to let him stay. He would be obedient and work for them. He would help care for the garden and the flowers, but only for this winter;—for he hoped in his heart that Windekind would return in the spring.

The gardener and his wife thought that Johannes had run away because he was not treated well at home. They sympathized with him, and promised to let him stay.

He remained, and helped them in the garden and among the flowers. He was given a little bedroom, with a blue wooden bedstead. From it, mornings, he could see the wet, yellow linden leaves slipping along the window-panes; and nights, the dark boughs rocking to and fro—with the stars playing hide-and-seek behind them. He gave names to the stars, and called the brightest Windekind.

He told his history to the flowers—almost all of which he had known at home; the big, serious asters, the gaudy zinias, and the white chrysanthemums which continued to bloom so late in the rude autumn. When all the other flowers were dead the chrysanthemums still stood—and even after the first snowfall, when Johannes came one morning early to look at them, they lifted their cheerful faces and said: "Yes, we are still here. You didn't think we would be, did you?" They were very brave, but two days later they were all dead.

But the palms and tree-ferns still flourished in the green-house, and the strange flower-clusters of the orchids hung in their humid, sultry air. Johannes gazed with wonder into the splendid cups, and thought of Windekind. On going out-of-doors, how cold and colorless everything looked—the black footsteps in the damp snow, and the rattling, dripping skeletons of trees!

Hour after hour, while the snowflakes were silently falling until the branches bowed beneath their weight of down, Johannes walked eagerly on in the violet dusk of the snow-shadowed woods. It was silence, but not death. And it was almost more beautiful than summer verdure; the interlocking of the pure white branches against the clear blue sky, or the descending clouds of glittering flakes when a heavily laden shrub let slide its snowy burden.

Once, on such a walk, when he had gone so far that nothing was to be seen save snow, and snow-covered branches—half white, half black—and all sound and life seemed smothered under its glistening covering, he thought he saw a tiny white animal run nimbly out in front of him. He followed it. It bore no likeness to any that he knew. Then he tried to grasp it, but it sped away and disappeared in a tree-trunk. Johannes peered into the round, black opening, and thought—"Could it be Wistik?"

He did not think much about him. It seemed mean to do so, and he did not wish to weaken in his doing of penance. And life with the two good people left him little to ask for. Evenings, he had to read aloud out of a thick book, in which much was said about God. But he knew that book, and read it absent-mindedly.

The night after his walk in the snow, however, he lay awake in bed, looking at the cold shining of the moonlight on the floor. Suddenly he saw two tiny hands close beside him—clinging fast to the bedside. Then the top of a little white fur cap appeared between the two hands, and at last he saw a pair of earnest eyes under high-lifted eyebrows.

"Good evening, Johannes," said Wistik. "I came to remind you of our agreement. You cannot have found the book yet, for the spring has not come. But are you keeping it in mind? What is the thick book I have seen you reading in? That cannot be the true book. Do not think that."

"I do not think so, Wistik," said Johannes. He turned over and tried to go to sleep again, but he could not get the little key out of his head.

And from this time on, as he read in the thick book, he kept thinking about it, and he saw clearly that it was not the true book.

VIII

"Now he will come," thought Johannes, the first time the snow had melted away, and here and there little clusters of snowdrops began to appear. "Will he not come now?" he asked the snowdrops. They could not tell, but remained with drooping heads looking at the earth as if they were ashamed of their haste, and wished to creep away again.

If they only could have done so! The numbing east winds soon began to blow again, and the poor, rash things were buried deep in the drifted snow.

Weeks later came the violets, their sweet perfume floating through the shrubbery. And when the sun had shone long and warmly on the mossy ground, the fair primulas opened out by hundreds and by thousands.

The shy violets, with their rich fragrance, were mysterious harbingers of coming magnificence, yet the cheerful primulas were gladness itself. The awakened earth had taken to herself the first sunbeams, and made of them a golden ornament.

"Now," thought Johannes, "now he is surely coming!" In suspense he watched the buds on the branches, as they swelled slowly day by day, and freed themselves from the bark, till the first pale-green points appeared among the brown scales. Johannes stayed a long time looking at those little green leaves, and never saw them stir. But even if he only just turned around they seemed to have grown bigger. "They do not dare while I am watching them," he thought.

The foliage had already begun to cast a shade, yet Windekind had not come. No dove had alighted near him—no little mouse had spoken to him. When he addressed the flowers they scarcely nodded, and made no reply whatever. "My penance is not over yet," he thought.

Then one sunny spring morning he passed the pond and the house. The windows were all wide open. He wondered if any of the people had come yet.

The wild cherry that stood by the pond was entirely covered with tender leaves. Every twig was furnished with little, delicate-green wings. On the grass beside the bush sat a young girl. Johannes saw only her light-blue frock and her blonde hair. A robin was perched on her shoulder, and pecked out of her hand. Suddenly, she turned her head around and saw Johannes.

"Good day, little boy," said she, nodding in a friendly way.

Again Johannes thrilled from head to foot. Those were Windekind's eyes—that was Windekind's voice!

"Who are you?" he asked, his lips quivering with feeling.

"I am Robinetta, and this is my bird. He will not be afraid of you. Do you like birds?"

The redbreast was not afraid of Johannes. It flew to his arm. That was like old times. And it must be Windekind—that azure being!

"Tell me your name, Laddie," said Windekind's voice.

"Do you not know me? Do you not know that I am Johannes?"

"How could I know that?"

What did that mean? Still, it was the well-known, sweet voice. Those were the dark, heavenly-deep, blue eyes.

"Why do you look at me so, Johannes? Have you ever seen me before?"

"Yes, I do believe so."

"Surely, you must have dreamed it!"

"Dreamed?" thought Johannes. "Can I have dreamed everything? Can I be dreaming now?"

"Where were you born?" he asked.

"A long way from here, in a great city."

"Among human beings?"

Robinetta laughed. It was Windekind's laugh. "I believe so. Were not you?"

"Alas, yes! I was too!"

"Are you sorry for that? Do you not like human beings?"

"No. Who could like them?"

"Who? Well, Johannes; but you are an odd child! Do you like animals better?"

"Oh, much better—and flowers."

"Really, I do, too—sometimes. But that is not right. Father says we must love our friends."

"Why is that not right? I like whom I choose whether it is right or not."

"Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents, then, nor any one who cares for you? Are you not fond of them?"

"Yes," said Johannes, remembering. "I love my father, but not because it is right, nor because he is a human being."

"Why, then?"

"I do not know—because he is not like other human beings—because he, too, is fond of birds and flowers."

"And so am I, Johannes. Look!" And Robinetta called the robin to her hand, and petted it.

"I know it," said Johannes. "And I love you very much, too.

"Already? That is very soon," laughed the girl. "Whom do you love best of all?"

"I love—" Johannes hesitated. Should he speak Windekind's name? The fear that he might let slip that name to human ears was never out of his thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired being in blue, Windekind himself? Who else could give him that feeling of rest and happiness?

"You!" said he, all at once, looking frankly into the deep blue eyes. Courageously, he ventured a full surrender. He was anxious, though, and eagerly awaited the reception of his precious gift.

Again Robinetta laughed heartily, but she pressed his hand, and her look was no colder, her voice no less cordial.

"Well, Johannes," said she, "what have I done to earn this so suddenly?"

Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with growing confidence.

Robinetta stood up, and laid her arm about Johannes' shoulders. She was taller than he.

Thus they strolled through the woods, and picked great clusters of cowslips, until they could have hidden under the mountain of sun-filled yellow flowers. The little redbreast went with them—flying from branch to branch, and peering at them with its shining little black eyes.

They did not speak much, but now and then looked askance at each other. They were both perplexed by this adventure, and uncertain what they ought to think of each other.

Much to her regret, Robinetta had soon to turn back.

"I must go now, Johannes, but will you not take another walk with me? I think you are a nice little boy," said she in taking her leave.

"Tweet! Tweet!" said the robin as he flew after her.

When she had gone, and her image alone remained to him, he doubted no more who she was. She was the very same to whom he had given his friendship. The name Windekind rang fainter, and became confused with Robinetta.

Everything about him was again the same as it had formerly been. The flowers nodded cheerfully, and their perfume chased away the melancholy longing for home which, until now, he had felt and encouraged. Amid the tender greenery, in the soft, mild, vernal air, he felt all at once at home, like a bird that had found its nest. He stretched out his arms and took in a full, deep breath—he was so happy! On his way home, wherever he looked he always saw gliding before him the figure in light blue with the golden hair. It was as though he had been looking at the sun, until its image was stamped upon everything he saw.

From this day on Johannes went to the pond every clear morning. He went early—as soon as he was wakened by the squabbling of the sparrows in the ivy about his window, and by the tedious chirping and chattering of the starlings, as they fluttered in the water-leader in the early sunshine. Then he hurried through the dewy grass, close to the house, and watched from behind the lilac-bush until he heard the glass door open, and saw the bright figure coming toward him.

Then they wandered through the woods, and over the hills which lay beyond. They talked about everything in sight; the trees, the plants, and the dunes. Johannes had a strange, giddy sensation as he walked beside her. Sometimes he felt light enough again to fly through the air. But he never could. He told the story of the flowers and of the animals, as Windekind had given it to him. But he forgot how he had learned it, and Windekind existed no more for him—only Robinetta. He was happy when she laughed with him, and he saw the friendship in her eyes; and he spoke to her as he had formerly done to his little dog—saying whatever came into his head, without hesitation or shyness. When he did not see her he spent the hours in thinking of her; and each thing he did was with the question whether Robinetta would find it good or beautiful.

And she, herself, appeared always so pleased to see him. She would smile and hasten her steps. She had told him that she would rather walk with him than with any one else.

"But, Johannes," she once asked, "how do you know all these things? How do you know what the May-bugs think, what the thrushes sing, and how it looks in a rabbit-hole, or on the bottom of the water?"

"They have told me," answered Johannes, "and I have myself been in a rabbit-hole and on the bottom of the water."

Robinetta knitted her delicate eyebrows and looked at him half mockingly. But his face was full of truth.

They were sitting under lilac trees, from which hung thick, purple clusters. Before them lay the pond with its reeds and duck-weed. They saw the black beetles gliding in circles over the surface, and little red spiders busily darting up and down. It swarmed with life and movement. Johannes, absorbed in remembrances, gazed into the depths, and said:

"I went down there once. I slipped down a reed to the very bottom. It is all covered with fallen leaves which make it so soft and smooth. It is always twilight there—a green twilight—for the light falls through the green duck-weed. And over my head I saw the long, white rootlets hanging down.

"The newts, which are very inquisitive, came swimming about me. It gives a strange feeling to have such great creatures swimming above one; and I could not see far in front, for it was dark there—yet green, too. And in that darkness the living things appeared like black shadows. There were paddle-footed water-beetles, and flat mussels, and sometimes, too, a little fish. I went a long way—hours away, I believe—and in the middle was a great forest of water-plants, where snails were creeping, and water-spiders were weaving their glistening nests. Minnows darted in and out, and sometimes they stayed with open mouths and quivering fins to look at me, they were so amazed. There I made the acquaintance of an eel whose tail I had the misfortune to step on. He told me about his travels. He had been as far as the sea, he said. Because of this, he had been made King of the Pond—for no one else had been so far. He always lay in the mud, sleeping, except when others brought him something to eat. He was a frightful eater. That was because he was a king. They prefer a fat king—one that is portly and dignified. Oh, it was splendid in that pond!"

"Then why can you not go there again—now?"

"Now?" asked Johannes, looking at her with great, pondering eyes. "Now? I can never go again. I should be drowned. But there is no need of it. I would rather be here by the lilacs, with you."

Robinetta shook her little blonde head wonderingly, and stroked Johannes' hair. Then she looked at her robin, which seemed to be finding all kinds of tid-bits at the margin of the pond. Just then it looked up, and kept watching the two with its bright little eyes.

"Do you understand anything about it, Birdling?"

The bird gave a knowing glance, and then went on with its hunting and pecking.

"Tell me something more, Johannes, of what you have seen."

Johannes gladly did so, and Robinetta listened attentively, believing all he said.

"But what is to prevent all that, now? Why can you not go again with me to all those places? I should love to go."

Johannes tried his best to remember, but a sunny haze obscured the dim distance over which he had passed. He could not exactly tell how he had lost his former happiness.

"I do not quite know—you must not ask about it. A silly little creature spoiled it all. But now it is all right again; still better than before."

The perfume of the lilacs settled gently down upon them; and the humming of the insects over the water, and the peaceful sunshine, filled them with a sweet drowsiness; until a shrill bell at the house began to ring, and Robinetta sped away.

That evening, when Johannes was in his little room, looking at the moon-shadows cast by the ivy leaves which covered the window-panes—there seemed to be a tapping on the glass. Johannes thought it was an ivy leaf fluttering in the night wind. Yet it tapped so plainly—always three taps at a time—that Johannes very gently opened the window and cautiously looked about. The ivy against the house gleamed in the blue light. Below, lay a dim world full of mystery. There were caverns and openings into which the moonlight cast little blue flecks—making the darkness still deeper.

After Johannes had been gazing a long time into this wonderful world of shadows, he saw the form of a mannikin close by the window, half hidden by a large ivy leaf. He recognized Wistik instantly, by his great, wonder-struck eyes under the uplifted brows. A tiny moonbeam just touched the tip of Wistik's long nose.

"Have you forgotten me, Johannes? Why are you not thinking about it now? It is the right time. Did you ask Robin Redbreast the way?"

"Ah, Wistik, why should I ask? I have everything I could wish for. I have Robinetta."

"But that will not last long. And you can be still happier—Robinetta, too. Must the little key stay where it is, then? Only think how grand it would be if you both should find the book! Ask Robin Redbreast about it. I will help you whenever I can."

"At least, I can ask about it," said Johannes.

Wistik nodded, and scrambled nimbly down the vines.

Before he went to bed, Johannes stayed a long time—looking at the dark shadows and the shining ivy leaves.

The next day he asked the redbreast if he knew the way to the golden chest. Robinetta listened, in astonishment. Johannes saw the robin nod, and peep askance at Robinetta.

"Not here, not here!" chirped the little bird.

"What do you mean, Johannes?" asked Robinetta.

"Do you not know about it, Robinetta, and where to find it? Are you not waiting for the little gold key?"

"No! no! Tell me—what is that?"

Johannes told her what he knew about the book.

"And I have the little key. I thought you had the golden chest. Is it not so, Birdie?"

But the bird feigned not to hear, and fluttered about among the fresh, bright beech leaves.

They were resting against a slope on which small beech and spruce trees were growing. A narrow green path ran slantingly by, and they sat at the border of it, on thick, dark-green moss. They could look over the tops of the lowest saplings upon a sea of green foliage billowing in sun and shade.

"I do believe, Johannes," said Robinetta, after a little, "that I can find what you are looking for. But what do you mean about the little key? How did you come by it?"

"Why! How did I? How was it?" murmured Johannes, gazing far away over the green expanse.

Suddenly, as though fledged in the sunny sky, two white butterflies met his sight. They whirled about with uncertain capricious flight—fluttering and twinkling in the sunlight. Yet they came closer.

"Windekind! Windekind!" whispered Johannes, suddenly remembering.

"Who is that? Who is Windekind?" asked Robinetta.

The redbreast flew up, chattering, and the daisies in the grass before him seemed suddenly to be staring at Johannes in great alarm with their white, wide-open eyes.

"Did he give you the little key?" continued the girl. Johannes nodded, in silence; but she wanted to know more.

"Who was it? Did he teach you all those things? Where is he?"

"He is not any more. It is Robinetta now—no one but Robinetta. Robinetta alone!" He clasped her arm, and pressed his little head against it.

"Silly boy!" she said, laughing. "I will find the book for you—I know where it is."

"But then I must go and get the key, and it is far away."

"No, no, you need not. I will find it without a key—to-morrow—I promise you."

On their way home, the little butterflies flitted back and forth in front of them.

Johannes dreamed of his father that night—of Robinetta, and of many others. They were all good friends, and they stood near looking at him cordially, and trustfully. Yet later, their faces changed. They grew cold and ironical. He looked anxiously around; on all sides were fierce, hostile faces. He felt a nameless distress, and waked up weeping.

IX

Johannes had already sat a long while, waiting. The air was chilly, and great clouds were drifting close above the earth in endless, majestic succession. They spread out sombre, wide-waving mantles, and reared their haughty heads toward the clear light that shone above them. Sunlight and shadow chased each other swiftly over the trees, like flickering flames. Johannes was in an anxious state of mind, thinking about the book; not believing that he should really find it that day. Between the clouds—much higher—awfully high, he saw an expanse of clear blue sky; and upon it, stretched out in motionless calm, were delicate, white, plume-like clouds.

"It ought be like that," he thought. "So high, so bright, so still!"

Then came Robinetta. The robin was not with her.

"It is all right, Johannes," she cried out. "You may come and see the book."

"Where is Robin Redbreast?" said Johannes, mistrustfully.

"He did not come. But we are not going for a walk."

Then he went with her, thinking all the time to himself:

"It cannot be! Not this way!—it must be entirely different!"

Yet he followed the sunny, blonde hair that lighted his way.

Alas! things went sadly now with little Johannes. I could wish that his story ended here. Did you ever have a splendid dream of a magical garden where the flowers and animals all loved you and talked to you? And did the idea come to you then, that you might wake up soon, and all that happiness be lost? Then you vainly try to hold the dream—and not to wake to the cold light of day. That was the way Johannes felt when he went with Robinetta.

He went into the house—and down a passage that echoed with his footsteps. He breathed the air of clothes and food; he thought of the long days when he had had to stay indoors, of his school-tasks, and of all that had been sombre and cold in his life.

He entered a room with people in it—how many he did not see. They were talking together, yet when he came they ceased to speak. He noticed the carpet; it had big, impossible flowers in glaring colors. They were as strange and deformed as those of the hangings in his bedroom at home.

"Well, is this the gardener's little boy?" said a voice right in front of him. "Come here, my young friend; you need not be afraid."

And another voice sounded suddenly, close beside him: "Well, Robbi, a pretty little playmate you have there!"

What did all this mean? The deep wrinkles came again above the child's dark eyes, and Johannes looked around in perplexity.

A man in black clothes sat near—looking at him with cold, grey eyes.

"And so you wish to make acquaintance with the Book of Books! It amazes me that your father, whom I know to be a devout man, has not already given it to you."

"You do not know my father—he is far away."

"Is that so? Well, it is all the same. Look here, my young friend! Read a great deal in this. Upon your path in life it will...."

But Johannes had already recognized the book. It could not possibly come to him in this way! No! he could not have it so. He shook his head.

"No, no! This is not what I mean. This I know. This is not it."

He heard sounds of surprise, and felt the looks which were fastened on him from all sides. "What! What do you mean, child?"

"I know this book; it is the Book of Human Beings. But there is not enough in it; if there were there would be rest among men—and peace. And there is none. I mean something else about which no one can doubt who sees it—wherein is told why everything is as it is—precisely and plainly."

"How is that possible? Where did the boy get that notion?"

"Who taught you that, my young friend?"

"I believe you have been reading depraved books, boy, and are repeating the words!"

Thus rang the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning, and he began to feel dizzy. The room spun round, and the huge flowers on the carpet floated up and down. Where was the little mouse which had warned him so faithfully that day at school? He needed him now.

"I am not repeating it out of books, and he who taught me is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers, and of animals—I am their intimate friend. I know, too, what human beings are, and how they live. I know all the secrets of fairies and of goblins, for they love me more than human beings do."

Oh, Mousie! Mousie!

Johannes heard coughing and laughing, around and behind him. It all rang and rasped in his ears.

"He seems to have been reading Andersen."

"He is not quite right in his head."

The man in front of him said:

"If you know Andersen, little man, you ought to have more respect for God and His Word." "God!" He knew that word, and he thought about Windekind's lesson.

"I have no respect for God. God is a big oil-lamp, which draws thousands to wreck and ruin."

No laughing now, but a serious silence in which the horror and consternation were palpable. Johannes felt even in his back the piercing looks. It was like his dream of the night before.

The man in black stood up and took him by the arm. That hurt, and almost broke his heart.

"Listen, boy! I do not know whether you are foolish or deeply depraved, but I will not suffer such godlessness here. Go away and never come into my sight again, wretched boy! I shall ask about you, but never again set foot in this house. Do you understand?"

Everybody looked at him coldly and unkindly—as in his dream the night before. Johannes looked around him in distress.

"Robinetta! Where is Robinetta?"

"Well, indeed! Corrupt my child? If you ever speak to her again, look out!"

"No, let me go to her! I will not leave her. Robinetta!" cried Johannes.

But she sat in a corner, frightened, and did not look up.

"Out, you rascal! Do you hear? Take care, if you have the boldness to come back again."

The painful grip led him through the sounding corridor—the glass door rattled, and Johannes stood outside, under the dark, lowering clouds.

He did not cry now, but gazed quietly out in front of him as he slowly walked on. The sorrowful wrinkles were deeper above his eyes, and they stayed there.

The little redbreast sat in a linden hedge and peered at him. He stood still and silently returned the look. But there was no trust now in the timid, peeping little eyes; and when he took a step nearer, the quick little creature whirred away from him.

"Away, away! A human being!" chirped the sparrows, sitting together in the garden path. And they darted away in all directions.

The open flowers did not smile, but looked serious and indifferent; as they do with every stranger.

Johannes did not heed these signs, but was thinking of what the cruel men had done to him. He felt as if his inmost being had been violated by a hard, cold touch. "They shall believe me!" thought he. "I will get my little key and show it to them."

"Johannes! Johannes!" called a light, little voice. There was a bird's nest in a holly tree, and Wistik's big eyes peeped over the brim of it. "Where are you bound for?"

"It is all your fault, Wistik," said Johannes. "Let me alone."

"How did you come to talk about it to human beings? They do not understand. Why do you tell them these things? It is very stupid of you."

"They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are miserable creatures. I hate them!"

"No, Johannes, you love them."

"No! No!"

"If you did not, you would not mind it so much that they are not like yourself; and it would not matter what they said. You must concern yourself less about human beings."

"I want my key. I want to show it to them."

"You must not do that; they would not believe you even if you did. What would be the use of it?"

"I want my little key—under the rose-bush. Do you know how to find it?"

"Yes, indeed! Near the pond, is it not? Yes, I know."

"Then take me to it, Wistik."

Wistik climbed up to Johannes' shoulder, and pointed out the way. They walked the whole day long. The wind blew, and now and then showers fell; but at evening the clouds ceased driving, and lengthened themselves out into long bands of gray and gold.

When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!"

There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves.

Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose.

"Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it."

"I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key—I didn't."

The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground.

But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers—even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was.

"Oh! where is it? Where is it?"

"Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it—that is always the way with human beings!"

He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass.

Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush.

"Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?"

"We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush.

That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind.

"Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot—cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings."

He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid, heavy fragrance.

"I cannot turn back now, nor ever see Robinetta again. Shall I not die without her? Shall I keep on living, and be a man—a man like those who laughed at me?"

Then, all at once, he saw again the two white butterflies that flew up to him from the way of the setting sun. In suspense, he followed their flight. Would they show him the way? They hovered above his head—then floated apart to return again—whirling about in fickle play. Little by little they left the sun, and finally fluttered beyond the border of the dunes—away to the woods. There, only the highest tips were still touched by the evening glow that shone out red and vivid from under the long files of sombre clouds.

Johannes followed the butterflies. But when they had flown above the nearest trees, he saw a dark shadow swoop toward them in noiseless flight, and then hover over them. It pursued and overtook them. The next moment they had vanished. The black shadow darted swiftly up to him, and he covered his face with his hands, in terror.

"Well, little friend, why do you sit here, crying?" rang a sharp, taunting voice close beside him.

Johannes had seen a huge bat coming toward him, but when he looked up, a swarthy mannikin, not much taller than himself, was standing on the dunes. It had a great head, with big ears, that stood out—dark—against the bright evening sky, and a lean little body with slim legs. Of his face Johannes could see only the small, glittering eyes.

"Have you lost anything, little fellow? If so, I will help you seek it," said he. But Johannes silently shook his head.

"Look! Would you like these?" he began again, opening his hand. Johannes saw there something white, that from time to time barely stirred. It was the two white butterflies—dead—with the torn and broken little wings still quivering. Johannes shivered, as though some one had blown on the back of his neck, and he looked up in alarm at the strange being.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Would you like to know my name, Chappie? Well, just call me Pluizer[1]—simply Pluizer. I have still prettier names, but that you do not yet understand."

"Are you a human being?"

"Better yet! Still, I have arms and legs and a head—just see what a head! And yet the boy asks if I'm a human being! Well, Johannes, Johannes!" And the mannikin laughed with a shrill, piercing sound.

"How do you know who I am?" asked Johannes.

"Oh, that is a trifle for me! I know a great deal more. I know where you came from, and what you came here to do. I know an astonishing lot—almost everything."

"Ah! Mr. Pluizer...."

"Pluizer—Pluizer. No ceremony!"

"Do you know then?..." But Johannes suddenly stopped. "He is a human being," thought he.

"About your little key, do you mean?" asked the mannikin.

"Yes, indeed I do."

"But I did not think human beings could know anything about that."

"Silly boy! And Wistik has babbled to so many about it!"

"Do you know Wistik, too?"

"Oh, yes—one of my best friends, and I have a great many of them. But I know about the little key, without the help of Wistik. I know a great deal more than Wistik. Wistik is a good enough fellow, but stupid—uncommonly stupid. Not I—far from it!" And Pluizer tapped his big head with his lean little hand in a very pert way.

"Do you know, Johannes," he continued, "a great defect in Wistik? But you never must tell him, for he would be very angry."

"Well, what is it?" asked Johannes.

"He does not exist. That is a great shortcoming, but he will not admit it. And he says of me that I do not exist—but that is a lie. I not exist? The mischief—I do!"

And Pluizer, thrusting the little butterflies into his pocket, suddenly threw himself over, and stood on his head in front of Johannes. Then he made a very ugly grimace, and stuck out his long tongue. Johannes, who did not yet feel quite at his ease alone with this remarkable creature, at the close of the day, in the lonely dunes, was quaking now, with fear.

"This is a most charming way of seeing the world," said Pluizer, still standing on his head. "If you like, I will teach you to do it. Everything looks much clearer and more life-like."

And he sprawled his spindle legs out in the air, and whirled around on his hands. As the red afterglow fell upon his inverted face, Johannes thought it frightful; the small eyes blinked in the light, and showed the whites on the wrong side.

"You see, this way the clouds look like the floor, and the ground the cover, of the world. You can maintain that as well as the contrary. There is no above nor below, however. Those clouds would make a fine promenade."

Johannes looked at the long clouds. He thought they appeared like a plowed field, with blood welling up from the red furrows. And over the sea the splendor was streaming from the gates of that grotto in the clouds.

"Could one get there, and go in?" he asked.

"Nonsense!" said Pluizer, landing suddenly on his feet again, to the great relief of Johannes. "Nonsense! If you were there, it would be precisely as it is here—and the beauty of it would then appear still a little farther off. In those beautiful clouds there, it is misty, grizzly, and cold."

"I do not believe you," said Johannes. "Now I can very well see that you are a human being."

"Oh, come! Not believe me, dear boy, because I am a human being! And what particular thing do you take yourself for?"

"Oh, Pluizer! Am I too a human being?"

"What did you suppose? An elf? Elves do not fall in love." And Pluizer suddenly dropped down exactly in front of Johannes—his legs crossed under him—grinning straight into his face. Johannes felt indescribably distressed and perplexed under this scrutiny, and would have liked to hide, or make himself invisible. Still he could not even turn his eyes away.

"Only human beings fall in love, Johannes. Do you hear? And that is good; otherwise before long there would be no more of them. And you are in love as well as the best of them, although you are still so young. Who are you thinking about, this instant?"

"Robinetta!" whispered Johannes, barely loud enough to be heard.

"Whom do you long for most?"

"Robinetta!"

"Who is the one without whom you think you cannot live?"

Johannes' lips moved silently: "Robinetta!"

"Now, then, you silly fellow," sneered Pluizer, "how can you fancy yourself to be an elf? Elves do not fall in love with the children of men."

"But it was Windekind," stammered Johannes, in his embarrassment. At that, Pluizer looked terribly angry, and he seized Johannes by the ears with his bony little hands.

"What stuff is this? Would you frighten me with that dunce? He is sillier than Wistik—far more silly. He does not know it, though. And what is more, he does not exist at all, and never has existed. I alone exist, do you understand? If you do not believe me, I will make you feel that I do exist."

And he shook poor Johannes by the ears—hard. The latter cried out: "But I have known him so long, and I have traveled so far with him!"

"You have dreamed it, I say. Where, then, are the rose-bush and the little key? Hey!—But you are not dreaming now! Do you feel that?"

"Auch!" cried Johannes; for Pluizer was tweaking his ears.

It had grown dark, and the bats were flying with shrill squeakings close to their heads. The air was black and heavy—not a leaf stirred in the woods.

"May I go home?" begged Johannes. "To my father?"

"Your father? What do you want of him?" asked Pluizer. "That person would give you a warm reception after your long absence!"

"I want to go home," said Johannes; and he thought of the living-room with the bright lamp-light, where he had so often sat beside his father, listening to the scratching of his pen. It was cozy there, and peaceful.

"Yes, but you ought not to have gone away, and stayed away—all for the sake of that madcap who has no existence. It is too late now. And if nothing turns up to prevent it, I will take care of you. Whether I do it, or your father does it, is precisely the same thing. Such a father! That is only imagination, however. Did you make your own selection? Do you think no one else so good—so clever? I am just as good, and much more clever."

Johannes had no heart for an answer; he closed his eyes, and nodded slightly.

"And," continued the mannikin, "you must not look for anything further from that Robinetta."

He laid his hands upon Johannes' shoulders, and chattered close to his ear. "That child thought you just as much a fool as the others did. Did you not see that she stayed in the corner, and said not a word when they all laughed at you? She is no better than the others. She thought you a nice little boy, and she played with you—just as she would have played with a May-bug. She cannot have cared about your going away. And she knows nothing about that book. But I do—I know where it is, and I will help you find it. I know nearly everything."

And Johannes began to believe him.

"Are you going with me? Will you search for it with me?"

"I am so tired," said Johannes. "Let me go to sleep somewhere."

"I care nothing for sleep," said Pluizer. "I am too lively for that. A person ought always to be looking and thinking. But I will leave you in peace for a little while—till morning comes."

Then he put on the friendliest face he could. Johannes looked straight into the glittering little eyes until he could see nothing else. His head grew heavy—he leaned against the mossy slope. The little eyes seemed to get farther and farther away until they were shining stars in the darkening sky. He thought he heard the sound of distant voices, as if the earth were moving away from him—and then he ceased to think at all.

X

Even before he was fully awake he had a vague idea that something unusual had occurred while he slept. Still, he was not curious to know what it was, nor to look about him. He would he were lapped again in the dream which, like a reluctant mist, was slowly drifting away. Robinetta had come to him again in the dream, and stroked his hair in the old way; and he had seen his father once more, and Presto, in the garden with the pond.

"Auch! That hurt. Who did that?" Johannes opened his eyes, and saw, in the grey dawn, close beside him, a small being who had been pulling his hair. He was lying in a bed, and the light was dim and wavering—as in a room.

But the face that bent over him brought back, at once, all the misery and gloom of the day before. It was Pluizer's face—less like a hobgoblin, and more human—but just as ugly and frightful as ever.

"Oh, let me dream!" he murmured.

But Pluizer shook him. "Are you mad, you lazy boy? Dreams are foolish, and keep one from getting on. A human being must work and think and seek. That is what you are human for."

"I do not want to be a human being. I want to dream."

"Whether you wish to or not—you must. You are in my charge now, and you are going to act, and seek, in my company. With me alone can you find what you desire, and I shall not leave you until we have found it."

Johannes felt a vague terror. Yet a superior power seemed to press and coerce him. Unresistingly, he resigned himself.

Gone were fields and flowers and trees. He was in a small, dimly-lighted room. Outside, as far as he could see, were houses and houses—dark and dingy—in long, monotonous rows.

Smoke in thick folds was rising everywhere, and it swept, like a murky fog, through the streets below. And along those streets the people hurried in confusion, like great black busy ants. A dull, confused, continuous roar ascended from this throng.

"Look, Johannes!" said Pluizer. "Now is not that a pretty sight? Those are human beings, and all those houses, as far as you can see—still farther than that belfry in the blue distance—are full of people, from top to bottom. Is not that remarkable? That is rather different from an ant-hill!"

Johannes listened with shrinking curiosity, as if some huge, horrible monster were being shown him. He seemed to be standing on the back of that monster, and to see the black blood streaming through the swollen arteries, and the dark breath ascending from a hundred nostrils. And the ominous growling of that awful voice filled him with fears.

"Look! How fast these people go, Johannes!" continued Pluizer. "You can see, can you not, that they are all in a hurry, and hunting for something? But it is droll that no one knows precisely what it is. After they have been seeking a little while, they come face to face with some one. His name is Hein."

"Who is that?" asked Johannes.

"Oh, a good friend of mine. I will introduce you to him, without fail. Now this Hein asks: 'Are you looking for me?' At that, most of them usually say: 'Oh, no! Not you.' Then Hein remarks: 'But there is nothing to be found save me.' So they have to content themselves with Hein."

Johannes perceived that he spoke of death.

"Is that always the way—always?"

"To be sure it is—always. But yet, day after day, a new crowd gathers, and they begin their search not knowing for what—seeking, seeking, until at last they find Hein. So it has been for a pretty long while, and so it will continue to be."

"Shall I, too, find nothing else, Pluizer? Nothing but...."

"Yes, Hein you will surely find, some day. But that does not matter. Only seek—always be seeking."

"But the little book, Pluizer? You might let me find the book."

"Well, who knows! I have not forbidden it. We must seek—seek. We know, at least, what we are looking for. Wistik taught us that. Others there are who try all their lives to find out what they are really seeking. They are the philosophers, Johannes. But when Hein comes, it is all up with their search as well."

"That is frightful, Pluizer!"

"Oh, no! Indeed it is not. Hein is very good-hearted, but he is misunderstood."

Some one toiled up the stairs outside the chamber door—Clump! clump! on the wooden stairs.

Clump! clump! Nearer and nearer. Then some one rapped at the door, and it sounded like ice tapping on wood.

A tall man entered. He had deep-set eyes, and long, lean hands. A cold draft swept through the little room.

"Well, well!" said Pluizer. "We were just speaking of you. Take a seat. How goes it with you?"

"Busy, busy!" said the tall man, wiping the cold moisture from his white, bony forehead.

Stiff with fright, Johannes gazed into the deep-set eyes which were fixed upon him. They were very deep and dark, but not cruel—not threatening. After a few moments he breathed more freely, and his heart beat less rapidly.

"This is Johannes," said Pluizer. "He has heard of a certain book which tells why everything is as it is; and we are going together to find that book, are we not?" Then Pluizer laughed, significantly.

"Is that so? Well, that is good," said Death kindly, nodding to Johannes.

"He is afraid he will not find it, but I tell him to seek first, diligently."

"Certainly," said Death. "It is best to seek diligently."

"He thought that you were so horrible! You see, do you not, Johannes, that you made a mistake?"

"Ah, yes," said Death, most kindly. "They speak very ill of me. My outward appearance is not prepossessing, but I mean well."

He smiled faintly, like one whose mind was full of more serious matters than those of which he spoke. Then he turned his sombre eyes away from Johannes, and they wandered pensively toward the great town.

It was a long time before Johannes ventured to speak. At last, he said softly:

"Are you going to take me with you, now?"

"What do you mean, my child?" said Death, roused from his meditations. "No, not now. You must grow up and become a good man."

"I will not be a man—like the others."

"Come, come!" said Death. "There is no help for it."

It was clear that this was an every-day phrase with him. He continued:

"My friend, Pluizer, can teach you how to become a good man. It can be learned in various ways, but Pluizer teaches it excellently. It is something very fine and admirable to be a good man. You must not scorn it, my little lad."

"Seeking, thinking, looking!" said Pluizer.

"To be sure! To be sure!" said Death; and then, to Pluizer, "To whom are you going to take him?"

"To Doctor Cijfer, my old pupil."

"Ah, yes. He is a good pupil. He is a very fine example of a man—almost perfect in his way."

"Shall I see Robinetta again?" asked Johannes, trembling.

"What does the boy mean?" asked Death.

"Oh, he was love-struck, and yet fancied himself to be an elf! He, he, he!" laughed Pluizer, maliciously.

"No, my dear child, that will never do," said Death. "You will forget such things with Doctor Cijfer. He who seeks what you are seeking must forget all other things. All or nothing."

"I shall make a doughty man of him. I shall just let him sec what love really is, and then he will have nothing at all to do with it."

And Pluizer laughed gaily. Death again fixed his black eyes upon poor Johannes, who found it hard to keep from sobbing; for he felt ashamed in the presence of Death.

Suddenly Death stood up, "I must away," said he. "I am wasting my time. There is much to be done. Good-by, Johannes. We are sure to see each other again. You must not be afraid of me."

"I am not afraid of you—I wish you would take me with you. Oh, take me!" But Death gently motioned him back. He was used to such appeals.

"No, Johannes. Go now to your task. Seek and see! Ask me no more. Some day I will ask, and that will be soon enough."

When he had disappeared, Pluizer behaved in a very extraordinary manner. He sprang over chairs, tumbled about the floor, climbed up the wardrobe and the mantlepiece, and performed neck-breaking tricks in the open windows.

"Well, that was Hein—my good friend Hein!" said he. "Do you not think him nice? A bit plain and morose in appearance; but he can be quite cheerful when he finds pleasure in his Work. Sometimes, however, it bores him; for it is rather monotonous."

"Who tells him, Pluizer, where he is to go?"

Pluizer leered at Johannes in a teasing, cunning way.

"Why do you ask that? He goes his own gait—he takes whom he can catch."

Later, Johannes saw that it was otherwise. But he could not yet know whether or not Pluizer always spoke the truth.

They went out to the street, and moved with the swarming throng. The grimy men passed on, pell-mell—laughing and chatting so gaily that Johannes could not help wondering. He noticed that Pluizer nodded to many of them; but no one returned the greeting—all were looking straight forward as if they had seen nothing.

"They are going like fun now," said Pluizer, "as though not a single one of them knew me. But that is only a pretext. They cannot cut me when I am alone with them; and then they are not so jolly." Johannes became conscious that some one was following them. On looking round, he saw the tall, pale figure moving among the people with great, inaudible strides. Hein nodded to Johannes.

"Do the people also see him?" asked Johannes of Pluizer.

"Yes, certainly! all of them; but they do not wish to know him. Well, for the present I overlook this defiance."

The din and stir brought to Johannes a kind of stupor in which he forgot his troubles. The narrow streets and the high houses dividing the blue sky into straight strips—the people passing to and fro beside him—the shuffling of footsteps, and the rattling of wagons, effaced the old visions and the dream of that former night, as a storm disturbs the reflections in mirror-like water. It seemed to him that nothing else existed save walls and windows and people; as if he too must do the same, and run and rush in the restless, breathless tumult.

Then they came to a quiet neighborhood, where stood a large house with grey, gloomy windows. It looked severe and uninviting. It was very quiet within, and there came to Johannes a mingling of strange, pungent odors—a damp, cellar-like smell being the most perceptible. In a room, full of odd-looking instruments, sat a solitary man. He was surrounded with books, and glass and copper articles—all of them unfamiliar to Johannes. A stray sunbeam entered the room, passed on over his head, and sparkled on the flasks filled with pretty, tinted particles. The man was looking intently through a copper tube, and did not look up.

As Johannes came nearer, he heard him murmur, "Wistik! Wistik!"

Beside the man, on a long, black bench, lay something white and downy. What it was Johannes could not clearly see.

"Good morning, doctor!" said Pluizer. But still the doctor did not look up.

Then Johannes was terrified, for the white object at which he was looking so intently, began all at once to struggle convulsively. What he had seen was the downy, white breast of a little rabbit. Its head, with the twitching nostrils, was held backward by pinching clamps of iron, and the four little feet were tightly bound along its body. The hopeless effort to free himself was soon over, and the little creature lay still again; the only sign of life being the rapid movement of the blood-stained throat.

Johannes looked at the round, gentle eyes—so wide open with helpless anguish, and it seemed to him that he recognized them. Was not this the soft little body against which he had rested that first, blissful, elf-land night? Old remembrances came thronging over him. He flew to the little creature.

"Wait, wait! Poor Bunnie, I will help you!" And he hurried to untie the cords which were cutting into the tender little feet.

But his hands were seized in a tight grip, and a shrill laugh rang in his ears.

"What does this mean, Johannes? Are you still so childish? What must the doctor think of you?"

"What does the boy want? Why is he here?" asked the doctor, amazed.

"He wants to be a man, and so I brought him to you; but he is still rather young and childish. This is not the way to find what you are seeking, Johannes!"

"No, this is not the way," said the doctor.

"Doctor, let that rabbit loose!"

But Pluizer clutched both his hands, and squeezed them painfully.

"What was our agreement, Jackanapes?" he hissed in his ear. "We were to seek, were we not? We are not in the dunes here, with Windekind, and with stupid animals. We should be men—men, do you understand? If you wish to remain a child—if you are not strong enough to help me—I will send you out of the way. Then you may seek—all by yourself!"

Johannes believed him and said no more. He determined to be strong. So he shut his eyes, that he might not see the rabbit.

"Good boy!" said the doctor. "You appear somewhat tender-hearted for making a beginning. It truly is rather a sad sight the first time. I never behold it willingly myself, and avoid it as much as possible. Yet it is indispensable; and you must understand that we are men, and not animals—that the welfare of mankind and of science is of more importance than the life of a few rabbits."

"Hear!" said Pluizer. "Science and mankind."

"The man of science," continued the doctor, "stands higher than all other men, and so he should overcome the little tendernesses which the normal man feels, for that great interest—Science. Would you like to be such a man? Was that your vocation, my boy?"

Johannes hesitated. He did not exactly know what a vocation was—no more than did the May-bug.

Said he, "I want to find the book that Wistik spoke of."

The doctor looked surprised and asked, "Wistik?"

Pluizer said quickly, "Indeed he wants to be such a man, Doctor! I know he does. He seeks the highest wisdom. He wishes to grasp the very essence of things."

Johannes nodded a "Yes!" So far as he understood, that was his aim.

"You must be strong, then, Johannes—not weak and softhearted. Then I will help you. But remember; all or nothing."

And with trembling fingers Johannes helped to retie the loosened cords around the little feet of the rabbit.

XI

"Now, we shall see," said Pluizer, "if I cannot show you just as fine sights as Windekind can."

And when they had bidden the doctor good-by—promising to return soon, he guided Johannes into every nook and corner of the great town. He showed him how the great monster lived, breathed, and fed itself; how it consumed, and again renewed itself.

But he was partial to the slums and alleys, where the people were packed together—where everything was gloomy and grimy, and the air black and close.

He took him into one of the large buildings from which Johannes had seen the smoke ascending that first day.

A deafening roar pervaded the place—everywhere a rattling, clanking, pounding, and resounding. Great wheels revolved, and long belts whizzed in rapid undulations. The walls and floors were black, the windows broken or covered with dust. The mighty chimneys rose high above the blackened building, belching great columns of curling smoke. In that turmoil of wheels and machinery Johannes saw numbers of pale-faced men with blackened hands and clothing, silently and ceaselessly working.

"Who are they?" asked Johannes.

"Wheels—more wheels," laughed Pluizer, "or human beings—as you choose. What they are doing there they do, day in—day out. And one can be human in that way, also—after a fashion."

They went on into dirty, narrow streets, where the little strip of blue sky looked only a finger's width; and even then was clouded by the clothes hung out to dry. It swarmed with people there. They jostled one another, shouted, laughed, and sometimes sang. In the houses the rooms were so small, so dark and damp, that Johannes hardly dared to breathe. He saw ragged children creeping over the bare floors; and young girls, with disheveled hair, humming melodies to thin, pale nurslings. He heard quarreling and scolding, and all the faces around him were tired, dull, or indifferent.

Johannes' heart was wrung with pain. It was not akin to his earlier grief—he was ashamed of that.

"Pluizer," he asked, "have these people always lived here—so dreary and so wretched? While I...." He dared not go on.

"Certainly; and that is fortunate. Indeed, their life is not so very dreary and wretched. They are inured to this, and know nothing better. They are dull, careless cattle. Do you see those two women there—sitting in front of their door? They look as contentedly over the foul street as you used to look upon your dunes. There is no need for you to cry over these people. You might as well cry about the moles that never see the daylight."

Johannes did not know what to reply, nor did he know why he felt so sad.

In the midst of the clamorous pushing and rushing he still saw the pale, hollow-eyed man, striding with noiseless steps.

"He is a good man after all. Do you not think so?" said Pluizer, "to take the people away from this? But even here they are afraid of him."

When night fell, and hundreds of lamps flickered in the wind—casting long, wavering lights over the black water, they passed through the silent streets. The tall old houses looked tired—as if leaning against one another in sleep. Most of them had closed their eyes; but here and there a window still sent out a faint, yellow glimmer.

Pluizer told Johannes long stories about those who dwelt behind them—of the pains that were there endured, and of the struggles that took place there between misery and love of life. He did not spare him, but selected the gloomiest, the lowest, and most trying; and grinned with enjoyment when Johannes grew pale and silent at his shocking tales.

"Pluizer," asked Johannes, suddenly, "do you know anything about the Great Light?"

He thought that that question might save him from the darkness which was pressing closer and heavier upon him.

"Chatter! Windekind's chatter!" said Pluizer. "Phantoms—illusions! There are only people—and myself. Do you fancy that any kind of god could take pleasure in anything on this earth—such a medley as there is here to be ruled over? Moreover, such a Great Light would not leave so many here—in the darkness."

"But those stars! Those stars!" cried Johannes; as if expecting that visible splendor to protest for him against this statement.

"The stars! Do you know, little fellow, what you are chattering about? Those lights up there are not like the lanterns you see about you here. They are all worlds—every one of them much larger than this world with its thousands of cities—and in the midst of them we swing like a speck of dust. There is no above nor below. There are worlds on all sides of us—nothing but worlds, and there is no end to them."

"No, no!" cried Johannes in terror, "do not say so! I see little lights on a great, dark plain above me."

"Yes, you can see nothing but little lights. If you gazed up all your life, you would see nothing else than little lights upon a dark plain above you. But you can, you must know that the universe—in the midst of which this little clod with its pitiful swarm of dotards is as nothing—shall vanish into nothingness. So speak no more of 'the stars' as if they were but a few dozens. It is foolishness."

Johannes was silenced.

"Come on," said Pluizer. "Now we will go to see something cheerful."

At intervals they were greeted by strains of music in lovely, lingering waves of sound. On a dark canal stood a large house, out of whose many tall windows the light was streaming brightly. A long line of carriages stood in front of it. The stamping of the horses rang with a hollow sound in the stillness of the night, and they were throwing "yeses" with their heads. The light sparkled on the silver trappings of the harness, and on the varnish of the vehicles.

Indoors, it was dazzlingly bright. Johannes stood gazing, half-blinded, in the glare of hundreds of varicolored lights, of mirrors and flowers.

Graceful figures glided past the windows, bowing to one another, laughing, and gesturing. Far back in the room moved richly dressed people, with lingering step or with rapid, swaying turns. A confused sound of laughter and of cheerful voices, sliding steps and rustling garments reached the street, borne upon the waves of that soft, entrancing music which Johannes had already heard from afar. In the street, close by the windows, stood a few dark figures, whose faces only—strange and dissimilar—were lighted by the splendor at which they were gazing so intently.

"That is fine! That is splendid!" cried Johannes. He greatly enjoyed the sight of the color and light and the many flowers. "What is going on there? May we go in?"

"Really, do you think this beautiful, too? Or perhaps you would prefer a rabbit-hole! Just look at the people—laughing, bowing, and glittering! See how dignified and spruce the men are, and how gay and smart the ladies. And how devoted they are to the dancing, as though it were the most important matter in the world."

Johannes thought again of the ball in the rabbit-hole, and he saw a great deal that reminded him of it. But here everything was grander and more brilliant. The young ladies in their rich array seemed to him, when they lifted their long white arms, and turned their heads half aside in dancing, as beautiful as the elves. The servants moved around majestically, offering delicious drinks—with respectful bows.

"How splendid! How splendid!" cried Johannes.

"Very pretty, is it not?" said Pluizer. "But you must look a little farther than just to the end of your nose. You see nothing now, do you, but lovely, laughing faces? Well, almost all those smiles are false and affected. Those kindly old ladies at the side there sit like anglers around a pond; their young girls are the bait, the gentlemen are the fishes. However well they like to chat together, they enviously begrudge one another every catch. If one of those young ladies is pleased, it is because she is dressed more beautifully, or attracts more attention than the others. And the pleasure of the men chiefly consists in those bare arms and necks. Behind all those laughing eyes and friendly lips lurks something quite different. Even those apparently obsequious servants are far from being respectful. If it suddenly became clear what each one really thought, the party would soon break up."

And as Pluizer pointed it out to him, Johannes plainly saw the affectation in faces and gestures; and the vanity, envy, and weariness which peeped from behind the smiling masks, or suddenly appeared as soon as they were laid aside.

"Well," said Pluizer, "they must do as they think best. Such people must amuse themselves, and this is the only way they know."

Johannes felt that some one was standing behind him, and he looked round. It was the well-known, tall figure. The pale face was whimsically lighted by the glare, so that the eyes formed large, dark depressions. He murmured softly to himself, and pointed with a finger into the lighted palace.

"Look!" said Pluizer. "He is making another selection."

Johannes looked where the finger pointed. He saw the old lady, even as she was speaking, shut her eyes and put her hand to her head, and the beautiful young girl stay her slow step, and stare before her with a slight shiver.

"When?" asked Pluizer of Death.

"That is my affair," said the latter.

"I should like to show Johannes this same company still another time," said Pluizer, with a wink and a grin. "May I?"

"To-night?" asked Death.

"Why not?" said Pluizer. "In that place is neither hour nor time. What now is has always been, and what is to be, already is."

"I cannot go with you," said Death. "I have too much to do; but speak the name that we both know, and you can find the way without me."

They went on—some distance—through the lonely streets, where the gas-lights flickered in the night wind, and the dark, cold water rippled along the sides of the canal. The soft music grew fainter and fainter, and then died away in the great calm that rested upon the city.

Suddenly there rang out from on high, with full metallic reverberation, a loud and festive melody.

It dropped straight down from the tall tower upon the sleeping town—into the sad, overshadowed spirit of Little Johannes. Surprised, he looked up. The melody of the clock continued, in calm clear tones which jubilantly rose, and sharply broke the deathly stillness. Those blithe notes—that festal song—seemed strange to him in the midst of still sleep and dark sorrow.

"That is the clock," said Pluizer. "It is always just as jolly—year in, year out. Every hour, it sings the selfsame song, with the same vim and gusto. In the night time, it sounds jollier than it does in the daytime; as if the clock were glad it has no need of sleep—that it can always sing just as happily when thousands are weeping and suffering. But it sings most merrily whenever any one is dead."

Still again the joyful sound rang out.

"One day, Johannes," continued Pluizer, "in a quiet room behind such a window as that, a feeble light will be burning—a dim and flickering light—making the shadows waver on the wall. There will be no sound in the room save now and then a soft, suppressed sob. A bed will be standing there, with white curtains, and long shadows in the folds. In that bed something will be lying—white and still. That will have been Little Johannes. Then joyously will that selfsame song break out and loudly and lustily enter the room to celebrate the hour of his decease."

Separated by long intervals, twelve heavy strokes resounded through the air. Johannes felt at once as if he were in a dream; he no longer walked, but floated a little way above the street, his hand in Pluizer's. The houses and lamp-posts sped by in rapid flight. The houses stood less close together now. They formed broken rows, with dark mysterious gaps between, where the gas-lamps lighted pits and pools, rubbish and rafters, in a capricious way. At last came a large gateway with heavy columns and a high railing. As quick as a wink they were over it, and down upon some damp grass, near a big heap of sand. Johannes fancied he was in a garden, for he heard around them the rustling of trees.

"Now pay attention, Johannes, and then insist, if you can, that I am not able to do more than Windekind."

Then Pluizer called aloud a short and doleful name which made Johannes shudder. From all sides, the sound re-echoed in the darkness, and the wind bore it up whistling and whirling until it died away in the upper air.

Then Johannes noticed that the grass-blades reached above his head, and that the small pebble which until now lay at his feet was in front of his face.

Near him, Pluizer—just as small as himself—grasped the stone with both hands, and, exerting all his strength, turned it over. Confused cries of shrill, high-pitched little voices rose up from the cleared ground.

"Hey! Who is doing that? What does that mean? Blockhead!" shouted the voices.

Johannes saw black objects running hurriedly past one another. He recognized the brisk black tumble-bug, the shining brown earwig with his fine pinchers, big humpbacked ants, and snake-like millipedes.

In the middle of them a long earth-worm pulled himself, quick as lightning, back into his hole.

Pluizer tore impatiently through the raving, scolding crowd up to the worm-hole.

"Hey, there! you long, naked lout! Come to daylight with your pointed red nose," he cried.

"What do you want?" asked the worm, out of the depths.

"You must come out because I want to go in. Do you hear? You bald dirt-eater!"

The worm stretched his pointed head cautiously out of the opening, felt all around with it a number of times, and then slowly dragged his bare, ringed body farther toward the surface.

Pluizer looked round at the other creatures that were crowding about him in their curiosity.

"One of you go before us to light the way. No, Black-beetle, you are too big; and you, with the thousand feet—you would make me dizzy. Hey, there, Earwig, I fancy your looks! Come along, and carry the light in your pincers. Bundle away, Black-beetle, and look around for a will-o'-the-wisp, or bring a torch of rottenwood."

The creatures, awed by his commanding voice, obeyed him.

Then they went down into the worm-hole—the earwig in front with the shining wood, then Pluizer, then Johannes. It was a very dark and narrow passage. Johannes saw the grains of sand dimly lighted by the faint bluish flicker of the torch. They looked as large as stones—half polished, and rubbed to a smooth, firm wall by the body of the worm, who now followed, full of curiosity. Johannes saw behind him its pointed head—now thrust quickly out in front, and then waiting for the long part behind to pull up to it.

They went in silence a long way down. When the path became too steep for Johannes, Pluizer helped him. It seemed as if there never would be an end; ever new sand-grains, and still the earwig crept on, turning and bending with the winding of the passage. At last the way widened and the walls fell apart. The sand-grains were black and wet, forming a vault above, where the water trickled in glistening streaks, and through which the roots of trees were stretched like stiffened serpents.

Suddenly, a perpendicular wall—high and black—rose up before Johannes' sight, cutting off everything in front of him. The earwig turned round.

"Hey, ho! Now it is a question of getting behind that. The worm knows all about it; he is at home here."

"Come, show us the way!" said Pluizer.

The worm slowly pulled its articulate body up to the black wall, and touched and tested it. Johannes saw that it was of wood. Here and there it was decayed into brownish powder. In one of these places the worm bored through, and with three push-and-pulls the long, supple body slipped within.

"Now you!" said Pluizer, and he shoved Johannes into the little round opening. For an instant, the latter thought he should be stifled in the soft, moist mold; then he felt his head free, and with some trouble he worked his way completely through. A large space appeared to lie beyond. The floor was hard and damp—the air thick, and intolerably close. Johannes dared scarcely to breathe, and waited in mute terror.

He heard Pluizer's voice. It had a hollow ring, as if in a great cellar.

"Here, Johannes, follow me."

He felt the ground rise up before him to a mountain. With the aid of Pluizer's hand he climbed this, in deepest darkness. He seemed to be walking over a garment that gave way under his tread. He stumbled over hollows and hillocks, following Pluizer, who led him to a level spot where he clung in place by some long stems that bent in his hands like reeds.

"Here is a good place to stop. A light!" cried Pluizer.

The dim light showed in the distance, rising and falling with its bearer. The nearer it came and the more its faint glow filled the space, the more terrible was Johannes' distress.

The mountain he had traveled over was long and white. The reeds to which he was clinging were brown, and fell below in lustrous rings and waves.

He recognized the straight form of a human being; and the cold level on which he stood was the forehead.

Before him, like two deep dark caverns, lay the insunken eyes, and the blue light shone over the thin nose, and the ashen lips opened in a rigid, dismal death-grin.

Pluizer gave a shrill laugh, that was immediately stifled by the damp, wooden walls.

"Is not this a surprise, Johannes?"

The long worm came creeping on between the folds of the shroud; it pushed itself cautiously up over the chin, and slipped through the rigid lips into the black mouth-hole.

"This was the beauty of the ball—the one you thought more lovely than an elf. Then, sweet perfume streamed from her clothes and hair; then her eyes sparkled, and her lips laughed. Look now at her!"

With all his terror, there was doubt in Johannes' eyes. So soon? Just now so glorious—and already...?

"Do you not believe me?" sneered Pluizer. "A half-century lies between then and now. There is neither hour nor time. What once was shall always be, and what is to be has already been. You cannot conceive of it, but you must believe it. Here all is truth—all that I show you is true—true! Windekind could not say that."

And with a grin Pluizer skipped around on the dead face, performing the most odious antics. He sat on an eyebrow, and lifted up an eyelid by the long lashes. The eye which Johannes had seen sparkle with joy was staring in the dim light—a dull and wrinkled white.

"Now—forward!" cried Pluizer. "There happens to be more to see."

The worm appeared, slowly crawling out of the right corner of the mouth; and the frightful journey was resumed. Not back again, but over new ways equally long and dreary.

"Now we come to an old one," said the earth-worm, as a black wall again shut off the way. "This has been here a long time."

It was less horrible than the former one. Johannes only saw a confused heap, with discolored bones protruding. Hundreds of worms and insects were silently busy with it. The light alarmed them.

"Where do you come from? Who brings a light here? We have no use for it!"

And they sped away into the folds and hollows. Yet they recognized a fellow-being.

"Have you been next door?" the worms inquired. "The wood is hard yet."

The first worm answered, "No!"

"He wants to keep that morsel for himself," said Pluizer softly to Johannes.

They went farther. Pluizer explained things and pointed out to Johannes those whom he had known. They came to a misformed face, with staring, protruding eyes, and thick black lips and cheeks.

"This was a stately gentleman," said he gaily. "You ought to have seen him—so rich, so purse-proud and conceited. He retains his puffed-up appearance."

And so it went on. Besides these there were meagre, emaciated forms with white hair that reflected blue in the feeble light; and little children with large heads and aged, wizened faces.

"Look! These have grown old since they died," said Pluizer.

They came to a man with a full beard, whose white teeth gleamed between the drawn lips. In the middle of his forehead was a little round black hole.

"This one lent Hein a helping hand. Why not a bit more patient? He would have come here just the same."

And there were still more passages—recent ones—and other straight forms with rigid, grinning faces, and motionless, folded hands.

"I am going no farther now," said the earwig. "I do not know the way beyond this."

"Let us turn back," said the worm.

"One more, one more!" cried Pluizer.

So on they marched.

"Everything you see exists," said Pluizer as they proceeded. "It is all real. One thing only is not real. That is yourself, Johannes. You are not here, and you cannot be here."

And he burst out laughing as he saw the frightened and vacant look on Johannes' face at this sally.

"This is the last—actually the last."

"The way stops short here. I will go no farther," said the earwig, peevishly.

"Well, I mean to go farther," said Pluizer; and where the way ended he began digging with both hands.

"Help me, Johannes!" Without resistance Johannes sadly obeyed, and began scooping up the moist, loose earth.

They drudged on in silence until they came to the black wood.

The worm had drawn in its ringed head, and backed out of sight. The earwig dropped the light and turned away.

"They cannot get in—the wood is too new," said he, retreating.

"I shall!" said Pluizer, and with his crooked fingers he tore long white cracking splinters out of the wood.

A fearful pressure lay on poor Johannes. Yet he had to do it—he could not resist.

At last, the dark space was open. Pluizer snatched the light and scrambled inside.

"Here, here!" he called, and ran toward the other end.

But when Johannes had come as far as the hands, that lay folded upon the breast, he was forced to stop. He stared at the thin, white fingers, dimly lighted on the upper side. He recognized them at once. He knew the form of the fingers and the creases in them, as well as the shape of the long nails now dark and discolored. He recognized a brown spot on the forefinger.

They were his own hands.

"Here, here!" called Pluizer from the head. "Look! do you know him?"

Poor Johannes tried to stand up, and go to the light that beckoned him, but his strength gave way. The little light died into utter darkness, and he fell senseless.

XII

He had sunk into a deep sleep—to depths where no dreams come.

In slowly rising from those shades to the cool grey morning light, he passed through dreams, varied and gentle, of former times. He awoke, and they glided from his spirit like dew-drops from a flower. The expression of his eyes was calm and mild while they still rested upon the throngs of lovely images.

Yet, as if shunning the glare of day, he closed his eyes to the light. He saw again what he had seen the morning before. It seemed to him far away, and long ago; yet hour by hour there came back the remembrance of everything—from the dreary dawn to the awful night. He could not believe that all those horrible things had occurred in a single day; the beginning of his misery seemed so remote—lost in grey mists.

The sweet dreams faded away, leaving no trace behind. Pluizer shook him, and the gloomy day began—dull and colorless—the forerunner of many, many others.

Yet what he had seen the night before on that fearful journey stayed in his mind. Had it been only a frightful vision?

When he asked Pluizer about it, shyly, the latter looked at him queerly and scoffingly.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Johannes did not see the leer in his eye, and asked if it had really happened—he still saw it all so sharp and clear.

"How silly you are, Johannes! Indeed, such things as that can never happen."

Johannes did not know what to think.

"We will soon put you to work; and then you will ask no more such foolish questions."

So they went to Doctor Cijfer, who was to help Johannes find what he was seeking.

While in the crowded street, Pluizer suddenly stood still, and pointed out to Johannes a man in the throng.

"Do you remember him?" asked Pluizer, bursting into a laugh when Johannes grew pale and stared at the man in horror.

He had seen him the night before—deep under the ground.

The doctor received them kindly, and imparted his wisdom to Johannes who listened for hours that day, and for many days thereafter.

The doctor had not yet found what Johannes was seeking; but was very near it, he said. He would take Johannes as far as he himself had gone, and then together they would surely find it.

Johannes listened and learned, diligently and patiently, day after day and month after month. He felt little hope, yet he comprehended that he must go on, now, as far as possible. He thought it strange that, seeking the light, the farther he went the darker it grew. Of all he learned, the beginning was the best; but the deeper he penetrated the duller and darker it became. He began with plants and animals—with everything about him—and if he looked a long while at them, they turned to figures. Everything resolved itself into figures—pages full of them. Doctor Cijfer thought that fine, and he said the figures brought light to him;—but it was darkness to Johannes.

Pluizer never left him, and pressed and urged him on, if he grew disheartened and weary. He spoiled for him every moment of enjoyment or admiration.

Johannes was amazed and delighted as he studied and saw how exquisitely the flowers were constructed; how they formed the fruit, and how the insects unwittingly aided the work.

"That is wonderful," said he. "How exactly everything is calculated, and deftly, delicately formed!"

"Yes, amazingly formed," said Pluizer. "It is a pity that the greater part of that deftness and fineness comes to naught. How many flowers bring forth fruit, and how many seeds grow to be trees?"

"But yet everything seems to be made according to a great plan," said Johannes. "Look! the bees seek honey for their own use, and do not know that they are aiding the flowers; and the flowers allure the bees by their color. It is a plan, and they both unfold it, without knowing it."